Page 70 of The Summer We Played Pretend

“No!” His voice sharpens as he looks at me, eyes pained. “I just—I don’t know if you’re ready for this. For me. And if you’re not…” His voice softens. “If you’re not, then I’d rather walk away now before either of us gets hurt more.” He gives a dry laugh. “Look at us—Ethan’s been home for two days, and we’re already hurting each other.”

“You’rewalking away because you’re scared, not me.”

Jackson doesn’t answer. I feel exhausted, almost worse than after the breakup with Brendan. That was painful and humiliating, but this—this is agony.

“If you don’t want this, Jackson, just say it. I’m not going to beg you to care for me.”

Something flickers in his expression, though I can’t figure out what it is. He opens his mouth as if to respond but then stands. “I’ve got to go.”

“I guess this is it, then.”

“Chloe…” Jackson’s voice is soft, almost pleading, but when I look at him, I struggle to see the confident guy who slung an arm around me and declared me his girlfriend.

I shake my head, my voice steadier now. “I’m done trying to convince you.”

I turn swiftly on my heel and head back to where Sara is pretending to scroll through her phone. I don’t look back. I’m not willing to be with someone who can’t fight for me or admit how deep things got. As I approach, Sara looks at me like she knows how much this is killing me but gives me an encouraging smile.

This hurts. God, it hurts.

I briefly glance back and he’s gone. For good, I guess. Tears tingle in my eyes and I sniff, holding them back.

“At least I’ll be off to college soon,” I murmur to Sara as I sink onto the sand next to her.

“Totally.”

“And I’ll forget all about him.”

“Exactly.”

We both know I’m lying.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Jackson

Ethan’s truck crunches over the gravel as it pulls up in front of my house, and I already know it’s him without looking. His engine has this sputter that’s just slightly offbeat—something I’ve been meaning to fix for months now but haven’t gotten around to.

"Jackson." His voice cuts through the lazy hum of the afternoon.

I straighten up from under the hood of the old car I’ve been working on all morning, wiping my hands on a grease-streaked rag that used to be white. My back protests, stiff from hours bent at awkward angles, but I ignore it. Ethan climbs out of his truck, slamming the door harder than necessary, and starts toward me.

"Hey," I say, keeping my tone casual and lifting my hands. I’m so not in the mood for another fight with my ex best friend.

I half expect him to lunge at me again but instead he slows his pace and stops a few feet away. “Hey.”

“What’s up?”

Ethan opens his mouth, closes it, then nods toward the car. "You ever going to get that thing running?" He shoves his hands into his pockets, his jaw tight, but there’s no fire in his eyes today.

"Yeah, it’s being stubborn," I say, struggling to figure out how else to respond. "Starting to think this car hates me."

"Wouldn’t blame it," Ethan mutters, but there’s a flicker of a smirk there.

"Guess I deserve that," I admit, tossing the rag onto the workbench by the garage door. I lean against the fender, arms crossed, waiting for the inevitable. Because let’s be real—he didn’t drive all the way here to talk about cars.

He shifts on his feet, glancing at the ground then he looks up, his expression hardening. "We need to talk about Chloe."

And there it is. My chest tightens, but I force myself to hold his gaze. "Okay," I say carefully, feeling like this conversation could explode at any moment.

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