The Summer We Fell (The Summer, #1)(49)

think of my brother. How the world started to crush him, and how trying to make it stop ended him entirely.

“Hey,” says a voice in the darkness, and Luke walks up beside me.

I force a smile. “It’s your celebration. What are you doing over here?”

He shoves his hands in his pockets. “What are you doing over here?”

I glance up at him. This is the moment when I’d normally lie. If Danny had asked the question, I’d tell him I was looking at the stars because he wouldn’t want the truth. “Thinking about my brother.”

He steps closer. “You never talk about him.”

I stare at the sand between us. With anyone else, I’d lie about this too. But I know it’s safe, with him.

“These dealers were harassing him. I convinced him to go to the police and tell them the truth.” I laugh. “You probably expected me to be the last person who’d suggest telling the police the truth.”

“I guess it didn’t go well?”

“He was shot in the head on the way out of the station. One of the cops told. And they never even looked for the guys who did it. Broad fucking daylight and they claimed there were no cameras and no witnesses.”

“Having a shit life doesn’t make every bad thing that happens inside it your fault, Jules.”

I shrug. That may be true, but it sure doesn’t feel like it.

He squeezes my hand and nods upward. “Look.”

A star streaks through the sky. I close my eyes, but I want so many things from my life that I can’t pick one of them fast enough.

“What did you wish for?” I ask him. “You’ve already won Steamer Lane.”

He looks at me for one long moment. I think I might know what he wishes for, and I also know he’ll never say it aloud. His eyes fall to my mouth and my breath holds, wondering if he’s going to kiss me.

He wants to. I know he does.

“I’ll tell you what I should have wished for instead.” His voice is quieter than it was. “I should have wished that you get out of here. That you wind up doing what you love.”

My smile is muted. I don’t tell him why it won’t be happening anytime soon. That it mattered more to me that he winds up with what he loves instead.

“You’ll probably never be back here, after this weekend,” I whisper, my voice breaking.

“Jules.” His hand cups my face, forcing me to meet his eye. “I’ll be back.”

I shake my head. “By this time next year, you’d better be off on the pro tour, Luke Taylor. Don’t come back to Rhodes.”

I spin away and head toward the fire, choking back a sob.

Some people show love the way Donna does—by fretting and smoothing a hand over your hair, and by getting you an internship you don’t even want. But me? I show mine in other, quieter ways the



recipient will never be aware of. It’s for the best. He’d never have accepted this love of mine if he knew what it cost me.

IT’S late by the time we get back to the house. The boys pack their stuff and eventually, unable to stand the tension, I go to my room and cry.

I wish I wasn’t red-eyed when we get up to see them off. Luke looks away, his jaw flexing, when Danny kisses me goodbye. He shakes the pastor’s hand and hugs Donna. I assume he will mostly ignore me, the way he did last summer. Instead, he hesitates and then pulls me against him. It lasts a second at most, but it’s enough.

I cry for the rest of the day. And when I wake up after twenty-four hours of Luke gone, I know I can’t live like this, that I can’t keep pretending. I know, even when I told myself I belonged to Danny, it was Luke who kept my heart beating and my blood hot in my veins, and without him, nothing matters. I’ve got to find a way to get out of here.





23

NOW

W hen Cash’s name flashes on the caller ID, I startle. Cash hates the phone. He won’t even take calls from his mother, and I don’t think I’ve ever once seen him dial a number. A few months ago, I’d have been thrilled by this turn of events. Weirdly, I just find this small pit of dread in my stomach instead.

I set my coffee mug on the kitchen counter and glance behind me before I pick up. “Cash?” I ask, my voice lilting at the end.

He gives a low chuckle. “That surprised to hear from me?”

“I’ve never seen you call anybody before.” I turn to face the kitchen’s entrance so I’ll know if I’m being overheard. “I assumed someone was using your phone as a joke, or that you were calling to tell me Frank is dead.”

“Frank is still alive and kicking. Asks about you every day.”

I don’t doubt he’s telling the truth. I got to know Frank pretty well when I was opening for Cash.

There were times when it seemed like he cared about me far more than Cash did.

My palm curves around the coffee mug, relishing its heat—a tiny hesitation. There’s a reason he’s calling, and it’s probably a bad one. “So, to what do I owe this honor?”

“You didn’t reply to my text,” he says. “You always reply.”

I suppose he’s right—our relationship has been on and off for two years, but I was always desperate to keep him on the hook.

Why was I so pathetic?