Page 10 of The Summer We Played Pretend

“Broken up with Brendan?” I finish for her, and she nods, a crease of worry etching her brow. “I don't know all the details, Mrs. D, but Chloe's tough. She'll get through this.” I offer her a reassuring nod, hoping to ease some of the tension I see in the tight set of her shoulders.

She exhales, clearly frustrated. She looks a little more tired than usual, and I’m guessing Mr. Davenport still isn’t doing well.

“She hasn’t said a word to me, but I knew she’d been crying.”

“I'm sure she'll come around when she's ready. You've always given her space to breathe; she knows that.”

“Ethan will appreciate you coming over. You know how close those two are,” Mrs. Davenport says, her voice softening.

“I can’t give her what Ethan can, but I can provide ice cream.”

She grins. “What more could a girl want?”

With a small smile, I turn toward the stairs, the creaks familiar as I ascend to Chloe's bedroom. Once at the top, I pause before her door, painted a sunny yellow that now feels a bit too cheerful. I knock gently.

“Come in.”

She doesn’t sound too bad. Maybe I shouldn’t have come. Maybe I’m going to look a freakin’ idiot with a big tub of ice cream and she’s realized Brendan is a smug asshole who no one ever really liked for her.

I push the door open, finding her cocooned in the comfort of her flowery bedding. I feel too big for the room, like my oily hands shouldn’t be anywhere near Chloe’s feminine sanctuary.

“Hey,” I say, stepping inside, the ice cream cradled in one hand like a peace offering.

Her eyes, puffy from crying, spark with something that resembles joy for the briefest of seconds. I hate seeing her like this. Chloe has always been all smiles. Even when studying her ass off, she had this brightness about her, like nothing could drag her down.

My jaw tightens. Apart from that asshole Brendan, apparently. I still wouldn’t mind paying him a visit.

“I can't believe you remembered,” she says, the corners of her mouth lifting into a weak smile as she takes the ice cream and inspects the flavor.

“Even remembered a spoon,” I say, tugging it from my back pocket.

“Sit,” she orders, taking the spoon and ice cream from me and shifting to one side of the bed.

As she moves, I spy long, bare legs until she wraps the duvet back around her. It’s not the first time I’ve seen Chloe’s legs. Heck, Ethan and I have taken Chloe and her friends swimming loads of times, but it feels weird seeing her semi-naked on her bed.

“You can’t just stand there and watch me eat ice cream,” Chloe declares, waving the spoon at me.

I’m being an idiot. This is Chloe Davenport. I’ve known her for years. She’s my best friend’s little sister, and her mom didn’t think twice about sending me up. Of course I can sit next to her on the bed.

The bed dips under my weight when I sit down trying not to think about how ridiculous I look against all the tiny blue flowers.

“I’m glad you remembered my favorite.” Chloe chuckles, though it's a sound that wobbles precariously on the edge of another sob.

“No one could forget your Phish Food phase.”

“It was more than a phase,” she manages to say, spoon paused mid-air. “It was a lifestyle.” And then she laughs, a real one this time, though it's brittle around the edges.

“Right, a lifestyle,” I echo, grinning.

We're both silent for a moment, the ease between us stretching thin as she gathers her thoughts, the spoon now swirling aimlessly through the melting concoction.

“So, uh, how are you?”

“I just don't get it, Jackson.” Her voice is shaky, the words spilling out as if they've been waiting just behind her lips. Her gaze doesn't meet mine, instead finding some invisible point of focus somewhere on the wall. “Everything seemed fine and then...it wasn't.”

I nod, because what else can I do? My hands feel oddly useless, left without anything to fix or fiddle with, so I place one gently on her shoulder, a silent signal that I'm here—really here—for whatever she needs to say. I can’t help feel with Ethan being away travelling for the summer that I have to somehow step into his shoes.

I bet he’d know what to do, though. He was always better with girls than I was.

---