30. Chase
Chase
Ambien did fuck all. Again.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face.
The shock. The hurt. Her mask slipping for half a second before she slid it firmly back in place.
I knew sleep wouldn’t find me, so I gave up trying.
The sun has barely cracked the horizon as I turn onto Juniper Terrace, pulling into my parents’ driveway and killing the engine.
I needed the water this morning. The guest room door was closed when I peeled myself out of bed and decided to go for a surf, so I left Steele to sleep in.
I was desperate to feel a rush of something other than the turmoil of my own thoughts.
I push my damp hair off my face; salt crusted on my skin. The moment my eyes connected with Summer’s torturous blues, I thought I was done for. I was like a living match, two seconds away from igniting and turning everything in my vicinity to ash.
I’m glued to my seat. My hands tighten around the wheel as I stare at the house next door.
The windows are all dark, except for one.
Hers.
Did she lie awake all night too?
The room where I traced constellations across her bare skin and—
Groaning, I drag a hand down my face before stepping out of my truck and heading inside.
Mom has had more bad days than good since I saw her last week. Her tremors have worsened and she can’t hold anything with liquid without spilling, so my dad tells me.
I need to be here more.
I let myself in, inhaling the scent of freshly brewed coffee the moment I cross the threshold.
Dad’s up.
I pad into the kitchen to find him seated at the table, flipping through Ocean Grove’s local newspaper.
“Chase.” He glances up.
I nod to the paper. “Anything interesting?”
“Nothing worth mentioning.” He folds it neatly and sets it beside his drink.
I cross the kitchen and help myself to a cup, then drop into the chair across from him. The coffee is strong enough to strip paint. Perfect.
He eyes my hair. “How was the surf?”
“Decent.” I take another sip, letting the hot liquid scald my tongue.
He studies me as his fingers tap against the ceramic of his own mug.
“What?” I ask.
The corner of his mouth tips down. “Nothing. You just look like shit, that’s all.”
I huff a laugh. “Thanks, Dad.”
“You been taking your Ambien?”
“Every night like clockwork.”
“Still not working?”
I lift my mug in a mock toast. “Clearly not.”
He folds his arms and leans back. It’s the move he pulls whenever he’s about to offer advice.
“Out with it,” he says.
“Out with what?”
“Whatever’s on your mind. It’s obviously bad enough to have beaten the Ambien and kept you up at night.”
“Nothing’s on my—”
“I know you, Chase.” He levels me with a look.
My shoulders drop. I turn my head toward the window—the house next door.
“Ah,” he says quietly. “I see.”
I look back at him. “What?”
“You found out she’s back.”
“Yeah.” I stare into my coffee. “She came into the garage.”
His brows lift. “Your shop? Why?”
“Her mom’s old Beetle broke down.”
He nods slowly. “I saw her yesterday morning. Word is she’s planning to fix up the house. Sell it.”
This nosy fucking town.
He hesitates. “She looks different.”
I don’t comment, but I know what he means. The light in her eyes whenever she was around me has dimmed. There’s a weight to her now that never used to be there. Her clothes were casual, basic even, but expensive. You can tell by the cut, the fabric.
She looked good. She always looks good. But Dad’s right … different.
“What did you say to her?” he asks.
“Nothing worth repeating,” I mumble.
“Chase.”
I hold up a hand to stop the impending lecture. “I know.”
“That girl’s been through enough. Her father just died.”
“Yeah, well.” I lower my mug. “Her father was a piece of shit who deserved—”
“Chase.”
I roll my lips, rubbing a hand over my stubble.
He blows out a long breath. “I’m guessing she figured out you didn’t go to UCLA, then.”
My brows shoot up for a second—a tell I can’t hide—before I turn away again, lifting my mug. “Yeah. She asked.”
“And? What did you tell her?”
I shrug. “That it didn’t work out.”
“That’s it?” His tone is sharper now.
“That’s all she needs to know.”
His jaw tenses, but he doesn’t press me further.
I don’t want to tell her I sold my truck and ditched college to help her skip town, or that I stayed behind to repay my folks and help Dad look after Mom. That’s not a memory I care to revisit.
“How is she?” I ask, jerking my chin toward the ceiling.
“Tired.” He lifts his mug to his lips. “Really tired.”
“What do you need help with?”
He waves me off. “It’s fine. I’ve got it.”
“Dad. I’m here to help. Accept the offer.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Dad—”
“Chase. I mean it. All she needs is to spend some time with her son.”
I give him a clipped nod. “I can do that.”
“Go on, then.”
I swallow the rest of my coffee and march upstairs, passing my old bedroom as I make my way toward Mom.
My knuckles rap gently against the doorframe. “Mom, you awake?”
I hear the rustle of sheets and the creak of the bed before her soft voice filters through the door. “Yes, honey. Come on in.”
Mom’s propped against a pile of pillows, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion. The moment she sees me, her whole face transforms into that same warm smile she’s offered me since I was old enough to remember.
She looks so fucking small.
“Chase,” she says, her voice thin. “Come in.”
I press a kiss to her forehead before sinking into the armchair beside her.
“You look tired,” she says.
I laugh. “I could say the same about you.”
“I have an excuse.” She leans over and swats at my leg playfully. “What’s yours?”
A lump catches in my throat. I don’t know how the old man does it—gets into bed every night beside the woman he’s loved for over forty years, wondering how many more nights he’ll get with her.
The thought sickens me.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I reply.
Her smile is soft and sympathetic. She tilts her head. “So, you’ve seen her, then?”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my thighs, and drop my head.
She hums knowingly. “I thought you’d see each other again.”
“Why?”
“Mother’s intuition.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
“Don’t give me that,” she scolds lightly. “You gave up everything for that girl—everything. Your first car, UCLA.”
“That was my—”
“I’m not finished.” The way she says it almost makes me wince.
“I remember the night she left,” she continues.
“I’ll never forget the look on your face when you walked through the door.
I’ve never said it to you, but it was as if someone had carved your heart right out of your chest, and I knew—I knew—that whatever happened between you two, it wasn’t over. ”
“It is, Mom.”
“Hmm.” Her frail hand squeezes mine. “Promise me something.”
“Absolutely not.”
Her mouth twitches. “Promise me you won’t give up hope. I know she broke your heart, but don’t hide it away forever. You have such a beautiful heart—don’t lose it.”
The words impale me. They slip between my ribs and lodge deep.
Her eyes glisten as her thumb runs across my knuckles. “Life is too short to spend it guarded. Trust me. It would be such a shame to cut yourself off from happiness. Don’t let your past poison the present. Be happy.”
“I’ve been doing just fine. It’s worked so far.”
She tilts her head. “Has it?”
Well, shit. “Get some rest.”
“I will.” She closes her eyes, then opens them again. “Oh, before I forget. There’s a prescription waiting for me at the pharmacy. Your father was supposed to fetch it for me yesterday but forgot.”
“I’ll pick it up after work.”
“Thanks, hon.” She yawns. I start to rise, but she catches my hand. “One more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“If you see her, don’t be cruel. Whatever happened to you two is in the past. She was hurt too. I saw her through the window yesterday. She’s wearing the same mask you do.”
My brows stitch together.
“You were kids. Hurt people hurt people. Remember that,” she finishes.
The words weigh on me as I leave the room.
Stepping into the hallway, my bedroom door is cracked open. I pause, looking out the window before pulling the door shut and heading downstairs.
“She’s resting,” I tell Dad as I make for the entrance. “I’ll grab her prescription after work.”
“Appreciate it. Oh,” he says, “Steele’s in town, isn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
“Bring him around next time. We’d love to see him.”
“Will do,” I reply, giving him a salute as I walk out into the morning light, pointedly not looking at the neighbor’s.
Work is a blur. I drown any thoughts of Summer, along with my mother’s words, with Oasis, Coldplay, and the Smashing Pumpkins.
I throw myself into the Mustang restoration, losing hours under the hood. Simon knows better than to disturb me when I’m locked in. He doesn’t mention Summer or Addie. He doesn’t mention the Beetle—he just gets to work, which I’m grateful for.
By the time six o’clock rolls around and the sun is starting to set, my hands are blackened with grease, and my mind is marginally quieter. I’m wrecked.
“I’m heading out,” I tell Simon, twirling my keys around my finger. “Lock up when you’re done.”
“Always do, Sarge,” he fires back.
I shake my head at the ridiculous nickname and jump into my truck.
I’m in and out of the pharmacy with Mom’s prescription within five minutes. The sky is cloaked in burnt amber by the time I turn onto my old street, and movement catches the corner of my eye.
My heart takes off.
She’s in the garden.
The garden that’s looked like shit ever since she skipped town. The lawn is suffocated by weeds and the hedges have been encased by the tentacles of thorny blackberry vines, a mess of browns and deep greens.
Doug didn’t give a shit about looking after the place. Which pissed me off even more—what grown-ass adult has their teenager care for the house?
He didn’t care about anything but the bottle.
Summer’s on her knees in chaos, earbuds in as she pats potting mix into a garden bed with a smear of caked dirt slashed across her cheekbone. It would be endearing if it wasn’t glaringly obvious that she’s going to hurt herself with those thorns. Or the sight of her didn’t make my chest ache.
She clearly hasn’t heard me pull in, busy in her own bubble.
I can see she’s caught the corner of her bottom lip with her front teeth the same way she did when we studied for a test or when she was scribbling down lyrics in her old notebook.
Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, bits of hair escaping down her neck. She’s wearing cutoff shorts and a faded Papa Roach tee that’s seen better days.
This isn’t the Summer I’ve seen splashed across social media and magazine covers. She’s covered in soil, mud caked under her bare fingernails, and sweat glistening around her temples.
She looks like the Summer I remember.
I need to get out of the car and drop off the prescription. I’m due to meet Steele at the bar shortly, but I can’t look away.
She’s violent as she rips out bunch after bunch of weeds, tossing them behind her before she begins to sprinkle the soil with new seeds.
I’m about to tear away my gaze when she stands, dusting off her legs to turn and gather whatever she’s mauled.
Shit.
It wasn’t weeds.
They’re dead roses.
She plucks a thorny stem without hesitation, and I watch her shoulders tense as she winces.
She drops the stem as if it’s burned her, jerking her hand back to soothe her opposite fingers over her palm.
I can see it from here. Red. She’s damn well bleeding.
Instead of minding my own business—instead of walking my ass inside—I am fixated.
She wipes the blood on her old T-shirt and reaches for the roses again.
For fuck’s sake, Hayes.
Something hot flares in my stomach and my body moves on autopilot. My legs carry me to the garage before I can rationalize what I’m doing, hauling up the roller door and homing in on Mom’s old gardening gloves hanging on a hook just inside, snatching them off.
By the time I turn around, Summer’s back to work planting her seeds. I spot the crisscross scratches marking her skin, but she keeps going, her movements jerky and her jaw set.
Stubborn.
I cross the yard, stepping over the small hedge that divides our properties.
She doesn’t hear me coming. She’s too busy humming along to whatever tune plays in her ear.
I drop the gloves before her, and they land in the dirt with a soft thud.
She startles, gasping as her head snaps up.
Those devastating blue eyes collide with mine and her lips part.
She tugs out an earbud, but I don’t hang around to hear what she has to say, turning and walking—storming—away.
“Thanks,” she calls after me, her voice stiff.
I don’t turn around or respond. I let myself into my parents’ house and drop off the prescription. Then, I get in my truck, reverse, and drive off as quickly as possible, not sparing Summer a glance before I peel out of the street.
I need a fucking beer.
Or four.
Anything to get that shade of blue out of my head.