Page 55 of The Summer I First Saw You
I think of a thousand follow-up texts, but I don’t send any of them, hoping that if I just wait long enough, he’ll clarify. He doesn’t. I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to be this weird, desperate girl who thinks a guy is her boyfriend just because he jerked off on her stomach—jerked off underduress. But I’m apparently that girl anyway. I wanted more, it’s not coming, and I’ve got no idea how to salvage the situation.
Or if he’s even going to give me the chance.
When I wakethe next day, I can’t tell if he came home.
I limp through my shift. Working at Wharf Seafood has never been a heavier burden than it is today and when I return to the still-empty house afterward, I’ve never felt more alone.
Yes, I wanted more from him. I wanted so much more. But what we had here when we were simply friends or unwilling housemates was good too. And I don’t know how I’m going to get that back.
Hey, your silence is freaking me out. Can you just tell me what you’re thinking?
The text seems so mature and grounded until I’ve hitsend, and then it seems clingy and adolescent. I might as well have sent him a note asking, “Do you like me? Check yes or no.”
And he doesn’t reply at all to that one. Which means that what he’s thinking is bad or needs to be said in person.Fuck.
I go out to the break. Surfing won’t necessarily improve the situation, but it sure won’t make it worse. Jon, the guy whoinvited me out with him and his friends a while ago, is there. He’s friendly, funny, chill—exactly the kind of guy Harrison was describing when he suggested I see someone casually. Jon isn’t glorifying me into someone I’m not, and I wouldn’t need to play a role with him. I could tell him what wasn’t working for me.
And if I were seeing someone, maybe Harrison wouldn’t feel like he had to kick me out. Maybe I can still salvage this. In spite of my stupidly needy text, if he gets home from work to discover that I’m perfectly fine and possibly going on a date, perhaps it’ll dial back the panic I’ve definitely set in motion.
He won’t have to make up a reason to leave. He won’t give me the “it’s not you, it’s me” talk that will be equal parts humiliating and heart-breaking.
I float closer to Jon. Our conversation is entirely surf-related. I tell him I just went down to Malibu and he saysoh, you should have surfed at Rincon on the wayand I thinkyes, I know.
“We’re heading to a bar down in Capitola tonight,” he says. “If youruncleis willing to let you out of his sight.”
I laugh as I give him the finger. And then I agree. If dating someone else can fix things with Harrison, it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.
29
HARRISON
Oliver
Just landed in Paris. How is my future wife?
I have no idea because neither of us have met her.
If you let the luscious Miss Doherty leave for DC without making a move, I assure you I will fly there directly and refuse to leave until she’s mine.
That’s referred to in this country as “stalking.” It’s frowned upon. And she is NOT available.
You finally grew a pair? Maman will be so pleased.
You did not tell Mom.
You brought a young Brigitte Bardot with you on our weekend trip and couldn’t take your eyes off her. Of course I told her. I also sent pictures of her to both Maman and Matthew. Matthew has called dibs, which is patently ridiculous as he can’t even afford a ticket to DC.
P.S.: Do not lend him money for a ticket. I’ve already said no.
Fuck. The last thing I needed was my family aware of my current situation, but what’s done is done. So, like the infatuated sap I am, I make the situation worse.
What photo?
He forwards a picture he took of Daisy on the beach, grinning at the camera as she walks alongside me, the wind whipping her hair. She’s so lovely that she’s hard to look away from.
I had the best of intentions when I went to her room, but Jesus—when she slid her hand into her waistband, I was a dead man. Just remembering it has me hard as nails, so I don’t know how the hell things can ever be normal between us now. They can’t be. And if I were a better man, I’d tell her I was going out of town for work and get the fuck away before I made things worse…except I’m not a better man.
I don’t want to lose the rest of the summer with her. I don’t want to be in that house if she’s not going to be out on the deck, torturing me in blue leggings. I don’t want to be there without her off-key humming as she slices apples, the way she dances in the kitchen when she cooks, the sound of her quietly cursing as she walks into things while getting dressed to surf in the dark.
