The Summer We Fell (The Summer, #1)(11)

“You can help, but I’m not dead yet. I can still make a meal for two of my favorite people.”

My smile falters. We still haven’t discussed everything—whether she’s gotten a second opinion, or what her plans are for this place once she’s gone. I can’t bring myself to ask any of it.

“I don’t imagine you cook for yourself much these days,” she says as I start chopping the onion.

“You still haven’t bought a place, have you?”

I shake my head. “I’ve been traveling so much it didn't really seem worth it. I’ll get something eventually.”

She runs a hand over my head, smoothing back my hair. “Juliet, you’re running yourself too hard.

Maybe it’s time to take a little break?”

Dating Cash led to a surge in popularity—or perhaps just infamy—and I’ve got to ride the wave for as long as it lasts…if I’m even capable of continuing. I’m too young to say I’ve already burned out, but I feel like a dried-up husk most of the time now, and I don’t know how much longer I can pretend I’m not.

“I’m fine. But you’re not really going to make me work around here, are you?” I give her my sweetest, most pleading smile and she laughs.

“I really am. I have a list a mile long of things that need to be done to the addition before the first children arrive.” This makes little sense since she has plenty of money to hire help if she needs it, but she barrels on before I can ask. “I just want it to feel permanent. It never was for you, was it? All that time you lived here and you never put a single thing on the walls.”

My palm rests atop the onion and my knife stills. It wasn’t her fault—it would’ve given the pastor one more thing to dislike me for.

“I was just happy to have a room,” I tell her, but I’m not sure she believes me. I’m not sure if I believe it either. There was a time when I wanted to put things on the wall, a time when I still cared.

Dinner’s nearly ready when Luke walks in, freshly showered, his t-shirt just damp enough to mold perfectly to that chest of his, well-honed from days spent surfing.

He was the loveliest thing I’d ever laid eyes on ten years ago, making my heart beat a million miles an hour if I allowed myself to look too long. He’s even lovelier now. And my heart—the one I assumed was no longer capable of much—is beating just the way it did.

It can’t.

He smirks. “I figured opening a room service menu was the height of your culinary ability these days.”

“Your food isn’t going to spit on itself. I thought I’d help it along.”

Donna sighs. “I didn’t think it was possible, but the two of you are fighting even more now than you did when you were younger.”

My gaze catches Luke’s, and for just a second it’s all there again—that age-old tension between us and the reason it existed. God, I hated the way my world seemed to flip upside down anytime he walked in the room. I fought with him simply to hide it. But that was years ago, and I was someone else. So why am I still picking fights? Why is he? My hand curls tight around the counter’s edge, willing the questions away.

We take our seats and mumble grace along with Donna, her voice the only one at the table that is confident and certain. I tried so hard to become an Allen, but it was in moments like this I felt the impossibility of it, because they were always so grateful in their prayers, while I was simply pissed off about the things I didn’t have. Even now, blessed with the life a thousand girls in LA would kill for—money, fame, a hot boyfriend—I’m still not grateful. I’m still a little pissed.

“Look at the two of you, all grown up and doing so well,” Donna says, passing me the salad and smiling more proudly than any mother possibly could. “Juliet, did you hear Luke took second in Hawaii this winter?” She turns to him. “What was that one called again?”

Pipeline Masters.

Luke hesitates. He has no desire to brag about his accomplishments to anyone. Me, least of all.

“Pipeline.”

“What a month that was. You in this big surf competition and Juliet in a magazine.” She turns to me. “I can’t tell you how silly I felt buying that magazine at the grocery store. I wish they’d let you

wear more clothes for those things.”

Yeah, you and me both. I bet no one ever asked Slash to pose naked with his legs wrapped around a guitar.

Luke’s lip curls. “The lack of clothes is the only reason anyone but you bought it.”

Asshole.

But then Luke digs into his chili, eating the same way he always did—hunched over and ravenous

—and it opens this unfortunate wound inside me. Why won’t it just close, that wound? What do I have to do to make it go away so that no one guesses it was ever there?

“You’re eating like a savage,” I tell him.

He raises a brow. “And you’re not eating, like someone with a disorder.”

I glance at my untouched food. I got out of the habit of meals while on tour. I don’t like to go on stage full, and I guess all the cocaine didn’t help either.

Donna, sensing tension, leans forward, reaching out to pick up a strand of my hair as I begin to eat. “I’m glad you stopped bleaching it,” she says, “but you’re so thin, hon. You’re not with that boy anymore, are you?”