Page 68 of The Summer We Played Pretend

"Yeah," I finally say. "You’re probably right."

Ethan blinks. I can tell he was expecting a fight, maybe even hoping for one, but I’ve got nothing left to give. The anger, the defensiveness—it’s all drained out of me, leaving behind this hollow ache that sits squarely in my chest.

"She deserves better," I add and I hate saying the words yet there’s a strange relief in saying them out loud. Like admitting it makes it real, makes it final.

"Yeah," Ethan says again, his tone softer this time, but there’s no triumph in his voice.

I stuff my hands into my jacket pockets as silence stretches between us.

"Just, uh, tell her I’m sorry," I say finally, pulling my gaze back to Ethan. "For everything."

"Jackson…" Ethan starts, his brow furrowing, but I shake my head, cutting him off.

"Don’t," I say, sharper than I mean to. Then I sigh, dragging a hand through my hair. "Just…don’t, okay? Take care of her."

The truth is, Ethan’s not wrong. Chloedoesdeserve better—better than me, better than this whole fake relationship disaster that spiraled way too far out of control. And yeah, maybe part of me thought it could be real, that we could be real. But what kind of guy punches his best friend and then thinks he’s good enough for someone like Chloe Davenport?

"She’ll be fine," I mumble under my breath as I head briskly back to the truck, as if saying it will make it true.

As for me? Well, I’ll figure it out.

Eventually.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chloe

The salty tang of the ocean fills the air, mingling with the faint scent of damp driftwood and seaweed. The waves lap rhythmically against the shore and I stare sightlessly at them as Sara and I sink onto the cool sand.

Beside me, Sara sits cross-legged, studying me carefully like she’s afraid I’ll break. Her hair whips around her face in the breeze, but she doesn’t brush it away.

“I just don’t get it,” I murmur, absently tracing patterns in the sand with a trembling finger. “One minute everything was fine—perfect even—and the next…” My voice falters, and the words hang there, weighty and unfinished. “He won’t even answer my calls.”

Sara doesn’t miss a beat. She reaches out, placing a steadying hand on my arm. “Chloe, stop. You can’t keep doing this to yourself. Ethan had no right to blow up at you like that. And Jackson—” She hesitates, her tone firm but careful. “He shouldn’t have hit Ethan.”

The wind gusts suddenly, tugging at my loose sundress, and I shiver. “It was a mistake,” I whisper. “A stupid, impulsive mistake. I know he didn’t mean it, but in that moment…”

It scared me. I can’t pretend it didn’t. I’d never seen that side of Jackson, and it’s like I didn’t know him at all. But what hurts worse is him ghosting me—just like Brendan did.

Ethan showing up again has ruined everything, but maybe it’s forcing me to see the truth. Maybe it’s showing me this fantasy of me and Jackson was never going to work. If he’s willing to give up so easily, maybe I’ve been kidding myself all along.

“I feel stupid,” I admit, my voice trembling as the wind picks up again, chilling my bare shoulders. “I feel like Ethan was only telling the truth, and I just couldn’t face it. Maybe he was right about me and Jackson.”

Sara turns to face me fully, her eyes softening. “Chloe. Jackson cares about you. Anyone with eyes can see that.”

I let out a hollow laugh, the sound swept away by the waves. “If he really cared, why didn’t he fight for us? Why hasn’t he called or texted or come over?”

The call of a distant seagull pierces the air, and I glance up instinctively. Walking along the beachfront path, silhouetted against the dimming light, is Jackson. The wind tugs at his coveralls, the gray fabric smeared faintly with oil stains.

For a moment, everything else falls away. Our eyes meet, and it’s like the world holds its breath. There he is—broad shoulders, familiar stance, the same quiet presence I’d been aching for.

But then he looks away, breaking the spell. My heart stumbles as he stops, stares at me then turns away. He carries a parcel or something in his hand and moves quickly away from the beach.

Sara nudges me, her whisper urgent. “You need to talk to him. Demand answers. Don’t just sit there—go.”

I hesitate, my pulse thundering in my ears. The wind carries a chill, and I rise to my feet, brushing sand from my hands. I rush after him, probably looking desperate but I don’t really care right now.

“Jackson,” I call.

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