39. Chase #2
Summer jumps out, grabbing her guitar while I haul my board and duffel bag from the back. I prop the board against the exterior wall and head inside with my overnighter to freshen up.
“I’ll shower first. You get comfortable,” I say, tipping my head toward the porch bench.
She wastes no time hopping up, splaying her legs out in front of her as she cradles her instrument.
Her brow furrows in concentration before her fingers find the strings without looking. The sight sends warmth blooming through me.
I can count the number of times I’ve been inside the Hayes’ house on one hand. When we were younger, I’d always hover at the door while she was grabbing something she forgot or just inside the entryway while she ran upstairs.
This is the first I’ve stepped over the threshold since she’s been back, and what I see stops me in my tracks.
“You okay?” Summer asks, twisting her body to face me from her perch.
“Yeah, I just—” I turn slowly, taking it all in. “Jesus. This place looks incredible, Summer.”
“It’s getting there.” She smirks. “Bathroom’s up the stairs, first door on the left.”
I nod. “You still want to sell it?”
Her lips twist to the side. “I think so … maybe?”
My brows shoot up. “Maybe?” That’s a development.
She shrugs like it’s nothing before returning to her plucking.
A stubborn seed takes root in my chest, and I try to dry it out. To keep it from splitting open and growing into something as dangerous as hope.
The walls have been repainted a creamy white that makes the space feel bright and open. The floors have been sanded and polished, the dark timber now gleaming a rich honey color. New light fixtures hang from the ceilings—modern but classic, with brushed brass finishes.
There’s paneling in the living room through to the kitchen now, painted in the same soft white. It’s provincial and looks like something out of Fixer Upper.
I remember the darkness. The heavy curtains that were always drawn, blocking out any natural light—fitting for Doug Hayes. It was as miserable as he was.
The stale smell of alcohol hung heavy in the air, empty bottles scattered across every surface. Summer, at eighteen, did everything she could to keep the place together. She would clean constantly.
She couldn’t fix it then, but she did the best she could with what little resources she had. And as I take the stairs, stepping through a space Summer’s had the freedom to make her own, I finally understand what’s been driving her recently—the spark, the music, the smiles, the inspiration.
I think, all along, she just wanted a place to call home.
By the time I’m cleaned up and heading downstairs, my good mood propels me toward the porch. She’s still curled up on the swing, working with that faraway look.
She looks up when she hears me, and her whole face softens.
“Hey, you.” Her voice drips like treacle.
I lean against the doorframe, watching her for a beat. “How would you feel about visiting my parents for breakfast tomorrow?”
Her pen stills mid-stroke. “Do you think your mom is up to it?”
The morning after we reunited, when Summer slipped back into bed with me, I apologized.
For all of it. For kicking her out after she passed out on my parents’ entryway floor, for being cruel when she was only trying to help, and for letting my own guardedness hurt the one person who’s ever made me feel safe.
She told me she understood that having a sick parent puts you in a constant state of terror—always waiting for the next phone call, the next emergency, or the moment when everything suddenly tips sideways.
And when something does happen, sudden and out of your control, while you’re already running on fumes and barely holding yourself together, we don’t always react the way we want to.
She traced patterns over my chest as she told me that sometimes we lash out at the people closest to us because we know, deep down, they’ll be there when the storm passes—that we’ve been there for each other’s storms.
She forgave me before I even finished the sentence, and I’m still not certain I deserve it.
I’d gone to see Mom at the hospital that night after Summer left. She was weak but in good spirits. I know what the alternative could have been had Summer not been outside that day. If she hadn’t heard the fall or found Mom when she did.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to put into words how grateful I am.
I hike a shoulder. “She’s doing better. Weak—but she can hold a conversation.”
“Okay.” A lopsided grin tugs at her mouth. “But you’re not making grilled cheese again, are you?”
I cross the porch and collapse into the bench beside her, making it rock. I lift her over my lap and start tickling her sides. “Brat.”
“Ah!” She squeals in delight, squirming in my arms. “I am not a brat!”
God, she’s adorable.
I draw her closer, dropping a kiss to her temple. “Yeah,” I murmur against the shell of her ear. She shivers when my stubble brushes her skin. “You are.”
Her eyes lift to mine. “I’d really like to have breakfast with them.”
“Yeah?” I ask.
Her expression turns radiant—bright enough to rival the sun. Then, “I’d love nothing more.”