27. Chase
Chase
“Holy shit! Dude.”
My wrench slips from my grip, clattering to the polished concrete floor. I slide out from under the Mustang, using the rag slung over my shoulder to wipe my greasy hands before rubbing my eyes. “What?”
I get up, using my forearm to swipe the sweat from my brow and make my way over to the mini fridge outside my office.
“Did you hear who’s in town?”
I pluck a can of soda from the fridge and turn to face Simon, hunched over his phone, eyes wide.
“Nope.” I bring the crisp liquid to my lips to take a sip, my eyelids heavy. “And I don’t care.”
“It’s Summer Hayes, man. My buddy Eric spotted her at Allen’s Coffee Shop.”
He turns his phone to show me a grainy photo of a hooded figure climbing out of an SUV.
My pulse stumbles, tripping over itself.
I know that car. I work on that car. It belongs to Rhonda Walker. And sure enough, there she is.
Summer Hayes.
Her hood might be up, but I’d know her anywhere.
Shit.
I’ve seen photos over the years. It’s hard not to when her face is plastered over every fucking magazine cover; she’s the face on every bus I see, and she takes up the advertisement space on the bus shelters.
The sight of her still undoes me, and it pisses me the fuck off. I don’t want her to still have this hold on me. I haven’t been able to sever the tie since she left because she took a part of me with her that day, and I don’t think I’ll ever get it back.
Her hair is shorter now than it was then, brushing her collarbones. She usually wears it with these loose waves or in a low, messy bun. It’s cute.
It suits her.
Fuck. Stop it, Chase.
I try to school my features, but I feel like I’ve been throat punched.
“She’s from here, right? Grew up in Ocean Grove?” he asks, absorbed in his phone.
“Hmmph.” The sound leaves me and I take another pull of soda to cover the fact my hands are shaking like crazy.
“Her dad’s that dude who died right? Offed himself? What was his name?” He clicks his fingers as he rattles off names. “Dan … Derek …”
“Doug,” I finish for him. My jaw tenses. “Yeah.”
It’s been a week since Mom broke the news about Doug dying.
I finish my drink, crumpling the can and tossing it into the recycling bin.
Simon looks off thoughtfully for a moment. “Do you think she’ll come in?”
“Why would she do that?”
He shrugs. “Dunno. Maybe she’ll need her car fixed.”
I scoff. “Doubt it.”
“Maybe I’ll see her on Main Street. Or the gas station …” His eyes light up. “Or maybe—”
Jesus Christ. “Simon.”
“What if she goes to the beach and I see her—”
“Simon,” I repeat abruptly.
“Yeah?”
Get out. “Why don’t you go home early?”
He beams. “Really?”
“It’s quiet. I’ll manage.”
“All right.” He shrugs. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I nod my goodbye.
With a quick salute, he disappears.
I scrub a hand down my face, caffeine and adrenaline pumping through my veins, waking me up. I stand there, staring at nothing.
She’s here.
She’s actually fucking here.
Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out a crushed pack of cigarettes and head for my office.
I grab a lighter from the top drawer, balancing the cigarette between my lips.
I spark it up and go outside, breathing deep.
The nicotine fills my lungs, quelling the lingering ripples left there by Summer.
I exhale a cloud of poison, tipping my head back to the sky.
The rays beat down on my skin.
I take another drag and hold it in until my lungs burn.
Then I do what I always do when I don’t know how to feel.
I pull out my phone, text Rachel, and bury it.
The sky bleeds a deep purple by the time I pull onto my street and cut the engine. I climb out of my truck, keys dangling from my fingers, and make a straight line for the fridge.
Plucking out a beer, I snap it open and take a long pull. The cool bubbles slide down my throat, and I let them calm me.
Gunner—my tricolored border collie—lifts his head from his bed by the window, tail thumping twice before he settles back down. At least someone’s happy to see me.
I know somewhere deep inside, stuffed away in a dark corner, I’ve clung to pieces of Summer. It took me a long time to accept that part of her will always remain with me. Lodged in my chest like shrapnel.
Removing the pieces would only cause more damage, so I let them remain. Dormant.
I collapse onto the couch, sinking back into the worn cushions, pinching the bridge of my nose.
I was doing okay.
Or at least I was doing the best I could after I’d learned to accept the fact that she probably wasn’t ever coming back.
My shop, surfing, my journalling, and Gunner have been enough.
They had to be.
Sure, I’d think about Summer now and then. It was hard not to. Everyone remembers their first love. It’s the reason I threw everything I could into building my garage. I needed something to do with my hands. Needed somewhere to put all that restless energy.
Now, I feel like I’ve stumbled back ten paces.
The Ambien has done fuck all for my sleep. I’ve barely had any since Mom dropped the bomb about Doug Hayes passing last week—the piece of shit. Part of me wondered if his death would trigger Summer’s return to Ocean Grove.
Part of me hoped it wouldn’t, only because hoping she’d come back means admitting I still want her. And I’ve spent a decade trying to convince myself I don’t.
My phone buzzes.
Rachel: On my way. See you in 20.
Maybe all I need right now is the warmth of another body.
Rachel’s a nice girl. Calm. Predictable. Consistent.
She doesn’t ask questions I can’t answer or push for more than I’m willing to give. She knows what this is.
It’s not love. Not even close. But right now, it’s exactly what I need. A release. A way to work out this energy.
I tap out a response.
Me: Door’s unlocked.
I lock the phone and toss it onto the coffee table.
Gunner pads over and rests his head on my knee, staring up at me with those big hazel eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter.
He huffs and settles at my feet.
I lean back and close my eyes.
Rachel’s a good idea. She always is. But even as I tell myself that, and I hear her car pull into my driveway twenty minutes later, I know it’s bullshit.
The only person I want walking through that door is the one person I can’t have.
Rachel lets herself in, her long, champagne-blond hair flowing down to her ribs.
“Hey, you,” she says, leaning against the doorframe.
I stand, moving toward her. “Hey, gorgeous.”
She giggles as I pull her close and look into her deep brown eyes. The eyes that are all wrong. They’re too dark. Too warm. They lack that bright, startling blue that still haunts me after all these years.
And when I press my mouth to hers, it’s not her I’m thinking about.
It never is.