Page 77 of Until Next Summer

“That’s too bad.” He quirks an eyebrow at me, and my breath catches. Is he flirting with me? Or making fun of me?

Either way, time for a change of subject. I retrieve my finger and fold my hands across my stomach. “How’s the writing going?”

“Better, actually. I want to go in a different direction for the third book. So far, so good.”

“I’m glad,” I say, sincerely. He’s seemed less gloomy lately, and this must be why.

“We’ll see. I’m basically starting over, but the deadline hasn’t changed: the day after Labor Day. I’ll be writing nonstop.” He shakes his head. “Good thing I’m already divorced.”

There’s an edge of sadness to his voice, and I shake my head. I’m not buying this whole I-was-a-shit-husband routine.

“Okay, but here’s the thing,” I say. “Why is it your fault that your ex-wife couldn’t keep herself occupied while you wrote? I mean, it’s your job. Not just your job—your passion.”

He gives me a wry look. “Not sure if you’re aware, butthere’s an unspoken expectation in relationships that you spend time with the other person.”

“Why? I mean, yes, of course. But why can’t the other person accept that other things in your life are also important?” I roll onto my side to face him. He’s listening intently, his full bottom lip caught between his teeth. “I had this boyfriend last year, right? He lives in town, and things were great during the winter, when I was staying there. But once summer started, he was upset that my priority was the camp.”

“He broke up with you?”

“Oh, no, I dumped him,” I say, waving a hand. “He cried. It was a whole thing.”

Luke raises his eyebrows, but I keep going.

“My parents are divorced, as you know, and the things that drove them crazy about each other are the exact things their new spouses love. Like, my mom enjoys doing home renovations, and my dad hated it, but my stepdad loves doing them with her. My dad? He loves watching sports, and my mom felt like he was ignoring her, but my stepmom is one of those obsessive scrapbookers. So he watches games, and she scrapbooks. It’s a win-win.”

“Right,” Luke says dryly. “I need to find a woman who enjoys being neglected sixteen hours a day.”

“Mypointis that just because you weren’t compatible, it doesn’t mean you were a bad husband. Was I a bad girlfriend because I wanted to spend my summers here, doing my job? Some people may think so, but I don’t. Nick didn’t even try to understand why this camp was so important to me.”

My voice wobbles on the last words. Luke must notice, because he reaches out his hand and places it on mine. I don’tthink it’s a romantic gesture—more like solidarity. Even still, the world seems to narrow to this: me and him, side by side in a hammock, his warm hand covering mine.

“He was a fucking idiot to let you go,” he says softly.

My chest warms with a mixture of confused feelings—attraction? Friendship?

I swallow. “I don’t want to be with someone who doesn’t care about what matters to me, even though that means I’ll probably be single forever.”

“True.”

I give him a side-eye. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He sighs, exasperated. “Jess. I’m saying you’re right—no one should be with a person who refuses to understand what matters to them.”

“I’m wise beyond my years,” I say.

“That you are.”

“Maybe I’ll embroider it on a pillow and sell it on Etsy.”

“I’ll be the first to order one.”

“Just one? Come on, Luke.”

“I’ll order ten in each color and size.”

I grin. “That’s better.”

He slides his hand under mine, and I hold my breath as he laces our fingers together. Now we’re definitely holding hands, and I have no idea what it means, but I don’t want to let go.

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