Page 66 of The Summer We Played Pretend

I rub a hand over my face, the grease from earlier still faintly clinging to my skin despite scrubbing it off hours ago. The sharp smell mixes with the stale aroma of the coffee that’s been sitting untouched on my desk for hours. My eyes burn, both from staring at the computer screen too long and from sheer exhaustion but stopping feels dangerous. If I stop, my thoughts will catch up with me.

I try to focus on the spreadsheet in front of me—the marketing plan for Hawthorne Auto Repair. Dad’s been working so hard his whole life and this is the least I can do for him. Social media campaigns, flyers around Elmwood Glen, maybe even a discount weekend—it all sounds good in theory, but right now, the numbers and ideas blur together into meaningless shapes.

I rub the back of my stiff neck and inhale deeply. I’ve got this. But my brain refuses to cooperate. Every time I think I’ve got a grasp on something her face sneaks back in. The way she looks at me like she can see everything, the soft way she says my name as though it means something. The look of hurt in her eyes when she saw Ethan holding his nose and realized what I’d done.

"Dammit." I shove my chair back, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. Why hasn’t she called? Even to yell at me? At least yelling would mean she cared enough to be mad. This silence is unbearable.

I guess this is it then. I’ve lost her for good. My stomach churns at the very thought.

She’s probably better off without me anyway. I’m the guy who fixes cars and gets into fights and breaks hearts apparently. What could I possibly offer her except trouble?

I shift forward again. I just have to finish my work. My phone slips from the edge of the desk and clatters against the concrete floor, snapping me out of my haze.

I swipe at the dust smudging my phone screen and see Chloe’s name staring back at me in my recent calls list. My chest tightens—not for any good reason. It’s not like she called me. It’s her number because I must’ve…

The line is ringing.

"Shit," I hiss, fumbling to end the call. My thumb jams the red button so hard the touch screen barely registers it. For half a second, all I can do is stare at the screen, heart hammering in my chest like a loose piston. Did it go through? Did she see my name pop up? What if she answers?

I sit frozen, holding my breath, waiting for a return call. I don’t know how long I sit for but the silence kills me. Not texts, no calls.

Nothing.

The photo on my screen stares back at me. One she took that day at the beach of the two of us. I already knew I was in deep by then. I can see it in my eyes.

It’s stupid, really. I’ve always been fine on my own. I don’t need anyone.

But I need her.

At the very least, I need to talk to her. Even if it means hearing her confirm everything I know.

This isn’t me. I don’t sit around and wait for things to fix themselves. I’m a problem solver. A doer. And right now, there’s only one thing left to do.

"All right," I mutter under my breath. "Let’s get this over with."

My keys are on the workbench by the bay door, tangled in a mess of rags and tools. I snatch them up, the metal jingling in my hand as I stalk toward the exit and get in my truck.

The truck roars to life beneath me, headlights cutting through the dark as I pull onto the main road. What if she slams the door in my face? What if she doesn’t even open it? Or worse... what if she does and I see the hurt written all over her face, knowing I’m the one who put it there?

The temptation to turn around forces me to tighten my grip on the steering wheel and by the time I turn onto Chloe’s street, my stomach feels like it’s been twisted into knots.

I park across the street, engine idling for a moment longer than necessary.

Just go. Walk up, knock on the door, say what you need to say, and leave. Simple.

Except it’s not simple, because my legs feel like lead when I step out of the truck. The walk to her front door is somehow the longest five seconds of my life, each step heavier than the last.

Somehow, I force myself to press the doorbell and the chime echoes inside. There’s no turning back now.

The door swings open, and I’m met with Mrs. Davenport’s wide, startled eyes. She blinks at me like I’m the last person she expected to find on her doorstep—which, let’s be honest, I probably am. I have no idea if Ethan’s explained what happened but if he has, I doubt I’m her favorite person in the world, either.

"Jackson?" she says, the word dragging out like it needs time to adjust to the reality of me standing here. Her voice is pleasant but edged with confusion, like she’s trying to figure out if she missed a memo about my sudden appearance. "Is everything alright?"

"Uh, yeah. Yes, Mrs. D," I stammer, shoving my hands into my jacket pockets. My fingers brush against my truck keys, and I resist the urge to bolt back to safety. "I was just…Is Chloe home?"

Her expression softens, but there’s still that hint of surprise in her gaze. "She’s not here right now," she says. Then, almost as an afterthought, "She’s at work.”

"Right. Of course." The words tumble out before I can stop them, and they sound hollow even to my own ears. Work. Why didn’t I know that? Normally, she keeps me up to date with her schedule.

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