Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
“I’m sorry you heard all that,” is what I finally choke out.
And I know immediately that it was the wrong thing to say. Sitting on the edge of my bed, she peers up at me with sad green eyes.
Jesus. Her expression. It’s like an arrow to the heart.
“I’m not fluff.” Her words are barely a whisper. She clears her throat, and when she speaks again, it’s in a strong, even tone. “Yes, I have a stupid amount of energy. Yes, I enjoy shopping, and I’m obsessed with clothes. Yes, I was in a sorority, and yes, I like to dance and have fun with my friends.” She exhales in a fast rush. “That doesn’t make me superficial, Fitz. And it doesn’t mean there isn’t more to me beneath the surface. Because there is.”
“Of course there is.” Taking a ragged breath, I sink down beside her. “I’m so sorry, Summer. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You know what really hurts? That you just assumed there was nothing more to me than parties and shopping. I’m a loyal friend. I’m a good daughter, a good sister. You’d spent, what? Ninety minutes in my presence? And you think you know the whole story?”
The guilt travels upward to coat my throat. I try to gulp it down, but it only thickens, like a layer of tar coating the pavement. She’s absolutely right. Even though I was using those perceived flaws of hers as deterrents, it doesn’t change the fact that they occurred to me in the first place.
I did make the assumption that she’s just a party girl and there’s nothing more to her, and I’m ashamed of myself for it.
“I’m sorry,” I say roughly. “None of what I said was right. Or deserved. And I’m also sorry about calling you a bitch downstairs. Your behavior has been bitchy, but now I understand where it was coming from. I’m so sorry.”
Summer goes silent for a long beat. A foot of space separates us, but she might as well be sitting in my lap, that’s how aware of her I am. The heat of her body, the rise of her tits beneath her shirt as she inhales, the heady scent that’s so uniquely Summer. Her thick, gold-spun hair is cascading over one shoulder, making my fingers itch to touch it.
“I was having a good time with you that night.” Her tone is flat, disappointed. “It was fun talking to you. Teasing you about being a curmudgeon.” She pauses. “Curmudgeon doesn’t quite fit anymore, though. I think ‘dick’ works better now.”
My heart squeezes because it’s true. “I’m sorry.” Apparently that’s all I’m capable of saying.
“Whatever.” She waves a dismissive hand. “That’s what I get for developing a crush on someone who isn’t my usual type. I guess… Well, I guess that’s why we have types, right? You’re drawn to certain people, and they’re drawn to you. But you didn’t have to be mean, Fitz. If you weren’t interested, you could have told me instead of trashing me to Garrett.” Her hands become fists again, pressed tight to her thighs.
“I don’t usually do that.” I hear the torment in my voice. I’m sure she does too. “But, that night—”
“I get it,” she interrupts. “You didn’t want to be with me.”
Shame once again seals my throat until I can scarcely draw a breath.
“But for the record, there’s more to me than you think.” Her voice cracks. “I have substance.”
Oh my fucking God, this girl is ripping my heart out. I’ve never felt so bad about anything in my entire life.
“I know people who sit around and ponder the meaning of life, their purpose, the universe, why the sky is blue, anything they can question. But that’s never been me. I’m good at other things, like listening when someone needs me. I’m…”
Sunshine, I finish silently.
Just like her name, Summer is sunshine.
Rather than fill in the blank, she switches gears. “And despite what you may think, I can hold a conversation that doesn’t involve shoes or designer clothing. I might not be able to write you a five-thousand-word dissertation about Van Gogh and every tiny little brushstroke he did, but I can explain the joy that art and beauty bring to the world.” She rises to her feet, somewhat stiffly. “Anyway. I’m sorry I was rude about your new girlfriend.”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I mutter. “We went on one date.”
“Whatever. I’m sorry I mocked your date. For what it’s worth, she’s in my history class, and she didn’t particularly make a good first impression on me.”
I bite hard on the inside of my cheek. “I really am sorry about New Year’s. Truly. I didn’t mean any of that shit.”
She gives a resigned smile that once again cuts me to the core. Then she shrugs and says, “Yes, you did.”
Typically, clearing the air is supposed to ease relations between two people.