The Summer We Fell (The Summer, #1)(20)

She details the plans for the gala, which I mostly tune out. There will be a lot of people I’d rather not see there—and one person in particular resenting the attention I’m getting, perhaps hoping to undermine me. The whole thing is risky, and I can’t let myself forget it.

Hilary cuts Libby off halfway through to start talking about the opening ceremony.

“We’ll have Donna begin,” Hilary says, “and then the pastor will say a prayer, I’ll speak, and then I thought it would be nice if Juliet could sing ‘Amazing Grace’, since it was Danny’s favorite hymn.”

I stare at her. There is absolutely no way I will be able to get through that song there. I’m stunned she thinks I could.

“No one mentioned that I was expected to perform.”

The whole room’s gaze is on me, shouting, “Stop being a troublemaker, Juliet. ”

“I assumed you wouldn’t mind,” Hilary says, her smile sharp. I remember women like her among the dozens of social workers I dealt with as a kid. She’s the sort who didn’t get into this field because she cares—she got into it because she enjoys feeling superior.

“Given the situation, given how emotional the ceremony might be, I’m not sure I could get through that.”

“You’re a professional, aren’t you?” she asks. “I’m sure you can figure it out.”

“She said no,” Luke says for the second time. “And I would suggest you stop trying to walk over her, or you’ll discover how much less we can cooperate than we already are.”

I stare at him in shock. It’s not the first time Luke has defended me.

But I hope I’m the only one who notices he’s still doing it.





10

THEN

JULY 2013

I t’s later than normal, just after dusk, as I bike home along the coastal road after work. Stacy had childcare issues and I couldn’t leave until she got in, but none of that matters right now—the air is balmy, the sky is striped in hues of peach and purple, and I’ve got a few minutes to myself.

I hum “Homecoming” as I pedal. Is it any good? Danny would have come up with a better adjective than “sad” if that was the case, but Luke finally pushed me into playing it for everyone the other night, and they applauded when it was done. “And here I thought Luke was going to be the most famous of us all,” Caleb said afterward.

I feel something inside me being freed a little more each day. I’m wondering, once again, if I can make a living with my voice. Right now, all I’m destined to become is Danny’s wife. I’m not sure it’s enough.

My brain spins with the possibilities: could I afford to live in LA? How would I support myself?

How do you even go about getting discovered?

I’m so lost in my own thoughts that I don’t hear the catcalls until the car is nearly beside me.

Before I’ve even looked over to understand what’s happening, an arm is reaching out of a window to grab my shirt, which is wrenched so hard that the buttons pop open and the bike is pulled off balance, wobbling uncontrollably. My heart slams against my ribs, and I jerk away in desperation. He loses his grip on me, and I go flying onto the shoulder of the road. A shocking, bruising pain shoots along my side from the impact, and gravel cuts into my skin, head to toe, the bike pedal slicing into my calf.

I’m stunned for a second, but when I see the car’s brake lights ahead, adrenaline shunts everything

—pain, shock, outrage—to the back of my mind. Because those brake lights mean they aren’t driving off.

They’re coming back for me.

I didn’t want to deal with these guys on a bike, so I sure as hell don’t want to deal with them while prone. I scramble to my feet. Every inch of skin screams in pain but I ignore it, stumbling desperately toward the dense trees across the road. I slide from view just as they back over my bike

and stop the car.

I don’t know if I should run or stay motionless, but my ankle is swelling and I’m not sure how fast I’ll be able to move anyway. I reach for my phone, hands shaking as two guys get out of the car, scanning the woods for a moment with grins on their faces as if the whole thing is funny. I crouch lower, making myself as small as possible, too scared to even call the police—they won’t get here in time to help me, and the sound of the keypad might give my location away.

Another car approaches. The guys glance at each other, and I hold my breath, my heart hammering, until they get back in the car. It’s only when they drive off that the adrenaline leaves me and I collapse to the ground, suddenly shaking with cold though it’s a warm day. My impulse is to curl into a ball and stay until it all feels better, but I’ve been injured often enough in the past to know that the longer I wait to move, the harder it will become.

I force myself to stand on shaky legs. My bike is fucked, and I’d probably be too scared to get it anyway, so I start to walk, hugging the woods just in case they come back.

I suspect my ankle is sprained, but I just keep moving forward, holding my shirt together, because I know how this goes. If you stop to notice the pain, it’ll drag you under. And when the tears finally begin to slip down my face, it still isn’t because of the pain. It’s simply that no matter how old I get, no matter how safe I think I am, I doubt there will ever come a day when I’m not hit from behind by something, when I’m not limping off toward safety, wondering if I’m somehow at fault.