Chapter 5
Five
SUMMER
“Are you trying to kill me?” I bend at the waist, heaving.
By my side, my mother ignores me, taking in the expansive landscape of green rolling hills and treetops from the mountainside. “Look at that view!”
At sixty-three, my mother is in much better shape than I’ve ever been in my life. She’s short and stocky, and her calves must be made of steel because her pace hasn’t slowed once on our five-mile hike.
Meanwhile, my lungs are shriveled up and gasping for air, my calves burn like someone is torching them from the inside, and my heart is on the verge of explosion. At least if I die on this hill, my power-lifter mother will be able to carry my corpse to the funeral home.
In the few times a year she stops in Maine from her globetrotting adventures around the world, she’s always making me sweat somehow. Hiking, biking, climbing. Pilates, yoga, barre. She once made me go running with her when there was snow on the ground. Snow.
Four years ago, my mother decided to retire early.
Now, she lives off her surviving spouse benefits, retirement savings, and the enviable income she brings in as a travel blogger.
Thanks to her age and infectious personality, her platform practically blew up overnight, inspiring women everywhere to travel the world.
Unfortunately, as a certified recluse, my mother’s newfound sense of adventure has come back to bite me in the ass.
“Are you putting yourself out there?” Her graying brows furrow in concern as she leads the way, hiking shoes crackling over twigs and leaves. She’s fully embraced her grays and wrinkles, and she can pull off every one of them with grace.
“What . . . does that . . . even mean?” I huff out the words. How can she hike for miles and not get winded?
“Are you going out and meeting people? Are you on the apps?”
Actually, I met a man the other day. He broke into my apartment and I threatened him with a knife, but we had a great conversation and he was unbelievably hot, even with the beer breath and what may have been dried puke on his shirt.
I definitely will not be telling my mother about Noah or how adorable he looked snoring softly on my couch or how he showed up the next morning with cleaning supplies or how I caught him studying me with startling blue eyes that made me want to melt.
If I intend to horrify my mother and send her to an early grave right here on this mountain, that’s the way to do it.
Besides, no matter what he said that night, Noah’s clearly still hung up on his ex.
Why else would he get drunk enough to stumble into a stranger’s apartment?
His ex is probably some gorgeous model, his high school sweetheart, and she’ll come to her senses tomorrow.
They’ll get back together, and he’ll forget all about me.
I’ll be some comical anecdote on their romantic journey back to each other that they’ll laugh about during their wedding toasts.
Where is an inhaler when I need it? I should know better by now than to think I can keep up with my mother on her warm-ups. “I’m happily single, Mom.”
She’s not the stereotypical mother who pressures her daughter into marriage and motherhood, but she is stereotypically nosy and overly concerned with my dating life. I’ve been on enough dates with men—albeit fake—to know what I’m not missing.
Finally, Mom stops her relentless stride to take my hand, and my knees nearly buckle.
Maybe if I lie on the ground and refuse to stand, she’ll be forced to carry me the final mile.
“I just don’t want you holding yourself back because you’re afraid, sweetheart.
Don’t let fear stop you from living the life you want.
Sometimes, what we want is just out of reach, and all we need to do is take a leap and grab it. ”
She snatches at the air with a fist. Demonstrating how I’m supposed to grab a man by the balls, apparently.
For Mom and Hazel, that may be true. They both took a leap—Hazel quitting her corporate job to be an artist; Mom retiring to travel the world—but I’ve been trying to make my art my full-time gig for years and I’m no closer to achieving that than when I started.
Every leap of faith I’ve taken—to go to art school, to start a side hustle, to open up to boyfriends about my darkest fantasies—has never worked out in my favor. I’m done offering my heart to the universe for it to only return to me broken.
“Thanks, Mom.” I suck down a few huge gulps of air. “Can we finish this conversation when we make it back to the car? I’m having trouble talking and walking at the same time.”
Mom drops my hand, leads the way back to the car, and completely ignores my request. “Are you still drawing?”
I stiffen. My art has been a point of discomfort with my parents since childhood, when I enjoyed drawing monsters and creatures from the horror and dark fantasy novels I loved to read that happened to scare the shit out of my teachers and classmates.
Now, I prefer to draw characters from the romance novels that restore my faith in men.
In the fictional ones, at least. The not-safe-for-work scenes are especially fun, and under no circumstances can my mother know about them.
“Yep, still drawing.”
“I hope you’re sharing your art, Summer. That’s what art is for. Share it with the world—”
A shout blessedly distracts Mom from her monologue. Ahead of us, a man with a bright smile and tanned skin waves enthusiastically over his head. When he shouts again, I register that he’s calling her name.
“Who is that? Does he know you?”
A beat of silence passes in which my mother’s cheeks turn a shade of pink. She sighs dramatically before blurting: “I’ve found love in the arms of a younger man.”
“How much younger?” When she doesn’t answer, I grimace. From this distance, I can’t tell if he’s fifty or twenty. “Is he my age?”
“No.”
I nearly choke on air. “Is he younger?”
“Of course not!” Her eyes bulge before she chews her lip. “He’s five years my junior.”
“Mom, that doesn’t even count as an age gap in a romance novel.”
As he gets closer, Mom lowers her voice and grips both my arms. “I invited him because I wanted to introduce you to him. He’s supposed to meet us in the parking lot, but—”
“Angela!” My mother’s youthful boyfriend jogs to meet her, athletic wear molded to his muscles like someone who practically lives at the gym. His radiant smile never slips from his lips, and he cups her face with both hands before kissing her, then pecking each of her cheeks.
He beams at me, and Mom is downright blushing at the display of affection, but she’s grinning too. I can’t remember the last time she was this giddy about anybody.
“Great to finally meet you, Summer!” He shakes my hand so animatedly, my elbow cracks. I’m tempted to shield myself from the glare coming off his unnaturally white teeth. “I’ve heard so much about you. Mostly good.”
He winks, and they both burst out laughing. Mom gives him a good-natured swat, and I already like him. Any man who can make my mother grin and blush like that earns some major brownie points.
“Nice to meet you too.”
“Summer, this is Adam. He’s—”
“Her new boy toy,” he finishes with a devilish smirk.
Mom gasps, I groan, and we complete the final mile trek back to the car as Adam launches into his full background and resume.
Grew up on Long Island, though you wouldn’t be able to tell by his accent (you can), made a fortune in real estate, nearly died from a heart attack at forty, and hit the gym for the first time in twenty years a week after he left the hospital.
They met while canoeing in Iceland—both of them talking over each other and finishing the other’s sentences as they tell the story together—and it’s like the start of a romance novel.
Or maybe they’ve already reached the happily-ever-after.
When Adam asks me about myself, my mouth opens, but no words come out. What the hell do I tell my mother’s new boyfriend that’s anywhere near as interesting as canoeing in Iceland? “I . . . have a pet hedgehog.”
“Oh, really? I don’t think I’ve ever met someone with a hedgehog for a pet.”
“How is Prick doing?” Mom asks.
“Prick?” Adam raises an amused brow. “Great name.”
“He still sleeps most of the time, really enjoys eating and shitting—especially shitting—and his favorite hobby is running on his wheel at two in the morning. So he’s living his best life.”
Mom squeals and claps when I pull out my phone to show her photos. Prick is basically her grandchild. “He’s so adorable.”
She swipes through the photos in the album I created just to store candids and selfies of Prick, both of them cooing and laughing with each swipe.
My sixty-three-year-old mother may have found love again.
I’m happy for her, I am. But I can’t help the tiniest twinge of jealousy that Mom has fallen in love at least twice in her life—first, with my father, and now, with Adam—while I’ve fallen in love exactly zero times and remain eternally single.
Mom hands the phone back to me, and before we can reach the car in the looming parking lot, Adam asks, “So Summer, how’s the dating life?”
I sigh.
My legs are so weak, I have to hobble bowlegged up the stairs to my apartment. Why the hell are there so many steps? What asshole architect thought this was a good idea?
When I finally reach the landing and turn to make my way to my apartment, I freeze. Someone is hovering in the open hallway. Specifically, in front of my apartment. Leaning against the door, actually. That someone being a very tall, very intimidating man.
As soon as he spots me, he pushes off the door and waves over his head with a grin. A sigh of relief huffs from my lungs as Noah’s features finally come into view.
Although maybe I shouldn’t be relieved. He did break into my apartment, after all. Sure, it might’ve been a drunken accident, but he’s already fulfilled his promise to clean my bathroom and fix my front door. He has no reason to return.