Chapter 2 Parker #2
I tip my head, studying the pink pen between my fingers. Drawing on my decades of Summer. “You need… someone to shake you up. Dishevel you a little.”
“I don’t need disheveling.”
“You do. You used to have all these big ambitions that would’ve taken you out of this town years ago. But you’re still here. Summer Prescott, town darling of Oakwood. Friendly and neighborly with everyone, happy face on no matter how bad someone hurts you.”
Her gaze shoots left, through the kitchen doorway to where her surfboard leans against the wall by the front door. She knows I’m right. Knows exactly what I’m talking about. But she made me forfeit that particular line of questioning a long time ago.
“You want all the regular stuff, too,” I continue.
“Someone who makes you laugh, lets you cry, rages with you when you’re angry at the world.
Someone who’d match the effort you’d put into the relationship.
Who showers you with affection, is so out of his mind for you that he can’t ever stop touching you.
But who wouldn’t be afraid to put you in your place when you deserve it—and yes, Prescott.
There’ll be times when you deserve it.” I break into a grin when her mouth opens.
“Can’t have a smart mouth like yours and not deserve it sometimes. ”
She hums, eyes narrowed, unconvinced on that last point.
But the teasing fades from my face, my voice, everything, as I stare back at her.
My best friend, my soulmate, who’s poured her heart into finding a family for years.
Who puts on a smile every time it goes wrong, clinging to optimism I know isn’t really all there anymore.
She’s been through so fucking much. Her mother blowing up what everyone had thought to be a happy little family of three, then vanishing from Summer’s life. Her dad fleeing town the second Summer came of age, and starting a whole new family without her.
“Most importantly”—something in my tone has her expression thawing—“you want someone who stays. Permanence. A home, no matter where life takes you.”
“Something like that,” she says quietly. She holds my gaze through the hole in the wall. Blesses me with the softest smile. My favorite Summer smile—the one that makes something shimmy in my stomach, like I’ve done something right for once.
When I resume scribbling in my notebook, Summer’s soft laugh fills the apartment. “Hey, Park? D’you think it’s time to get your eyes checked?”
I grunt noncommittally and try to relax my eyes, but my writing goes too fuzzy. “What does he look like? This dream man.”
“Dark hair. A nice smile. This should go without saying, but after the dates I’ve been on, I feel the need to make it clear that he should shower regularly.
Put actual effort into planning dates and alone time together.
And keep a job. Have a five-year plan. Wants to own a home.
Oh, and he better cook, considering…” I hear a creak as she opens her oven, which doubles as shoe storage.
She and I have this in common—we’re both hopeless in the kitchen.
“Bonus points if he’s got big hands, if you know what I’m saying. ”
Pardon me?
The pen falls out of my hand. I stretch out my fingers, frowning down at my palm.
I don’t notice Summer has returned to the living room until her snort breaks the silence. “Are you trying to figure out if you have big hands?”
“No. What does it matter how big my hands are?” She’s holding two soda bottles—Mountain Dew for me, Diet Coke for her—and I hastily take mine.
Obviously I know that Summer has… I can’t even bring myself to think the words.
It’s that the thought of her with a guy makes me want to break something. Or, like… strangle anyone who’s touched her.
You know, the usual kind of thing.
I just don’t need to hear about it, is all. It’s like how I don’t want to hear about my sister’s nighttime activities. Same thing.
“Are you looking to apply for the job? Summer’s Dream Man?” She sips her drink, shoulders bouncing with laughter.
“That would make me the world’s worst matchmaker, considering I don’t cross a single thing off this list. Aside from the showering and the job I hate.”
Unless… I glance at the notebook in my lap, then break into a grin.
Summer tips her head to examine me. She makes a wishy-washy sound. “Seven out of ten.”
My jaw drops. “Bullshit.”
Her brows go up. “I know you’re not questioning the integrity of the scoring committee.”
“Yes the hell I am. I demand a recount.”
“Recount granted. I’m afraid you’ve lost a point for insolence.”
My grin returns, twice as wide. “I’ve been told insolence is part of my charm.”
“Parker, we talked about this.” She pouts. “Your mommy will say that about anything.”
I poke at her cheek, pulled taut in a wide smile. “You think you’re real funny, don’t you?”
“That’s never been up for debate.” She bats away my hand, trapped in a breathless laugh, and I tuck it under my thigh because a laughing Summer has always been my weakness. Always makes me a little lightheaded.
For a moment, it occurs to me that we’ve missed a crucial point about Summer’s Dream Man—that whoever she ends up with has to be man enough to accept our friendship, just the way it is. Because I wouldn’t give it—us—up for anyone.
But that’s unnecessary. She and I have endured decades together. Never turning on each other, never wandering out of sight. Nothing’s ever disrupted us, flipped our friendship upside down.
It never will.
“So, we’re really doing this? Blind dates at Oakley’s, in exactly a week?”
“Why not?” I toss my notebook onto the coffee table and reach for the remote. We quit watching Serendipity halfway through last night, and I cue it back up on her TV. “Summer’s dream man, coming right up.”
She settles into the couch, lying all the way across with her legs over my lap, feet skimming my arm along the way.
I’ll never understand how they always manage to be ice-cold, even in the summer, but I throw a blanket over us both and clench her toes in my hands to warm them up.
And then a cacophony of honks from the street below filters through the open living room window, vaguely to the tune of “Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee Gees.
My stomach sinks. Low. All the way out of my body. “No.”
I beeline to the window with Summer at my heels. There’s a silver RV now parked haphazardly across the street. The side door bursts open. Two suitcases fly out of it, bouncing off the cobblestone, shortly followed by my mother’s distinctly disheveled blond head of hair.
Summer winces. “Suitcases?”
My forehead hits the window. “Fuck my life.”