51. Chase
Chase
“Chase!” Dad calls out from downstairs.
I’m up to my armpits in debris from changing this exhaust fitting in the upstairs bathroom. I stand with my arms braced against the wall, holding the vent in place while the sealant sets.
My arms freeze.
I heave a sigh toward the ceiling.
“Yeah?” I shout back.
“Can you give me a hand with something down here when you’re done?”
My eyes fall shut for a short second. “Sure.”
I have no idea what he’s concerned about.
I already replaced the sprinkler valves, repotted and fertilized Mom’s garden beds, stripped back and revarnished the mantelpiece around the fireplace, and built him a damn bookshelf that took the better part of a weekend.
Unless he wants me to cook dinner, too, I genuinely don’t know what’s left.
I suck in a breath and temper my rising frustration.
This is what Dad has done these past two years—kept himself, and by extension, me, busy.
Project after project, task after task, a constant stream of things that need fixing or building or restoring.
Whether it’s a conscious choice or the way he’s processing, I can’t say.
But it’s nice to see him doing things. He’s been more social, more active.
It’s worked. It’s made the time move for us both, and I’m grateful for that.
The hard part is going home.
It’s where I always find her—in the silence. When there’s no tool in my hand, no engine to stare into, no task to absorb me, she’s there.
Instead of fighting it, I’ve learned to make a kind of peace with it. Absence is different from a loss. A loss means it’s gone; an absence means it’s somewhere else.
And she’s okay, which is all I care about. The album made sure of that.
I heard it the week it dropped. I wasn’t sure I’d have the strength to hear her voice, but I didn’t want to avoid it. I sat in the shop after Simon left for the day and played it through from start to finish, my phone propped up against an oil can while I worked. I didn’t miss a second of it.
Her debut album was incredible, but Invisible Strings is something else. You can hear her honesty in every track. Any time I hear her songs on the radio, I stop and remember that we spent weeks of an incredible summer together beneath the stars.
She’s a contradiction—hearing her lyrics is both the most torturous and the most beautiful thing.
I want Summer to be happy. I want her to live the life that suits her—a life for herself—whether that has me in it or not.
I think that’s growth.
I finish my task, clean up, and head downstairs to find Dad standing in the doorway looking out at the front yard with his arms folded.
Excellent. He’s found something else for me to do.
I tousle my hair and step forward.
“What needs fixing, old man?” I ask, clapping him on the shoulder.
A curve teases the edge of his lips. “Nothing. I just want the company.”
He seems to drift for a moment, somewhere far away. “We’d stand out here after dinner most nights and watch the sun go down.”
My shoulders deflate at the mention of her.
He’s done this more often lately, sharing their stories, the things they liked to do together—just the two of them.
It was never about grand gestures. My parents have never had much, but they always had each other, and they learned that life and joy and happiness are made up of all the small things.
“She loved the way the light lit up the California poppies.”
I follow his gaze, landing on the blooms.
We stare out at the garden together in the golden, late-afternoon light, and I think about how much can change in a year.
People come and go, but the world doesn’t stop, no matter if you win or lose, even when it breaks you.
You just have to keep going.
It isn’t about dwelling on the broken parts. It’s about what you do with them. Do you pick them up or leave them scattered on the floor?
I left mine on the floor for a long time and told myself that was survival.
Then Summer came along and did the thing I could never do. She filled her palm with every sharp and bitter piece of me and held them carefully. And I finally understood that the broken parts were never the problem; it was never letting anyone close enough to hold them.
I bear that lesson in mind anytime the sadness creeps in. It doesn’t always fix the feeling, but it helps me understand it.
I stand with Dad for a while before I head outside, pull the old toolbox from the garage, and take it around the side of the house where the fence has been sticking since spring.
I’m balancing on my haunches working at the bottom rail with the plane in my hand when something shifts.
A feeling.
A knowing.
I can’t explain it better than that.
The slam of a car door sounds from behind me.
I pause with my hand still on the rail, rising to full height slowly before turning.
A taxi idles at the end of next door’s driveway.
We both look up and make eye contact. I’m rooted to the spot.
Summer stands beneath the amber sunset with a duffel in each hand, looking at me across the width of our two front yards.
She doesn’t move a muscle or say a word, and neither do I.
The taxi peels away and disappears, neither of us paying it any attention, too busy staring at each other.
That damn blue.
I blink to make sure I’m not dreaming.
I drop the plane.
I pull the rag from my shoulder on instinct, wiping my hands clean. The rag falls to the ground at the same time she lets go of her bags.
My eyes scan over her loose hair, flowing down to her ribs, her healthy curves and sun-kissed skin.
“You’re back,” I manage.
“I’m back.”
I nod in understanding.
“For how long?”
She shrugs and my pulse catapults.
She’s studying me head to toe.
I try to form the words I’ve been so desperate to say to her over the past two years, but now that she’s in front of me, any speech I rehearsed has evaporated.
Instead, I go with, “You look good.”
She presses her lips together, cheeks flushing that adorable shade of pink. “So do you.”
I don’t. I’m wearing gray sweats and a plain white T-shirt covered in motor oil and grease. I’ve been sweating and a strand of loose hair is dangling over one eye.
“When did you get back from Europe?” I give away that I know her schedule, but I don’t care. I needed to know where she was.
“Last night.”
“And—” I clear my throat. “What brings you back?”
She draws in a long breath. “You.”
“Me.”
“Us,” she clarifies.
“Us.”
She nods sharply, just once.
My throat burns and my eyes sting. I don’t know what to tell her—where to start. Everything I’ve felt during our time apart simmers and bubbles to the surface.
“I wanted to see you, Chase.” She takes one hesitant step forward. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”
I smirk. “Get over here, Hayes.”
She expels a breath before she breaks into a sprint.
I open my arms just in time to catch her, lifting her off the ground. She wraps her legs around my middle, her arms around my neck, her face in my shoulder. I cling to her with everything I have, and she holds on the same way. Like a lifeline.
I feel the beat of her pulse against me and breathe her in.
When she lifts her head, she smashes her mouth over mine.
I pour everything I have into this kiss, brushing a hand over her cheeks as she melts into me.
Her lips are soft and pliant, warm and tender. My fingers catch in her hair as my other arm holds her against me. She makes a noise against my mouth that unravels me, and I spin us around, pressing her back against the siding.
She gasps, flicking her tongue over my bottom lip. I open for her immediately. Tongues dancing, energy exchanging, unspoken words, and the smell of her—God, the smell of her. It’s the same as it’s always been, the way I’ve always recalled in the back of my memory.
I pull back just enough to look at her.
Her eyes are hooded, dark and bright all at once. Our chests rise and fall.
“Hi,” she whispers.
I fight a grin. “Hi.”
“I love you,” she blurts and time stops.
I gulp down a knot.
“I do,” she whispers. “I love you so much.”
My knees weaken. “I love you too.”
My hands don’t know where to rest, but I know they need to be all over her.
“Should we …” I let the implication settle.
“My place? Yeah. Definitely,” she replies, sliding down my body. I only let her go when her feet touch the grass.
She slips a hand in her pocket, withdrawing a set of keys.
I glance up for a moment and catch Dad through the window, washing dishes. His attention locks on mine for a moment. He dips his chin in acknowledgment, and I can tell he’s holding in a shit-eating smile.
I follow Summer inside after retrieving her bags. She guides me upstairs to her bedroom.
We undress each other slowly, like neither of us can bear the thought of rushing it. I haven’t seen my girl in two years, and every inch of skin she reveals feels sacred to me.
When I finally lie her back against the mattress, her auburn hair spills across the pillow like a halo. The sight hits me square in the chest hard enough to steal my breath.
God. She’s so beautiful.
Her pale skin glows in the early-evening light pouring through the window while I settle carefully between her thighs, bracing my weight on my forearms beside her head.
Her fingers slip into my hair instantly, tugging me down until our mouths crash together in a desperate kiss.
I drag my tongue along the seam of her lips. She opens for me with the sweetest little sound. So soft and needy.
This kiss isn’t gentle.
It’s rough and hungry and raw.
I kiss her deeper, slower, tasting every sigh she gives me while her hips rock beneath mine, gliding me through her slick heat. The sensation nearly undoes me on the spot.
“Chase,” she whispers against my mouth.
I press my forehead to hers for one shaky second, notching myself at her entrance before meeting her eyes.
“You’re everything,” I tell her roughly.
Her breath catches. “Slide inside me, Chase.”
I give her exactly what she wants, pushing into her inch by inch.
She clings to me, sharp little pants tumbling from her lips as her body stretches around mine. A low growl reverberates from my chest by the time I’m fully seated inside her.
Fuck.
The rise and fall of our chests are uneven, our eyes heavy with want as I hold myself still for one impossible second.
Then I move.
Trembling gasps fall from her lips as I thrust slowly, pulling almost all the way out before jamming back in deep. She moans loudly, the sound echoing around the room.
It’s been two years since I’ve been inside her.
It’s been two years since I’ve felt her velvet wrapped around me like this—tight and warm and perfect. The scent of mango and vanilla clings to her skin the way I remember, and combined with the noises she’s making for me, it takes everything I have not to explode too soon.
I thrust deeper and she arches beneath me, matching every movement with one of her own. Our bodies find each other effortlessly, fluidly, like waves colliding and breaking and reforming into something whole.
“Does that feel good?” I ask, my voice strained.
“So good,” she gasps. “God. So good.”
She tilts her hips in perfect rhythm with my thrusts, and the sharp sound of skin slapping skin fills the room. Sparks skitter down my spine, heat coiling tighter and tighter at the base of it.
I bury my face against her throat. I drag my nose along the side of her neck before catching her earlobe gently between my teeth, and she whispers my name over and over, as if she can’t stop herself.
Pleasure picks us apart piece by piece. A delicate flush creeps from her chest to her cheeks. She looks totally undone already, and I can’t wait to unravel with her.
I snake my hand between us, rubbing the spot where we are joined. I smear her juice over her swollen clit and begin to strum, rubbing back and forth in tandem with my hips.
“Oh God, Chase!”
She’s close. I can feel it.
“Baby,” I groan. “I’m gonna come.”
“Come inside me,” she begs.
“Yeah?” I ask, my head spinning. “You sure?”
“I need it.”
That’s all it takes.
I drive into her harder, faster, losing my last shred of control as her body tightens around me. My hips snap back and forth until her walls begin to flutter and tighten around my cock.
Shit.
“Summer, baby.”
“I’m coming,” she rasps.
My eyes lose focus, and she throws her head back with a broken cry, and I lose it.
I grind and swell and pulse and spill. She milks me through my climax, taking everything I give her.
We hold each other through it and shake together in the wreckage of finally finding our way back to each other.
Afterward, we lie in her bed. I prop myself up against the headboard and we spend hours discussing what we’ve been doing for the past two years, swapping stories and sharing laughs.
I’ve always wanted her like this—happy and full and content.
“What will you do now that you’re back?” I ask, rubbing a lock of hair between my fingers.
She stretches like a cat. “I was thinking songwriting. For other artists. I’ve always loved the writing process, and this way I can do it remotely and out of the limelight.”
My lips hook up in a grin. “That sounds perfect.”
I don’t realize how long we’ve been talking until I check my cell on the side table—10 p.m.—then peer down at the girl in my lap, her auburn hair spilling over my thighs.
She’s hypnotizing.
I tuck a tendril behind her ear.
“Stay forever,” I whisper.
She glances up at me. “Okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I run my fingers through her strands until her weary eyes flutter close.
God, I’m painfully in love with this woman.
Leaning in, I place a small kiss to her forehead. Then, I pull up a playlist on my phone and scroll until I find the track I’m looking for.
The notes emanate from the speaker and she hums.
“‘Today’—the Smashing Pumpkins,” she says softly, a smile in her voice.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
She hums, nestling deeper into me. “I love this song.”
I smile. “Me too.”