“Nah, let’s get ice cream,” she says, pulling me to my feet and out of the room. I’m not at all surprised that she doesn’t want to talk about it, but the fact that she’s here, with me, when she needs someone…It makes my heart swell, and I feel this fierce need to protect her. To pull her into my arms and tell her it will all be okay. Instead, I relish the feel of my hand in hers as she leads us through the house and out the front door.
Chapter Seventeen
Dylan
Theairiswarmoutside, but there’s a welcoming cool breeze. The music mutes to a dull roar as the door shuts behind us, and a feeling of relief washes over me. My watch tells me it’s close to midnight, signaling the end of my hellish day. Letting go of my hand, Summer jogs over to an old, beat-up looking Honda Civic that’s double parked on the road. I ignore the empty feeling the loss of her hand gives me, and raise my eyebrows, staring at the car.
She jumps into the driver’s side and reaches over to unlock the passenger door. “Hurry, Frozen Goodness will be closed soon.” Starting the ignition, she puts her hands at ten and two, ready to go, and looks out the window. The frustrated glare tells me she’s fully prepared to go without me. I laugh as I enter the car,only the third laugh of the day, and already know things are about to turn around for the better.
Armed with two tubs of ice cream—cookies and cream for me and triple berry for Summer—we come to a stop in a gravel parking lot. I’m confused to see it’s the local high school, but I follow her lead. I watch her and smile, as she hums another nineties hit, NSYNC this time, and rummages around in the trunk of her car, before producing an outdoor rug, a bag, and a blanket. Without speaking, she grabs my hand again and pulls me through the parking lot toward a wire fence, and behind that…a football field.Shit! I’m stupid.It’s taken far too long to realizeshedoesn’t need a friend. She’s here forme. I stop in my tracks, pulling Summer back toward me.
“I promise I won’t get you arrested.” She laughs and gives my arm a gentle tug, nodding her head in the direction of the field. The place I feel most at home.
“You really are something, Summer,” I whisper, mostly to myself, but secretly hoping she’ll hear me. Her breath hitches, and I know she has.
We continue in silence until we reach the fence, and I’m not entirely convinced that her promise to keep me out of jail holds true. Summer easily slides her body through the hole in the wire, as though she’s done this a million times, and then holds her hands out for me, to pass her our things. She waits patiently for me to join her, as I assess the likelihood of making it through unharmed. It doesn’t take long to conclude that the size of the hole versus the size of my body will not end well. It’ll be hole one, Dylan zero.
Instead of risking it, I scale the fence and jump to the ground, landing with a thud beside Summer.
“Shh! If we get caught, it’s on you,” she whispers loudly, with a laugh.
We sneak through the gap in the stands and step out onto the field. I move forward toward the grass, but Summer turns and heads in the opposite direction.
“The bleachers?” I’d assumed we’d be sitting on the field, but alas, here we are, making our way up the stands, toward the gods.
“I thought you should see how the other half live. You know, those of us who aren’t lucky enough to be down there.” She points to the field as I balk at her words.
“Luck? Don’t you mean talent? Skill? Determination? Hard work?”
“Nope, I meant what I said.” She smiles, and I know at that moment I would be an idiot to do anything to mess up this friendship. She’s right, I’m lucky. Lucky to have someone who wants to cheer me up and help me through my problems, without even asking me what they are.
“Your high opinion of me is humbling,” I say sarcastically but can’t stop the laugh that escapes me.
“Just shut up and follow me.” She smirks, and I bite my cheek, stopping myself from saying I’d follow her anywhere.
We’ve been talking for hours, and everything about it feels natural. The conversation flows from one thing to the next. Sometimes playful, sometimes serious, sometimes mundane, but never forced or uncomfortable. As we sit on the cold bleachers, with a blanket across our legs, knees touching, I decide I never want to stop talking to her. I’m pulled out of the moment as the realization hits me.
In my eyes, Summer is a goddess. She has a wicked sense of humor that matches my own, she’s crazy smart but doesn’t like to make a show of it, she’s beautiful inside and out, and has a body I’d do anything to touch. She’s also hiding some deep issues that I assume revolve around her family. She doesn’t need another guy wanting to get under her skirt; she needs a friend. And right now, I could use one too. Would I like to pull her into my lap, frame her face with my hands and kiss her until she’s breathless? Absolutely. Will I? No. The last thing I want is for Summer to be another one of my dating disasters, and I definitely don’t want to be just another notch on her bedpost.
We’ve both been silent for a few minutes, and when I look over at Summer, she’s also lost in thought. The urge to discover everything about her takes over, and I break our peace. “At the risk of having you ghost me again, I need to ask…”
She cringes at my words—whether it’s because she knows what’s coming or because she feels bad for ghosting me, I’m not sure. I continue anyway. “The panic attack—”
“It was stupid. I’d rather not talk about it.” She cuts me off, dropping her face in her hands briefly, before straightening up. The move tells me it’s anythingbutstupid.
I turn to face her, needing to look her in the eyes. She remains focused on the field in front of us, even as my eyes bore into her. “There’s nothing stupid about a panic attack, Summer. Something caused that. I know they can come on for no logical reason. I know they’re beyond your control, but—”
Her eyes flash to mine, and her hand shoots out and grabs my thigh. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I remember you said your mom gets them. I didn’t mean to downplay the seriousness of—”
“Summer, stop,” I cut in, placing my hand over hers. “This has nothing to do with my mom. That’s not what I was going to say at all.”
She looks down at our hands before pulling hers away. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“Please look at me, and stop apologizing.”
She turns slowly, and when her eyes meet mine, I see a flash of heartache before a blank stare replaces it, her mask secured firmly back in place. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Dylan. It happened, it’s over now, and it won’t happen again.”
“How do you know? You should talk about it. Does Cory, at least, know what’s going on?”