Page 150 of Summer After Summer

“Just see to it that you don’t.”

I kissed her on the cheek and found Wes’s arm, and I put that asteroid careening through my life right out of my head.

But I should’ve known you can’t avoid an extinction-level event by pretending it’s not happening—that the pull between Fred and me wasn’t something that was so easily escaped.

Because I wasn’t in England for more than twenty-four hours before our paths crossed.

It was my fault this time. One day in England was all it took for the walls I’d created across an ocean to come tumbling down. Maybe it was the jet lag. Maybe it was the nerves of the impending tournament, even though I was doing a warmup event first. Or the faster-than-fast engagement to Wes.

Maybe it’s because it felt like summer.

It’s hard to parse out why we do stupid things.

All I know is that after I sleep off the jet lag and go for my hitting session and stretch and cool down and change into street clothes, I panic. I’m alone in an apartment—not the apartment I was in last time, but something similar. I can see the Thames out my window, and I can feel it’s breeze against my cheek, the way it felt that night with Fred five years ago when we walked around after our magical dinner, like it was yesterday.

What is this cosmic connection between us? Did we doom ourselves to cross orbits every five years with our stupid teenaged promises?

No.

The only one who’s dooming herself is me.

That’s why I walk across the bridge and past the Globe and through the winding streets until I get to the Portuguese restaurant. I don’t know how I know that he’s going to be there; I just do.

And I’m right. I’m right.

He’s sitting at a table in the corner. He’s not alone; he’s with another man in a suit, and I breathe out a sigh of relief that it’s not a woman. A man I can deal with. A woman—I’d be on my heel turning out of there so fast I’d disappear in a puff of smoke.

I ask the hostess for a table but tell her that I know someone in the restaurant I need to say hi to first, then march right past her to Fred’s table. I’m shaking and my heart is thrumming, but I don’t stop myself, I just barge on through until I’m next to him.

“Hi.”

Fred looks up, not expecting to see me, expecting anyone else, and his face goes through a series of emotions when he realizes who it is. I think the first is happy, but it’s quickly replaced by shock. “Olivia! What are you doing here?”

“This is Olivia?” Fred’s companion says. “The Olivia?”

“The one and only,” I say, because the idea that there might be another Olivia is too devastating. “But don’t hold that against me.”

“Certainly not, dear. I’ve only heard—”

I raise my hand. “I’ll stop you there.” I hold my hand out. “I’m Olivia Taylor.”

He stands and takes it. Seventy, urbane, gray hair in a short cut, plummy accent, expensive suit.

“I’m Tomas de Keurig. Pleased to meet you.” He smiles at me, his teeth large and white. He has nice crinkles around his eyes, and he gives off a vibe like a grandfather.

“What are you doing here?” Fred says, rising to join us.

“I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d stop in for dinner.”

His eyes narrow. He knows I’m lying, but what can he say?

“Would you like to join us?”

“Oh no, that’s okay.”

“No,” Tomas says. “I insist.”

He motions to the waiter and gives instructions to move us to a larger table. Through the bustle and fuss, Fred doesn’t say anything, just stares at me, then looks away, like he wants to say something but can’t bring himself to. I’m feeling shy too, so instead I focus on Tomas, asking about his company and what he thinks of Fred. He’s effusive in his praise, says that he thinks of Fred as a son, and tells me in vague terms how Fred tried to save his son so many years ago, and the tragedy that befell them all despite his best efforts.

---