Page 63 of The Summer We Played Pretend

I don’t see any sign of Dad as I enter the garage, so I head into the back office, but he’s not there either. I leave his coffee on the desk and sink onto the chair behind it. If I were Dad, I’d shut up shop and go home for the day rather than look at my miserable face. He’s probably sick of me.

God knows I’m sick of myself right now.

I throw back the coffee, almost scalding my mouth but welcoming the discomfort. Anything is better than what I’m feeling right now.

I should fight for her.

I should let her go.

I don’t know which is the right answer.

I pull out my phone and get as far as unlocking it before staring at the screen. What do I even say? That I made a mistake? That I love her? That I don’t know how to be what she needs, but I want to try anyway?

Or would that just make things worse?

Maybe Ethan was right all along. Maybe all I’ve done is drag Chloe into something messy, something that was never meant to last.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chloe

After a busy lunch rush, I slump against the counter, my feet aching from hours of rushing between tables. The scent of fried clams and lemon butter clings to my clothes and I can’t wait to get home and have a long, hot shower.

I rub my eyes, willing away the exhaustion that's become my constant companion since...well, since everything with Jackson. I tried calling him, but he hasn’t responded, and I don’t know what to do right now. Give him time?

Givemetime?

I have this horrible feeling we were in this beautiful bubble of romance, and it’s been shattered by reality. What if none of it was real?

"Hey, Chloe.”

Ugh. Great. Just what I need. Another confrontation with Brendan. He’s been keeping his distance since the last time we argued. I was hoping it would stay that way.

"Your shift doesn't start for another fifteen minutes," I say, my voice clipped.

He hesitates and glances at the floor. "I know. I was hoping we could talk before I clock in."

"I don't think that's a good idea," I reply, heading into the back as I undo my apron.

"Please, Chloe," Brendan persists, his tone uncharacteristically soft. "I've been doing a lot of thinking, and I...I owe you an apology."

I pause. Brendan? Apologizing? Even when we were together, he wasn’t capable of that.

"Look," I say, turning to look at him, "I don’t think it’s a good idea to get into this—"

"I understand," he interrupts, holding up his hands. "I know I hurt you and I just...I've been reflecting on my actions, and I'd really like a chance to talk properly. If you're willing."

I study him, searching for any hint of the arrogance or charm he usually wields like a shield. Instead, I see only sincerity and...is that regret?

I hang up my apron and grab my bag before turning back to him, giving me a brief moment to steel myself. This is Brendan. The guy who broke up with me over text then practically stalked me when he thought I had moved on already. He’s not a good guy.

I sling my bag over my shoulder, determined to walk away. But Brendan doesn’t move, standing there like some immovable force—though he’s less intimidating than I remember. It’s the lack of bravado that throws me.

“Chloe, please,” he says again, quieter this time. “Just…give me five minutes.”

I let out a slow breath, staring at him. Every instinct tells me to shut this down, to keep walking and let him stew in whatever guilt has brought him here. And yet, I hesitate. Maybe it’s my exhaustion weighing me down or maybe it’s the sincerity in his voice—sincerity that feels unfamiliar and disarming.

Or maybe it’s just curiosity.

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