The Summer We Fell (The Summer, #1)(2)

His eyes darken. “I just got in this morning, but…you saw her. A strong wind could knock her over.”

And with that there’s really nothing left to be said. Not easily or comfortably, anyway. The silence stretches on.

We both reach for my bag at the same time, our hands brushing for a moment.

I snatch mine back but it’s too late. Luke is already in my bloodstream, already poisoning me.

Making me want all the wrong things, just like he always did.





THEN

MAY, 2013

I t’s nearly the end of the school year, and the road outside the diner looks like a poorly organized parade—Jeeps and pickup trucks full of kids and surfboards, blasting music that flashes to life and fades just as fast. This marks the start of the high season, and for the next three months, Rhodes will be flooded with surfers and families buying ice cream and tshirts, burgers and gas. It’s when most of the local businesses actually turn a profit, when the town and its residents seem to wake from a long slumber.

Me, especially, though it’s doing more harm than good at the moment.

“If we weren’t so busy, you’d be fired by now,” grouses Charlie, the line cook.

If he were someone else, I’d tell him my boyfriend is coming home at last, but Charlie is not that guy. I could tell him I’d just gotten a terminal diagnosis, and he still wouldn’t be that guy.

“I know. I’m sorry.” I push my hair back from my face and grab two plates from underneath the heat lamp.

“Don’t be sorry,” he replies, pitiless as ever, turning to remake the order I wrote down wrong.

“Just stop fucking up.”

Stacy takes the two plates from my grasp. “Church types, section two. They’re yours.”

She always sticks me with the older women who come here after Bible study because they are shitty tippers. For me, it’s their attitude that’s hardest to bear: the smug, self-satisfied way they’ll remind me how lucky I am to have this job. How lucky I am that the pastor and his wife—Danny’s parents—took me in.

“Surprised to see you here,” says Mrs. Poffsteader. “Doesn’t Danny come home today?”

The question—so innocent. The tone—not so much. I should be too excited to work today, she thinks. I should be getting ready. And if I wasn’t working, she’d probably imply I was lazy. There’s no winning with them.

“Tonight,” I reply. “I’ve got plenty of time.”

“Miss Donna said he’s bringing a friend home.”

I force a smile. “Yeah, Luke. I think they’re going to surf.” Luke Taylor, Danny’s teammate,

seemed like a perfectly nice guy the one time we spoke, and I know his scholarship doesn’t cover housing over the summer, but I really don’t want my summer with Danny hijacked by some college friend with different priorities. My social life this past year has revolved entirely around church—

singing in the choir, helping Donna with the events—so it doesn’t seem like it’s asking too much, wanting a little of Danny’s time to myself. I really hope Luke doesn’t plan to stay.

“I figured he’d have found himself a college girl by now,” Mrs. Miles says. “But I guess it’s good for you it’s still working out. Such a kind thing the pastor did, taking you in like that.”

I don’t care that she’s implied Danny could do better than me—it’s a sentiment I agree with. It’s the subtext I tire of: “Be more grateful, Juliet. You’d be nowhere without them, Juliet. Prove to us that you’re worthy of the favor they’ve shown you, Juliet.”

“It was.” I pull out my notepad. “What can I get you to drink?”

They look disappointed in me as they order their iced tea. I know what they wanted: some avowal of gratitude on my part. They wanted me to gush, to prostrate myself, to admit I’m trash and will always be trash who doesn’t deserve anything I’ve received. People only want to see charity going to those who know their place.

And I am grateful—a little over a year ago, I couldn’t make a sandwich without having my shoulder dislocated. I couldn’t count on having ingredients for a sandwich in the first place.

But there’s something about this constant demand for displays of gratitude from people who’ve never lifted a finger on my behalf that makes me miserly with it. I thank Donna every single night.

These bitches from church? I hope they’re not holding their breath.

I bring them their drinks and take their orders. They quiet every time I approach the table, which is no surprise. Even with their Bibles sitting out, their favorite topic remains the same: how Danny could have done so much better than me and how the situation will come to no good. It’s a relief when they finally leave.

I clear their table—one-dollar tip on a twenty-five-dollar tab, naturally. I’m about to lift my tray when the bell over the door rings again, and a dreamily handsome guy—blonde and square-jawed and smiling at me like I’m his favorite thing in the world—walks in. The posh private school blazer has been replaced with shorts and a UCSD Football t-shirt, but he remains just as Teen Disney perfect as he was when I first met him during my sophomore year. He still looks too good for me. Yet somehow, he’s mine.

“Danny!” I screech, dropping the tray with a clatter and running across the restaurant to throw my arms around his neck.