Page 64 of The Summer We Played Pretend

“Five minutes,” I say finally, holding up a hand. “That’s it.”

His face flickers with relief, and I immediately regret giving in. Too late now. I lead the way through the back door and step outside, the faint buzz of the kitchen fading as we enter the cool evening air. The back lot smells like grease and stale saltwater, but it’s quiet. I lean against the wall and cross my arms. Whatever he’s got to say, I’m not going to let him get away with it being too easy.

“Well?” I prompt. “What’s this all about?”

Brendan shifts his weight, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. He reminds me of the boy I first started dating—the one who was still a little nerdy and hadn’t figured out how to manipulate me yet.

“I messed up, Chloe,” he says finally. “I know I did.” He hesitates, his gaze fixed somewhere near his shoes. “I’ve been thinking about how I acted with you…and I, uh, know it wasn’t good.”

I raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “That’s one way to put it.”

He winces, but he doesn’t argue. “Yeah. I was selfish. And I hurt you.” He looks up, his expression surprisingly raw. “I’m sorry for the way things ended. For how I treated you after. I know I made things harder for you when I should’ve just left you alone.”

A bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Is this some kind of twelve-step thing? You going around making amends to people you screwed over?”

“No,” Brendan says quickly. “It’s not like that. I’m not expecting you to forgive me, or to even believe I’ve changed. But Iamtrying to be better.”

For the first time, I don’t know how to respond. I search his face, waiting for the punchline—for the smirk or the defensive retort. It doesn’t come. It’s unsettling, how genuine he looks. And worse, how much I want to believe him.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Brendan,” I admit, softening despite myself. “I appreciate the apology, but it doesn’t change anything.”

He nods, accepting that without protest. “I get it.” He hesitates, rocking back on his heels. “Are you going to Emma’s party this weekend?”

The shift in topic catches me off guard. “Why?”

“Because I’ll be there. And…I thought maybe we could talk more. If you want. I could give you a ride.”

I was planning to go with Jackson. Now, I don’t know what’s happening. I scoff. “You? Driving? What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he says, shrugging. “I’m not drinking anymore.”

I blink. “Wait,what?”

Brendan’s mouth quirks in a self-deprecating smile. “Yeah, I know. Hard to believe, right? I just…I’ve been cutting back for a while now. Figured it was time to stop altogether.”

I stare at him, suspicious. “Since when?”

“Most of the month.”

I let that sit in the air, my brain scrambling to reconcile this version of Brendan with the one I used to know—the guy who could barely get through a weekend without a drink in his hand. Part of me wants to laugh, to tell him I don’t buy it. But something about the quiet way he says it stops me.[1]

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.

He shrugs again, but there’s a carefulness in his voice when he replies. “Because I want you to know I’m trying. That’s all.”

I don’t know what to say to that. My instinct is to push back, to tell him that trying isn’t enough. But as I look at him—standing there with none of his usual bravado, just this awkward honesty—I find that I don’t have the energy for it. Not tonight.

I try to step past him but he shifts in front of me again. "I was an idiot.” He holds up his hands. "I took you for granted, and I hurt you. I've spent a lot of time thinking about it, and I... I hate how I behaved after our break up.”

Sighing, I fold my arms. “And during our break up?”

He shifts from foot to foot. “It wasn’t the best way to break up with someone I know.”

“It was awful, Brendan.”

He nods. “I know, I know.”

“Were you cheating on me?”

---