The Summer We Fell (The Summer, #1)(50)

“Sorry,” I tell him. “It’s just been really busy here.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s, like, your aunt’s house, right? Getting it ready for something?”

You would think he’d fucking know by now that she isn’t my aunt, but I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s not as if I ever really thought he was listening in the first place.

“She basically raised me. And she added on this extension so she can house more foster kids, but it still needs a ton of work before the first two arrive, so I’m helping her.”

“Cool cool cool,” he says. He’s already stopped listening. “So, I’m back in LA. We’re all hanging



out in the penthouse of the Beverly Hills Hotel. Come down and see us.”

I wonder if he’s already forgotten what I said about getting the foster home ready, or if he simply never listened in the first place. Maybe he just thinks he’s so special that I would drop it all on his behalf. I probably would have, until a few weeks ago. But now, when I consider leaving, everything goes black, and the future looks like a space so dark I can’t make out a single shape inside it. I guess, though, that it was always black. Cash was something I clung to, trying to find my way through the dark.

I dump my coffee down the drain and put the cup in the dishwasher. “Like I said, things are pretty busy. I don't see myself getting out of here until after the opening.”

“I’ll just have to come up there to see you, then.”

I blink once, then twice, my mouth hanging open. Never would I have predicted Cash would offer to come here. It’s the kind of thing I might have fantasized about a few months ago—having him show up and make it clear to everyone that I’ve finally moved on—but the reality would be disastrous.

He’d stride in with his tattoos and all those rings on his fingers, expecting everyone to fall at his feet. Donna would smile in that way she does when people tell her they miss Danny, a smile that seems to take every ounce of strength she has. And Luke would just stand there with his arms folded across his chest, towering over all of us, quietly condemning Cash, and condemning me for having chosen him. Or, worse, he’d throw a punch.

Donna’s shuffling steps echo in the hallway, so I hurry to end the call.

“Don’t do that,” I say quickly. “You’d hate it here. I can come there for a night. Just give me a few days to set it up.”

I wonder how the fuck I am going to explain this to Luke. I can’t even explain it to myself—there is nothing in my heart but dread.

THAT AFTERNOON, I head to the grocery store while Luke is surfing. It’s a sign of Donna’s dwindling reserves that the refrigerator is so empty. That daily trip to the store used to be as routine as making her bed or brushing her teeth.

Heads turn and people stare. I recognize a woman who attended the church back when Danny was alive. Her mouth pinches as our eyes meet. She thinks the same thing they all do: no matter how it was reported, Danny’s death was really my fault.

I load my cart with the sort of foods Donna used to cook, and I’ve just gotten in line when the store’s sliding doors open and Grady walks in.

He’s in khakis and a white Oxford buttoned nearly to the top, as bland and officious as ever. I’d hoped these years as a pastor would soften him a little, but when his gaze zeroes in on me, it’s clear they haven’t.

His brow raises, and he waits. He waits the long six minutes it takes for me to check out before he blocks my path when I try to exit.

“Juliet,” he says, his voice flat and unhappy. “Long time, no see.”

God, I’d love to pull the rug out from under him. His carefully constructed life is a castle made of cards. I could wreck it with no effort at all, but not without wrecking my own as well.

I swallow. “I’m only here at Donna’s request. For the opening.”

His head tilts as his lips press flat. “I imagine you could have avoided that.”

My heart is hammering but I force myself to act calm. “Your wife is on the board. I’d think you’d want to see the charity she’s involved in succeed.”

“As usual, you’re over-valuing your own contribution. Danny’s House will succeed with or without you.”

I could point out that The New York Times and Vanity Fair wouldn’t know this town or charity even exists were it not for me, but Grady is the kind of person who will set his own house on fire simply to prove it’s flammable. I don’t trust him not to burn me in any way he’s capable of.

“I’m only staying through the gala,” I tell him, steering the cart away, feigning boredom as my stomach starts to spin. “I’ll be gone after that.”

He grabs the side of my cart, holding me there. “Be sure that you are. I’d have no problem recanting my statement. I can blow up your entire sham of a life.”

I suck in a breath. “Not without blowing up your own in the process.”

His laughter is sharp, forced—as fucking fake as he is. “I have no idea what you’re referring to, but you’re a known liar with a terrible reputation. Anything you say will be taken for what it is: a wild story meant to discredit me.”

Fuck you, Grady, you absolute piece of shit.

He knows better than anyone it isn’t a wild story, but that isn’t the troubling part. The troubling part is that Grady believes he is safe now. He thinks he can destroy me without destroying himself.