Chapter 31 Parker
Mark Hartford was born in Norfolk, Virginia, to a trauma nurse mother and a college professor father. As a child, the boxer—
I slam shut the book on my lap, glaring down at Mark Hartford’s unsmiling face like the celebrated boxer is the reason for the restless energy making it impossible for me to sit for more than a few minutes at a time before springing to my feet.
Pacing to the window. Taking a peek at the apartment across the street.
Just casually. Calmly.
I’m just a guy checking that his oldest friend made it home safely, that’s all. It’s commendable. Respectable. What best friends do.
Somehow, Summer’s apartment is still unlit, though it’s been precisely forty-seven minutes since Grant picked her up for their… Fuck.
I can’t even bring myself to call it a… Whatever.
Because Summer Prescott, my best friend, the woman I’ve been stupidly in love with for God knows how long, is on a… an appointment. With another guy.
I tap my phone to check the time again. Staring back at me is the picture from before the event at Rocky Ridge.
Summer’s hair is a mess, and she’s got pillow creases on the side of her face.
But goddamn does she look happy. As pretty as I’ve ever seen her.
We look like a couple, leaning into each other.
Grinning like idiots. Wearing matching shirts.
I thought I’d been doing the right thing by encouraging her to go on this…
gathering. That I should simply focus on the things I have ownership of, like keeping a cool head.
Finding my purpose in life. Following through on her dream man list, becoming someone who’s worthy of her.
And hoping that she chooses me at the end of it all.
Now, I think it might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.
I just… want. Her. Us.
The death of a man named Grant.
I’ve been going out of my mind pacing this apartment in between single paragraphs of Mark Hartford’s biography. Imagining Grant’s hands on her. Imagining him leaning in for a kiss. Thinking of—
Oh, thank fuck.
By the time I speed-read another paragraph and make it back to the window, Summer’s apartment is lit up.
She’s back. She didn’t go home with him, they’re not hooking up, and the relief is like nothing I’ve ever…
A bomb blows up inside me.
Framed in the window across the street is Summer, standing in her living room. As goddamn Grant walks up behind her, touches her shoulder, and hands her a beer.
I drop onto the sofa, trying to talk myself down. To be the coolheaded Parker she deserves. To be her friend, completely unselfish, letting her have her kicks wherever she wants to get them.
“You will remain seated,” I coach myself.
“You will remain calm.” My knee won’t stop bouncing.
“You will—very slowly—get to your feet for the sole purpose of extracting a Mountain Dew from your fridge. You will take a sip and you will keep your shit together. You will return to this couch and get back to your book.”
I get to my feet. Carefully, and with several deep breaths, I cross to the kitchen.
“Good. This is good,” I praise myself, reaching inside the fridge. “See? This is what we call growth. You’re having a relaxing night at home, with a refreshing beverage. And a riveting book.”
I return to my living room, feeling proud as hell of myself. Shooting barely a glance out the window on the way…
Summer is still framed in the window. She’s peering outside and I think she was looking for me because her body goes visibly still. Meanwhile, my heart tugs me right up to the glass, trying to get as near her as I can.
Why didn’t I say something earlier?
I’d be over there now, basking in her smile. Holding her hand. Kissing her, maybe. Feeling whole even without all that, instead of the rapidly crumbling half human I am without her.
I lift a hand. It’s meant to be a wave, but it turns into more of a reach. I watch Summer’s shoulders rise with a breath.
She releases it almost angrily. And then reaches for…
Hell. Fucking. No.
She’s drawing the curtains. And before I can even attempt to gather myself, to tell myself to sit the fuck down, I’m charging for the front door.