Chapter 11

Ian

I watched Summer's bedroom light from my window, as I did just about every night since we were fifteen. There wasn't anything to see, just a soft glow through the weeping willow branches from across the two acres between us, but it was habit. My gut tightened as I took a swig of beer, the condensation from the long neck bottle soaking my hand.

Pacing my bedroom, I glared at her everywhere I turned. There's been no escape for years now. Stupidly, I'd kept every ridiculous trinket she'd ever bought or made me, even the little ceramic frog she'd done in fifth grade art class. At least, that's what she'd said it was. It didn't look like a frog. Pictures of us as kids, as adults, and our families scattered the dark blue walls. I stared at the one of Tom, Summer, and myself outside her house. There was a pull in my chest as I remembered Tom, lying in bed, too sick to even hold his daughter in the end.

Christ. Our lives were like a jacked up version of Dawson's Creek, sans the romance, emphasis on the witty banter. And now I was pissed off I even knew the show's premise. Summer's fault for making me watch the effing crap every week when it had been on air.

That was our relationship. She remembered climbing the birches near the creek and laughing. I remembered crying hysterically when she fell and broke her arm. She remembered the dancing and ambiance of senior prom. I remembered the navy dress she wore and the linebacker's hands on her. Summer-damn-Quinn saw the world as if it was a painting waiting to be created. I only saw her.

Yeah. I surpassed pathetic about nine years before. Didn't even pass Go or collect two-hundred dollars. I'd call her my kryptonite, but I was no Superman and I didn't have the urge to flee from her whenever she was within ten yards. She did make me weak as hell, though. One bat of her eyelashes, one genuine grin, one pretty please from her lips, and I caved. Every time.

I caught her light go off out of the corner of my eye and stilled, wondering what she dreamed of in the quiet of her room. She still made wishes like an expectant child. She actually believed in things like happily ever after. Truth was, I didn't mind the hopelessly romantic movies she made me watch or listening to her babble endlessly about a painting she was working on. It meant she was breathing, was wanting to fight. And sometimes, she made me believe, too. That we could be more. That, one day, she'd see me. Any time with her, regardless of what we did, was worth it.

For a while there, after her father died, I didn't think she dreamed at all anymore. It was like a light had gone off in her. For someone like Summer, she may as well have been dead. We brought her back, though-Rick, Dee, and myself. Barely, but we'd brought her back from the brink.

Did she allow herself to remember our childhood? All the adventures we'd had, the fun? Or was it all a black void to her to expunge the grief? Like when we were eight and Rick had fallen in the river after swinging from a low branch where the edge of Lake Wylie opened. Rick had flailed his arms and legs while screaming bloody murder until he discovered he was only in a foot of water. We've called him Rivers ever since.

I dropped on my bed, recalling when Rick rushed inside her house to tell Summer he was getting married. The girl who never cried in all the time I'd known her had a mist in her eyes. She'd always had a softness for Rivers. There was never anything romantic about it. Not in all the years Rick lived across the shallow waters had he ever laid a hand on Summer.

But I wanted to.

The night Rick and Dee wed was permanently hung on my mind's memory wall. Summer had looked beautiful that night. Her eyes sparkled watching our two best friends say their vows. The long red bridesmaids dress had been a little too big, her hair pulled up in some sort of twist. She'd been all mine that night. Walking down the aisle, on the dance floor.

I should have married Kasey Mae Fillmore in the third grade when she'd asked. Maybe things would be different now. Maybe I wouldn't be pining for the girl next door like a hopeless poet.

I sat up and finished off my beer, glancing at her window again and hoping to God she still dreamed. I didn't care what about, just so long as she did. Matt was closing in on sealing the deal. That was one of her dreams, starting a family. It was obvious to everyone but Summer he loved her. According to her, Matt had finally told her so. What had started out as teenage hormones one summer vacation on the beach had morphed into a quasi-relationship. But now they weren't just a fling, they were dating.

I didn't like it. Not one iota. Matt, like Jenny, were Seasmoke friends we didn't see often. We had a connection to them, were close. Sad truth was, I liked Matt a lot. He was a great guy. Jenny and I had a pact, a bond, also. Often, I wished we could see more of them than just July trips.

But when push came to shove, Matt was the only man Summer would think to get serious with. Because he was safe. He didn't make her feel anything but warm cozies. There was no punch of lust on her end, no bearing her soul and shredding her heart. She could live without him. And that's why she'd stick with him. No risk. Safety.

Which meant there would never be any hope for us. Hope was all I held onto.

Frustrated, I lay down, listening to the faint sound of her chimes and trying to ignore the scent of lilac from her yard. Fruitless. I picked up my copy of To Kill a Mockingbird from the nightstand, an old favorite, and was comforted by the smell of aged paper and binding as I dove in to escape.

I looked up a short while later at the sound of footsteps. Summer's, to be exact. She walked like a mouse. She emerged in my doorway, holding a large canvas.

"What's that?" Rising from bed, I reached out to help her, but she pulled back.

"It's still a bit tacky." She turned the canvas around and set it on the floor against a bookshelf. She stepped out of the way, brushing her paint-splattered hands together.

All the air left my lungs. I was unsure whether to laugh or cry, as I was damn tempted to do both. She'd captured me in her room, where I always waited for her. Holding a hammer, I was immersed in thought. I was probably thinking about my latest woodworking idea, which only she could know the depth of my devotion. Funny she'd painted herself on the beach watching me from a distance. As a protector or a potential lover? There was an odd romanticism to this piece she hadn't used in others of me.

Heart hammering, I turned to her. "It's amazing." Christ, she had such a knack for bold color and soft strokes. The contrast just ensnared me every time.

She exhaled a yawn and plopped on my bed, laying down. "So, you like it?"

I didn't know which was harder to look at, her or the way she'd painted me. "No. I love it."

"Good." She stretched, making her shirt rise and exposing a thin strip of her midriff. "Stven451 on Twitter wants to date me."

"Yeah?" I glanced down at her. She would drift off to sleep soon. Her blue eyes were heavy and a sleepy smile curved her lips. And in the morning, when I woke, she'd be gone. "Is that the thirteen-year-old in Wyoming?"

She laughed. "No, the fifty-year-old in Romania."

Summer could remember just about every face and detail about her online friends, but she couldn't see me right here in front of her. Couldn't, or didn't want to see, the one who wanted her most. Not that I lay the blame on her. I'd never let on I'd harbored feelings.

Glancing at the ceiling, she rubbed her arm, a tiny wrinkle between her brows.

My gut twisted. "What's on your mind?"

She shrugged her shoulder against the mattress, but the casual gesture couldn't hide the unrest etched on her face.

I sat next to her, the bed dipping with my weight, and pulled the blanket up to her chin. "Tell me."

"I guess I'm just nervous about Matt. I mean, who says 'I love you, but we need to talk?'" She curled on her side and stared at me through fathomless, almost innocent eyes.

I nodded, not sure what to say. It wasn't as if the truth was an option.

Propping herself on one elbow, she pursed her lips. "Peter from the hobby store asked me out again. You know what he said when I turned him down?"

I shrugged, but she wasn't paying attention.

"He asked if the reason I wouldn't go out with him was because you were in love with me."

Not that I'd been moving, but I froze. Everything froze. Time. Earth's rotation.

"Can you believe that crap?" she said. "Imagine that. My best friend and the biggest playboy in Wylie falling in love with me. Absurd."

I stared at her for several long beats, the edges of my vision graying. She may have claimed it was crap, but she was looking at me as if she was asking for validation. To confirm...what, exactly?

Well, Summer. Peter was right. Except, I've been a coward for the past ten years not telling you because- Why? Christ. For the first time in a decade, I couldn't remember. All the reasons seemed stupid now.

"Yeah," I said instead. I opened my mouth to say more-what, I wasn't sure-but my expression must've been unguarded too long.

She jumped off the bed, eyes wide, looking as if I'd filleted her alive. Was the possibility of me loving her that much of a betrayal? "Anyway." She avoided my gaze and opted to study the floor.

Ah, yes. It was coming back to me now. That's why I never spilled my guts and handed her my heart in a box. Well, one of many reasons. Because if it messed with her idea of content, then she'd shatter. I hadn't given her any indication Peter was right, but she was starting to freak anyway. For a woman whose life had been a constant flutter of upheaval, she didn't adjust to change very well. And, if I was being brutally honest, I just didn't think she felt that tug of longing, of lust, like I did. Her reaction now was proving me right.

Even I had my pride. Most of the time. Buried way deep under a plethora of unresolved tension.

"Movie?" She grabbed the box off my dresser she'd left the other night and held up a DVD case. She inserted the disc into the player, her hands shaking.

Breathe. I leaned against the headboard and crossed my fingers behind my head, acting for all the world like my heart was beating a steady rhythm. "Does the movie have half-naked women or inanimate objects blowing up?"

She gave me a sullen look, plopping next to me on the bed again as the credits rolled on a Ginger Rodgers and Fred Astaire flick.

Funny how she romanticized everything, but ran from romance. If my inability to answer her question ten seconds ago had her denial gene kicked into battle stance, what would she do when Matt opened up? He was coming to see her tomorrow, assumingly to lay down a plan for a future, so she'd have to face reality.

So would I.

Judging by her heavy lids and giant yawn, she'd be asleep before the opening scene was through. My dark blue blanket was wrapped around her like a shield. It contrasted with her pale skin, making her features seem child-like. Until I took in her caramel hair spilled over the pillow and her pouty lips.

After she was asleep, I brushed a strand of her hair away from her face, letting my knuckle linger on her soft cheek. I covered her with another blanket, knowing she'd get cold and steal mine. If she turned the air conditioner on once in awhile she'd be more accustomed to it. But no, she had to have the summer smell in her house.

I shut off the light, climbed under the covers with her, and laid with my back to her.

And in the morning, when I woke, she was gone. But her sweet lilac scent remained on my sheets.