The Summer We Fell (Summer #1), page 1
THE SUMMER WE FELL
ELIZABETH O’ROARK
Copyright © 2023 by Elizabeth O’Roark
Developmental Editor: Sali Benbow-Powers
Editor: Kelly Golland
Copy Edit: Julie Deaton
Cover Design: Lori Jackson
Photography: Miguelanxo
Model: Sergio Carvajal
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CONTENTS
1. Now
2. Then
3. Now
4. Then
5. Now
6. Then
7. Now
8. Then
9. Now
10. Then
11. Now
12. Then
13. Now
14. Then
15. Now
16. Then
17. Now
18. Then
19. Now
20. Then
21. Now
22. Then
23. Now
24. Then
25. Now
26. Then
27. Now
28. Then
29. Now
30. Then
31. Now
32. Then
33. Now
34. Then
35. Now
Epilogue
The Summer I Saved You
Also by Elizabeth O’Roark
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1
NOW
It wasn’t that long ago that I could get through an airport without being recognized. I miss that.
Today my sunglasses will remain on. It’s one of those obnoxious “I’m a celebrity!” moves I’ve always hated, but that’s better than a bunch of commentary about my current appearance. I slept most of the way from Lisbon to San Francisco, thanks to my handy stash of Ambien, but I’m still fucked in the head from the call I received just before I got on the flight…and it shows.
Donna has always been a ball of energy, cheerful and indefatigable. I can’t imagine her any other way. Of all the people in the world, why does it have to be her? Why is it that the people who most deserve to live seem to be taken too soon, and the ones who deserve it least, like me, seem to flourish?
I’ve been promising myself that I just need to hold it together a little longer, when the truth is that I’ve got three straight weeks ahead of holding it together with no end in sight. But if I think nothing of lying to everyone else, I’m certainly not going to quibble over lies to myself.
I duck into the bathroom to clean up before I head for my luggage. My hazel eyes are bruised with fatigue, my skin is sallow. The sun-kissed streaks the colorist added to my brown hair won’t fool anyone into thinking I’ve spent time in the sun lately, especially Donna. Every time she’s visited me in LA, she has said the same thing: “Oh, honey, you look so tired. I wish you’d come home”, as if returning to Rhodes could ever improve anything.
I step back from the mirror just in time to catch a woman taking a picture of me from the side.
She shrugs, completely unashamed. “Sorry. You’re not my taste,” she says, “but my niece likes you.”
I used to think fame would solve everything. What I didn’t realize is that you’re still every bit as sad. You just have the whole fucking world there to watch and remind you you’ve got no right to be.
I walk out before I say something I’ll regret and head down the escalator to baggage claim. It wasn’t until I started to date Cash that I understood the kind of chaos that can descend when the public thinks they know you—but today there’s no crowd. Just Donna waiting near the base of the escalator, a little too thin but otherwise completely fine.
She pulls me into her arms, and the scent of her rose perfume reminds me of her home—a place where some of my best moments occurred. And some of my worst.
“You didn’t need to pick me up. I was gonna Uber.”
“That would cost a fortune,” she says, forgetting or not caring that I’m no longer the broke kid she was once forced to take in. “And when my girl comes home, I’m going to be the one to greet her. Besides…I had company.”
My gaze follows hers, past her shoulder.
I don’t know how I didn’t see him, when he stands a foot taller and a foot broader than anyone else in the room. Some big guys go out of their way to seem less so—they slouch, they smile, they joke around. Luke has never done any of those things. He is unapologetically his unsmiling self, size and all.
He looks older, but it’s been seven years, so I guess he would. He’s even bigger now, harder and less penetrable. His messy brown hair still glints gold from all those hours he spends on the water, but there’s a full week’s beard on a face that’s normally clean-shaven. I wish I’d been prepared, at least. I wish someone had said, “Luke will be there. And he’ll still feel like the tide, sucking you out to sea.”
We don’t hug. It would be too much. I can’t imagine he’d be willing to do it anyway, under the circumstances.
He doesn’t even smile, but simply tips his chin. “Juliet.”
He’s all grown up, even his voice is grown up—lower, more confident than it was. And it was always low, always confident. Always capable of bringing me to my knees.
It feels intentional, the fact that I’m only learning he’s here now. Donna knows we never got along. But she’s dying, which means I’m not allowed to resent her for this tiny manipulation.
“He offered to drive,” Donna adds.
He raises a brow at the word “offered”, arms still folded across his broad chest, making it clear that’s not exactly the way it happened. It’s so like Donna to attribute far kinder qualities to us than actually exist.
“How many bags do you have?” He’s already turning toward the carousel, manning up to do the right thing, no matter how much he hates me.
I move in front of him. “I can get it.”
It irks me that he walks to the carousel anyway. I press a finger to my right temple. My head is splitting, finally coming off everything I took yesterday. And I just don’t feel up to polite conversation, especially with him.
I swallow. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
I see my bag coming and move forward. “That’s not what I meant.” What I really meant was “This is the worst possible situation, and I don’t see how I’m going to weather three weeks of it.” I guess that’s not much better.
I glance over my shoulder. “How is she?”
His eyes darken. “I just got in this morning, but…you saw her. A strong wind could knock her over.”
And with that there’s really nothing left to be said. Not easily or comfortably, anyway. The silence stretches on.
We both reach for my bag at the same time, our hands brushing for a moment.
I snatch mine back but it’s too late. Luke is already in my bloodstream, already poisoning me. Making me want all the wrong things, just like he always did.
2
THEN
MAY, 2013
It’s nearly the end of the school year, and the road outside the diner looks like a poorly organized parade—Jeeps and pickup trucks full of kids and surfboards, blasting music that flashes to life and fades just as fast. This marks the start of the high season, and for the next three months, Rhodes will be flooded with surfers and families buying ice cream and t-shirts, burgers and gas. It’s when most of the local businesses actually turn a profit, when the town and its residents seem to wake from a long slumber.
Me, especially, though it’s doing more harm than good at the moment.
“If we weren’t so busy, you’d be fired by now,” grouses Charlie, the line cook.
If he were someone else, I’d tell him my boyfriend is coming home at last, but Charlie is not that guy. I could tell him I’d just gotten a terminal diagnosis, and he still wouldn’t be that guy.
“I know. I’m sorry.” I push my hair back from my face and grab two plates from underneath the heat lamp.
“Don’t be sorry,” he replies, pitiless as ever, turning to remake the order I wrote down wrong. “Just stop fucking up.”
Stacy takes the two plates from my grasp. “Church types, section two. They’re yours.”
She always sticks me with the older women who come here after Bible study because they are shitty tippers. For me, it’s their attitude that’s hardest to bear: the smug, self-satisfied way they’ll remind me how lucky I am to have this job. How lucky I am that the pastor and his wife—Danny’s parents—took me in.
“Surprised to see you here,” says Mrs. Poffsteader. “Doesn’t Danny come home today?”
The question—so innocent. The tone—not so much. I should be too excited to work today, she thinks. I should be getting ready. And if I wasn’t working, she’d probably imply I was lazy. There’s no winning with them.
“Tonight,” I reply. “I’ve got plenty of time.”
“Miss Donna said he’s bringing a friend home.”
I force a smile. “Yeah, Luke. I think they’re going to surf.” Luke Taylor, Danny’s teammate, seemed like a perfectly nice guy the one time we spoke, and I know his scholarship doesn’t cover housing over the summer, but I really don’t want
“I figured he’d have found himself a college girl by now,” Mrs. Miles says. “But I guess it’s good for you it’s still working out. Such a kind thing the pastor did, taking you in like that.”
I don’t care that she’s implied Danny could do better than me—it’s a sentiment I agree with. It’s the subtext I tire of: “Be more grateful, Juliet. You’d be nowhere without them, Juliet. Prove to us that you’re worthy of the favor they’ve shown you, Juliet.”
“It was.” I pull out my notepad. “What can I get you to drink?”
They look disappointed in me as they order their iced tea. I know what they wanted: some avowal of gratitude on my part. They wanted me to gush, to prostrate myself, to admit I’m trash and will always be trash who doesn’t deserve anything I’ve received. People only want to see charity going to those who know their place.
And I am grateful—a little over a year ago, I couldn’t make a sandwich without having my shoulder dislocated. I couldn’t count on having ingredients for a sandwich in the first place.
But there’s something about this constant demand for displays of gratitude from people who’ve never lifted a finger on my behalf that makes me miserly with it. I thank Donna every single night. These bitches from church? I hope they’re not holding their breath.
I bring them their drinks and take their orders. They quiet every time I approach the table, which is no surprise. Even with their Bibles sitting out, their favorite topic remains the same: how Danny could have done so much better than me and how the situation will come to no good. It’s a relief when they finally leave.
I clear their table—one-dollar tip on a twenty-five-dollar tab, naturally. I’m about to lift my tray when the bell over the door rings again, and a dreamily handsome guy—blonde and square-jawed and smiling at me like I’m his favorite thing in the world—walks in. The posh private school blazer has been replaced with shorts and a UCSD Football t-shirt, but he remains just as Teen Disney perfect as he was when I first met him during my sophomore year. He still looks too good for me. Yet somehow, he’s mine.
“Danny!” I screech, dropping the tray with a clatter and running across the restaurant to throw my arms around his neck.
He squeezes me tight for only a second before gently detaching himself. He’s not quite as comfortable with displays of affection, but it’s hard to blame him. As the pastor’s son in a small town, his every move will be discussed at length…Most likely with his parents.
“How are you here so early?” I ask breathlessly.
“Because—” He glances over his shoulder with a grin. “—I wasn’t the one driving.”
It’s only then that I look past him, at the guy who’s now walking in. I blink. Once, twice. I had an image of who Luke would be: cute, all-American, the boy you bring home to Mom. Just like Danny.
But Luke is not cute. He is not the boy you bring home. He isn’t even a boy—he’s six and a half feet of lean muscle, in need of a shave, taut and tan and…dangerous, somehow. As different from Danny as anyone I’ve ever known.
The smile on my face flickers out. My mouth goes dry and my heart thuds in my ears. He isn’t smiling either. I can’t tell if he is uncomfortable or angry, but the nice guy I met by phone has completely vanished, and the one in his place already appears to not like me much.
“Hi,” I whisper, my voice uneven. There is something about his face that makes me feel compelled to stare: the odd color of his eyes—brown with a hint of green to them, the hollows beneath his cheeks, the unexpectedly soft mouth.
Danny throws an arm around my shoulders. “Told you she was the prettiest girl alive, didn’t I?”
Luke glances at me as if weighing Danny’s words. “You told everyone that, yeah.” It’s as close as he could come to arguing the point without doing so, yet here I stand, still staring at him and trying to ignore this insistent flutter that’s suddenly bloomed to life, low in my gut.
I swallow hard, shifting my gaze back to Danny. “I’m not off until five.”
He places a gentle kiss on my forehead. “Take your time. We’re driving up to Kirkpatrick to show Luke why he should stay for the summer.”
I force a smile to cover the unease I can’t even explain to myself. And based on Luke’s scowl, I’m guessing he feels it too.
The sun is starting to slip by the time I arrive at the Allens’ tidy home, with its welcoming front porch and well-tended rose bushes in pale pink bloom.
Last year, all I wanted in the world was a cute house like this to come home to, a place where I’d be safe. I arrived here right after my stepbrother pulled my shoulder out of the socket, and I thought I’d be happy forever if I could call it mine.
It’s funny, the way you get what you want and just start wanting something else.
Tonight, I wish I could face-plant in bed for five minutes, or at least rinse the stink of the diner out of my hair. When you’re someone’s guest, though, you don’t get to be tired. You don’t get to have a bad day.
“Juliet?” Donna calls from the kitchen. “Come give me a hand with the potatoes, won’t you?”
Donna doesn’t mean any harm—she legitimately enjoys cooking and creating a nice home, and she always wanted a daughter to help in the kitchen, to pass these things on to. But being here often just feels like an extension of my workday—even in my dreams I’m refilling someone’s coffee or rushing off to find ketchup.
Luke and Danny are sitting at the table, glowing from an afternoon in the sun, hair still damp from the shower. Luke is sitting on the far side, in Danny’s normal seat. When he came into the diner, his height made him seem almost lanky. Seated, though, he’s too large for the table, for the room. We were four normal-sized people, perfectly balanced, without him. He’s thrown off our equilibrium, and it feels dangerous somehow.
Danny asks how work was while I drain the potatoes Donna boiled. If I could speak freely, I’d mention the church ladies who spent their entire lunch badmouthing me and saying they were surprised Danny hadn’t found someone else. I’d mention Mr. Kennedy put his hand on my ass again, or that some teens glued their tip to the table with ketchup.
“It was okay,” I reply instead, because the pastor got me the job, and I don’t want to seem unappreciative. The Allens think I’m quiet, but I’m not sure that’s true. There’s just so much I can’t say that it’s easier not to talk.
I mash the potatoes while the conversation quickly reverts back to surfing, the thing Luke and Danny bonded over last year. There are a thousand ways to describe a wave: bumpy or mushy or glassy or heavy, and they seem to be using all of them. I don’t know what any of it means, but when I glance over, I’m struck by the way Luke has come alive, talking about it. His eyes are bright, his smile is wide, and I think I’ve never seen anyone quite so magnetic in my entire life. I don’t even like him and I want to stare; I want to smile when he does.
The pastor’s car pulls into the driveway, and we move a little faster because he likes dinner served right away. He hugs his son and shakes Luke’s hand before he takes his place at the head of the table. I help Donna carry over the food and then slide onto the bench beside Danny, who presses his lips to the top of my head before his nose wrinkles.
“You smell like a cheeseburger,” he says with a grin.
