The Summer Pact

Chapter 3 Tyson

I’m at work when I get an urgent text and phone call from Lainey, telling me that Hannah caught her fiancé cheating. It’s a lot to process, especially given that I’m knee deep in trial prep, but I know I have to prioritize it. The three of us have significant history—tragic shit we went through together—and it’s just not something I can blow off.

As devastated as I am for Hannah, though, I’m thrilled that her dick fiancé has finally been exposed. I’ve never liked or trusted the guy—not from the moment I met him, the weekend we all went to Charlotte to watch UVA play in the Belk Bowl. I remember arriving at the tailgate, spotting Lainey first. Unlike the rest of the girls, who were all dressed up, Lainey had on ripped jeans, an orange hoodie, and a pair of blue and orange midrise Air Jordans. At that point, she had yet to be cast in her Hulu limited series, but she’d landed a few small speaking roles in various films and television shows.

I gave her a hug and said, “Signed any autographs?”

“If you want my autograph, just tell me, Tyson,” she said with a smirk.

A second later, we saw Hannah walking across the parking lot, hand in hand with Grady.

“Dear God,” I said. “He’s a clone of the last one.”

Lainey laughed. “She does have a type.”

“Yep. Tall, blond, and full of shit.”

“C’mon, Tyson. How can you tell he’s full of shit already?”

“By the way he’s walking,” I said. “The frat boy strut.”

“You were in a fraternity.”

I told her Black fraternities were a totally different universe, and she knew it.

“Just give him a chance. He seems like a nice guy,” she said, having already met him during one of her visits to Atlanta.

I raised my eyebrows. “You know how I feel about that word.”

“Oh, right. I forgot. It’s bad to be nice.”

I sighed and said, “It’s not bad to be nice, but perfectly nice people looked the other way during the Holocaust.”

“Jeez, Tyson! That’s a bit extreme.”

I shrugged. It may have been an extreme example, but it also happened to be true—and only one of many in the great span of fucked-up human history. At the end of the day, nice didn’t count for shit.

“Well, he makes Hannah happy,” Lainey said. “So please try and be—”

“Nice?” I quipped as Hannah approached us.

“Hey, y’all!” Hannah squealed, giving us both big hugs.

She then stepped back, beaming as she said, “Tyson, this is Grady! Grady, Tyson!”

I said hello, making eye contact, telling myself to give him the benefit of the doubt, just as he gave me an exaggerated upward-nod, chin lingering in the air for an unnatural beat.

“What’s good, bro?” he said in a voice that I had to believe was several octaves lower than what was normal for him. If that weren’t bad enough, he followed the question up with an awkward dap. It wasn’t uncommon for guys like Grady to make such attempts, and on some level, I appreciated the effort. But I would have vastly preferred a neutral handshake to this awkward charade of solidarity.

“Nice to meet you,” I lied, mostly for Hannah’s sake.

“You too, man,” Grady said, his chin still a tad high for my taste.

After some small talk about Virginia football and the Vegas line on the game, I tried to show interest in him. “So Hannah says you went to Ole Miss?”

“Yessir! Hotty Toddy!”

I forced a smile. “How’d you all do this year?”

“Not so good,” he said. “Five and seven.”

“That’s rough,” I said.

“Hey. It happens,” he said with an affable shrug.

Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all, I told myself. But over the course of the day, as Grady sucked down beer after beer, it became harder to maintain this position. He was everything I couldn’t stand to be around. His stories were too long; he laughed too loudly; and he was the expert on everything. No matter the topic, he’d jump right in without the slightest hesitation.

At dinner that night, things went downhill even further when Serena Williams’s recent U.S. Open match against Naomi Osaka came up. I braced myself as Grady launched into a tirade about her “poor sportsmanship.”

I looked at Hannah, knowing she was a huge Serena fan. “I don’t blame her for being upset,” she said. “She was accused of cheating!”

“She was cheating. She was getting hand signals from her coach,” Grady said.

“I don’t believe that. She said she wasn’t,” Hannah replied. “Even the commentators were saying that Serena makes her own decisions on the court.”

“Well, who the hell’s gonna admit to cheating?” Grady said.

The comment was a huge red flag.

“Besides,” Grady continued, “you can’t throw a hissy fit just because things don’t go your way.”

“Why not? Men do it all the time,” Lainey chimed in.

“And they get penalized when they do,” Grady said. He looked at me. “Tyson, man, where do you come out on this?” he asked, clearly mistaking my silence for being on his side.

“Serena’s the GOAT,” I said.

“Okay. But do you think the ump was being sexist?” Grady pressed me.

Sexist and racist, I thought. At the very least, there was unconscious bias at play. But I’d made it a long-standing policy to only debate worthy adversaries, so I simply shrugged and said, “Hard to tell.”

“Well, I still say she’s a poor sport,” Grady said. “And tacky.”

“Tacky?” Lainey fired back.

“Yeah. Remember the ridiculous spandex suit she sported at the French Open?”

“What was so ridiculous about it?” Lainey asked. Shaming a woman for her clothing was a big no for her.

“She’d just given birth,” Hannah said. “She wore it to combat blood clots.”

“Still. You shouldn’t be allowed to wear shit like that in tennis. It’s a matter of decorum,” Grady said, then doubled down on his racially coded language. “Tennis is a genteel sport. Nobody should behave that way. Black, white, or purple.”

I stared at him, marveling at both his cluelessness and his brazenness. Here he sat, critiquing a Black female—two things he’s not and never will be—with two women and a Black man. We were all more qualified to speak to Serena’s experience, yet he was so convinced that he had all the answers.

I finally broke.

“You’re right, Grady,” I said. “She can’t act that way. She’s held to a different standard and has to be completely beyond reproach.She’s gotta be twice as good and half as reactive knowing that she’s going to get double the scrutiny. And on that day, she wasn’t. When that ump accused her of cheating, she reacted like a normal, frustrated human being who’d just been accused of doing something she hadn’t done. She lost her cool. So yeah. You’re right. She can’t act that way.”

Grady nodded, then drained his pint of beer, obtusely triumphant. Meanwhile, Lainey squeezed my leg under the table, as if to tell me to calm down, he wasn’t worth it. I wasn’t going to change his mind, nor was I going to change Hannah’s mind about him. I bit my tongue for the rest of the night, and during the few times I’d seen him since.

One thing life had taught me was how to keep my mouth shut. I was good at that.

But now, as I hang up the phone with Lainey, I realize that I’m off the hook: I can finally tell Hannah what I think of her asshole fiancé. Ex-fiancé.

Bottom line, I know Lainey is right. I know I have to fly down there and be with Hannah. We made a promise, and I don’t break promises.

A few minutes later, I’m standing in Martin Strout’s office doorway. Martin is the head of our firm’s white-collar defense practice group and a D.C. legend. There’s no one who understands the False Claims or Foreign Corrupt Practices Act better than he does. I’ve watched up close and in awe as he navigates complex issues of fraud, money laundering, and trade sanctions violations, defending heavy hitters in pharmaceuticals, financial services, retail, and energy.

He also happens to be a world-class asshole who believes that things must be done the way he did them back in the eighties. In other words, we all must be sitting together in a conference room, day and night, sometimes just watching him think. Even during the height of the pandemic, he expected us all to come in, and he made it clear that masking up annoyed him.

“Can I help you, Mr. Bishop?” he asks now, looking up at me with a scowl.

“Hi, Martin,” I say. “Do you have a minute?”

“I have thirty seconds.”

I nod, take a deep breath, and tell him that I need to go out of town this weekend.

“Come again?” Martin says, whipping off his wire-rim glasses with one hand. He flings them onto his desk, continuing to stare at me. It’s one of his go-to intimidation tactics that I’ve witnessed in many depositions and trials.

I repeat my statement verbatim.

“We’re going to trial next week, Mr. Bishop.”

“I’m aware. And I apologize for the unfortunate timing. But this is an emergency.”

“Has there been a death in your immediate family?” he asks, making it clear that attending the funeral of, say, a grandparent or cousin would not be an acceptable excuse.

“Nobody has died,” I say.

“Are you on your own deathbed?” he asks.

“I am not.”

“Then no,” he says. “You can’t go.”

I shift my weight from one foot to the other but maintain eye contact. “Well, Martin, I wasn’t asking for permission.”

He stares back at me, his red face turning redder than it usually is.

“Well, Mr. Bishop, let me put it to you this way: If you’re not in the office this weekend, then you’re off this case.”

I nod and tell him I understand.

“Good. So you decide which matter is of greater importance to you.”

He gives me a smug look, confident that he’s just laid down a trump card.

“Will do,” I say with a curt nod. “Thank you, Martin.”

“What are you thanking me for?” he grumbles.

“For framing the issue so clearly,” I say, then turn on my heel, determined to have the last word.

“So, what are you going to do?” Nicole, my girlfriend of nearly a year, asks after I give her the update. We are sitting at the bar in a little bistro in Georgetown, waiting for a table to open.

“I’m going to Atlanta.”

“Seriously?” she says, making a sharp ninety-degree turn on her stool.

I nod and take a sip of my beer.

“But you’re up for partner—”

“Not anymore,” I say with a laugh.

“Tyson. It’s not funny. Martin doesn’t play,” Nicole says, looking aghast. A fellow lawyer at another big firm in town, she would know all about Martin even if she weren’t dating me. “He might even fire you.”

“I can’t get fired,” I say. “I already wrote my letter of resignation.”

“What?” she says. “You quit your job?”

“Not yet,” I say. “But the email is drafted and ready to go.”

“You’re going to throw everything away? Over this? You don’t even like Hannah’s fiancé!”

Her “this” instantly grates on me, as I say, “It’s not about me, Nic. It’s about Hannah. She feels like her life is imploding.”

“O-kay. But I still can’t believe she’s asking you to do this.”

“She didn’t ask me to do anything. She doesn’t even know I’m coming.”

Nicole shakes her head but says nothing. She doesn’t have to. I know how she feels about Hannah and Lainey and close male-female friendships in general. She doesn’t believe they can work over the long haul. In her mind, if both parties are straight, someone always wants to sleep with the other. The classic When Harry Met Sally premise.

“I really want you to be okay with this, Nic,” I say, doing my best to avoid an argument.

“And why is that?” she asks, crossing her arms.

It’s clearly a test, and I answer carefully. “Because your feelings matter to me.”

“Well, let me ask you this,” she says, unfazed. “If I told you I’m not okay with it, would you go anyway?”

I stare back at her, thinking this is the problem with dating a fellow lawyer, especially one as smart as Nicole. I always have the feeling she’s about to outmaneuver me. She often does.

“It might not change my ultimate decision,” I say. “But the way you feel matters to me.”

“Okay, Tyson,” she says, taking a deep breath. “Aside from the fact that this is a disastrous career move, it just feels so…excessive.”

“How so?” I ask.

“Why do you have to fly down there? Why can’t you just talk to her on the phone?”

“Is that what you would do for a close friend?”

“An extremely vulnerable male friend? Yes. Absolutely. A thousand percent yes.”

I roll my eyes. “C’mon, Nic. Do you really think Hannah’s on the prowl right now?”

“I have no idea. What I do know is that flying down to Atlanta in the middle of a huge trial in order to comfort a female friend is just too much. It’s beyond the pale. And yes, it makes me uncomfortable. You asked me how I feel—and that’s how I feel.”

“Why does it make you uncomfortable? Do you not trust me?”

“It’s not about trust. It’s about respect.”

“Please explain to me how my going to help a friend is disrespectful to you?”

“You don’t see how flying down to Atlanta on a rescue mission—”

“That’s so condescending.”

“Condescending to whom? You or Hannah?”

“To both of us.”

“Oh. Us. I see.”

I don’t take the bait, and after several seconds of silence, Nicole says, “What about Lainey?”

“What about her?”

“Why can’t she go to Atlanta?”

“She is going. She’s on her way there now.”

“So why do you have to go, too?”

I take a sip of beer, debating how much of the truth to share. Nicole knows about Summer, generally, but not about our promise to be there for one another in the worst of times.

“Because she’s my friend,” I say. “And she needs me.”

“Well then,” she says with a passive-aggressive shrug. “You gotta do what you gotta do.”

“Yes,” I say. “I do.”

She nods, then says, “Once you get back? You might want to go talk to someone about the underlying issues here.”

“Underlying issues?” I ask against my better judgment.

“Why those girls have such a strong hold on you.”

“Nobody has a hold on me,” I say. “Nobody.”

“The framed photo in your bedroom says otherwise,” she says, referring to the only photo I have of the four of us.

“It’s just a photo,” I say, bristling.

“A photo you keep next to your bed.”

“Who cares where it is? You want me to move it to another room, I will.”

She stares at me for several seconds, and I can tell she’s debating whether to say something. She finally does. “Look, Tyson. Do what you will, but if you fly down on this rescue mission, we are done.”

“Are you for real right now?”

“Yes, Tyson. I’m very much for real,” she says. “If you go, it’s over.”

An uncomfortable staring contest ensues, a tough feat on side-by-side barstools. I wait a beat, expecting her to back down, at least a little. She does the opposite, grabbing her purse and throwing the strap over her shoulder. “Okay. I’m out. Let me pay for my drink.”

“It’s okay. I got it,” I say, wondering why she’d start paying for things now. To be clear, I’ve never minded paying for Nicole, but at times, it does feel contradictory to her feminist position. Especially given that our salaries are the same.

“You’re too kind,” she says, getting to her feet. “But we already knew that, didn’t we?”

Later that night, after I eat takeout from the bar and pack my bag for Atlanta, I crawl into bed, exhausted. I think about Hannah, of course, and my thoughts quickly move to our pact and Summer. It’s been a long time since I’ve gone there, and the memories hit me like an avalanche.

Throughout college, people asked me what was up with my three best friends. I know what they were getting at, and it annoyed me the way so many assumed I had to be hooking up with one of them. Most people suspected Lainey, as she was gorgeous and well built and turned heads everywhere she went. She was also a huge flirt. Some suspected Hannah, though—the cute blond, blue-eyed girl next door.

Summer was the least conventionally attractive of the three, but I liked her strawberry-blond hair, warm freckles, and intense green eyes. And I loved her strong legs and sleek, effortless stride. Sometimes I couldn’t believe how fast Summer was.

As in awe as I was of her talent, though, I was even more impressed by her discipline and work ethic. I’d never seen anyone grind as hard as Summer. In addition to all the required team practices and lifts, she put in extra mileage every week, extra time in the weight room, and frequently did two-a-days. Some of our best conversations came during those cross-training sessions when I’d offer to keep her company. Whether doing the elliptical or aqua-jogging, her little “add-on” workouts were among my most grueling—and I have to admit that I preferred just riding my bike alongside her as she did her slower long runs. Nothing was more peaceful than those quiet moments on the wooded trails.

One night during the spring of our fourth year, Summer and I went on a long bike ride together. Her ankle had been bothering her, and she was giving herself a couple days off from running. As we biked, she confided the extent of her pain, expressing worry about her ability to compete in the postseason.

“Even if that happens, you gotta remember that you’ve already accomplished so much,” I told her. “You’re an All-American.”

“But I’ve never won a championship,” she said.

I could hear the stress in her voice, and I knew there was nothing I could say to reassure her. I tried anyway. “You can only do your best,” I said. “I’ll be proud of you no matter what.”

“Thanks, Tyson,” she said, sounding unconvinced.

“Seriously,” I said. “I’ve never been so proud of anyone in my life.”

She smiled, then pedaled faster.

Later that night, Summer came to my apartment to watch her Cubs play in their season opener. I had picked up a six-pack of beer for myself, and she brought the snacks—popcorn and Reese’s Pieces—making an exception to her no junk food rule. As we hunkered down in my double-wide La-Z-Boy recliner—our usual spot for watching games—something felt different. She even looked different. Her hair was in soft waves around her face when she usually wore it up in a ponytail or two side braids. She was wearing tiny pink running shorts, and her legs looked better than ever. I couldn’t believe it—but I suddenly felt attracted to Summer.

Over the next several innings and beers, I imagined kissing her. Of course I didn’t do it, knowing it was a terrible idea. Then, right after the seventh inning stretch, she very casually slung her left leg over my right one. It was the sort of touchy-feely thing Lainey sometimes did, but it wasn’t Summer’s style, and it made my body tingle. I tried to focus on the game—think about baseball, as it were—but that didn’t work, and I could feel myself getting excited. Wearing mesh basketball shorts, I panicked, then did my best to hide the evidence with a bottle of Amstel Light.

A long minute passed, and then she suddenly turned in the chair, directly facing me, and said my name as a question.

“What’s up?” I said, my heart pounding as I held her gaze.

She swallowed, then took a deep breath. “I’m really going to miss you next year.”

“Me too,” I said, my heart beating faster. “But if you end up going to Harvard, we’ll be pretty close.”

“Yeah. A two-hour and forty-seven-minute train ride,” she said with a sheepish smile.

“Is that right?” I asked, getting more butterflies.

“Yes,” she said. “I checked.”

I smiled at her, and her cheeks turned as pink as her shorts.

“You should have applied to Yale,” I said, going out a little further on the limb we were on.

“I know. I wish I had. If I don’t get into Harvard, will you still visit me in the Midwest?”

“Of course I will.”

“Good. Because I’m gonna want to see you,” she said, her voice now a whisper.

“Oh, you’ll see me,” I whispered back.

Kissing her suddenly felt inevitable.

If not now, then eventually.

And if eventually, why not now?

I looked into her eyes, wishing I could read her mind. My gut told me she was feeling the same way I was, but I still felt vulnerable. A lot could go wrong.

In the back of my mind, I could hear my father warning me about the history of miscegenation and the potentially disastrous outcomes for Black men, even today. With Summer, my best friend, that risk felt virtually nonexistent. But regardless, kissing her would still change things. Forever. There would be no taking it back. Was I willing to roll the dice?

I decided I was—or maybe I just stopped thinking.

Overcome with attraction, I placed my open palm on her smooth thigh.

“You’ve got great legs,” I said.

It was the first compliment I’d ever given her on her appearance, and my heart pounded in my ears.

“Thank you,” she said with a shy smile.

“You’re welcome,” I said, holding her gaze.

“What are you thinking?” she finally asked me.

I hesitated, staring into her wide green eyes. “I’m thinking…that I want to kiss you,” I breathed.

“Oh,” she said, moving closer, her face only a few inches away from mine.

“Can I?” I asked, inhaling her sweet vanilla scent.

She gave me the slightest nod, looking as nervous as I felt. Then I leaned in, closed my eyes, and brushed my lips against hers. It was barely even a kiss, but it counted. In the background, I could hear that the Cubs had wrapped up their victory, three to one.

“Cubs win,” she whispered.

“Yes,” I said, finally opening my eyes. “They sure did.”

“I should probably go,” she said. “It’s way past my bedtime.”

“I know,” I said, aware of how seriously Summer took her sleep.

She stood up to go. “So. We obviously aren’t mentioning this to Lainey and Hannah, right?” she asked.

“I don’t think we should. No.”

“Good. Because I think they’d make a huge thing of it—”

“Totally. And it’s really not a big deal,” I said, testing her, and maybe myself, too.

“Not at all,” she quickly answered. “I’m just glad we got that out of our systems.”

“Right,” I said, feeling a mix of relief and disappointment. “Me too.”

Of course, it wasn’t out of our systems, and over the next few weeks, we found every excuse to be alone. We made out a lot, but I always put on the brakes. In the back of my mind, I was worried about ruining our friendship for what would probably be a fling. No matter how compatible Summer and I were, or how attracted I was to her, a long-term romantic relationship was impractical. I had three years of law school ahead of me, and she had four years of medical school plus her residency.

As we navigated that weird terrain, taking one step forward then two back, Summer and I found ourselves in an argument. It wasn’t our first, but it was one of the dumbest. In short, Hannah and I had gone to the mall, last minute. Neither of us had asked Summer if she wanted to come, both of us assuming she was too busy.

“Thanks for the invite,” she said when I called her later. I could hear in her voice that she was upset.

“Oh. Sorry about that. We figured you’d be training or studying—”

“I actually would have gone with,” she said, dangling her preposition in her cute Chicagoan way. “I still need shoes for graduation…. And you guys know I don’t have a car.”

I told her she was welcome to take my car anytime.

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?” I asked gently, really wanting to know.

“The point is—you and Hannah have always been this way.”

“What way?”

“Exclusive.”

I was shocked. We were a foursome, but we also hung out in every combination of twos and threes. I probably did the least with Lainey alone—but it was a toss-up between Hannah and Summer. More important, none of us ever kept score like that.

“You’re always going off with her,” Summer continued, citing a few examples, including a day trip we’d once taken to Washington, D.C., to check out a few museums.

“You had practice that day.”

“Well, I didn’t have practice today,” she said. “I’m injured. Remember?”

I suddenly realized that this wasn’t about the mall or Hannah. It was about the pressure of her sport and the nagging worry of her injury. “I’m really sorry we didn’t call you—”

She cut me off. “Has anything ever happened between you two?”

For the first time, I regretted that Summer and I had crossed a line. “Are you serious right now?” I asked. I was angry, but my feelings were also hurt.

“It was just a question,” she said. “You don’t have to get so offended.”

“It is offensive,” I said.

“And yet you still haven’t answered the question,” she said.

“And I’m not going to,” I said, hanging up the phone.

The following night, I went to a party. On my way home, I stopped by Summer’s room on the Lawn, knowing that she had stayed in to study for an exam. We hadn’t talked since our argument, and I was still a bit chafed, but I wanted to see her.

When I got to her room, I knocked lightly. She came to the door in a white sports bra and navy track sweats. Her hair was in a messy bun, and her eyes looked wide and frantic.

“Hi,” I said. “How’s the studying going?”

“Awful,” she said, crossing her arms.

“Okay. Well, I don’t want to bother you…I just wanted to see you…and say hi.”

She nodded, her expression too neutral to read, then said, “Do you want to come in for a minute?”

“I’d love to,” I said.

As she uncrossed her arms, then stepped aside, I walked into the room, then turned to face her. “Are you still mad at me?” I asked.

“I was never mad. I just asked you a simple question,” she said, pushing the door closed with her foot. “You’re the one who got mad at me.”

“Fair enough.” I nodded, then took a deep breath. “Well, the answer to your question is no. Nothing ever happened between Hannah and me. Or Lainey and me.”

She gave me a small smile, her shoulders relaxing, then said, “Good. I’m glad to hear that.”

“And I’m glad that you’re glad to hear that.”

She smiled bigger, then asked if I had fun at the party.

“Yes,” I said. “But I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” she said. “And I’m really going to miss you next year.”

“Same,” I said, my heart fluttering. “I hope you get into Harvard. Then we’ll be closer.”

She took a deep breath, then exhaled, glancing nervously over at her desk strewn with index cards and Post-it notes. “Speaking of Harvard, I really better get back to it.”

“Okay, but try to get some sleep,” I said. “Even a couple of hours would do you good.”

She shook her head. “I don’t have time to sleep. I have so much left to do. But you’re welcome to crash here if you want….”

The offer was so tempting. I was tired and had a long walk back to my place, but mostly, I just wasn’t ready to leave her. I hesitated, wavering, then said, “I probably shouldn’t. Someone might see me leaving in the morning—”

“True,” she quickly said, nodding.

I looked into her eyes, then leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. “Good luck, Summer.”

“Thank you, Tyson.”

She gave me a tight-lipped smile, then returned to her desk, where she sat, studying her index cards. I watched her for a few seconds, then quietly slipped out the door.

That was the last time I ever saw Summer.