Page 13 of The Summer I Destroyed You

“That’s because I don’t have to.”

Is it wrong to hope your mother gets osteoporosis simply to win an argument? Probably.

Liam is in the backyard with some other guy, sinking posts into cement. His T-shirt clings in all the right places. He has my favorite type of body—the kind that comes from actual work and not hours spent flexing in front of a large mirror at the gym. He steps away from the post, rubbing the back of his neck, looking troubled. When he’s not talking to me, he actually seems like a reasonable person.

I walk onto the deck. I picture him pulling off that tool belt he’s wearing as he prowls toward me. I picture those jeans falling to mid-thigh as I reach into his boxers.

His loss.

He runs a thumb over his full lower lip.

Definitely his loss.

Even in my head, though, this does not sound convincing.

His gaze catches on me—on the crop top, the bare midriff. There’s a flare of something in his eyes, something feral and delicious, before he no doubt remembers what he’s looking at and turns back to his work.

“When will my ceiling be done?” I demand.

“I ordered the tiles,” he says without looking up. “Store’s telling me next week.”

I want more. I want him to talk, even if it’s simply to lash out. “You know, we already started advertising the Bond movie series beginning in July. You’ve really put us behind.”

“I haven’t put you behind,” he growls, turning in my direction. “You, like your mother, changed the plan. Not the only similarity, obviously. You might be hot, but it’s pretty clear that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree in terms of your attitude.”

I can think of a thousand ugly things I could say to him in response, but my throat is oddly tight. I know I’m like my mother. A lot of people would say I’m worse. But whatever I’ve become, it’s because of people like him—people who want me to stumble and fall for their own amusement. This was the only outcome. A necessary outcome.

I guess being back home simply reminds me what a terrible outcome it was.

“The only thing I just heard,” I reply, turning to walk inside, pushing sweaty hair out of my face, “is that you think I’m hot.”

9

LIAM

It was the Friday before New Year’s weekend when I fell through the roof.

My last conscious thought before I landed was “No one’s even going to know I’m missing,” and I was right. None of my friends noticed because they had their own lives, and the people I’d made tentative plans with didn’t blink an eye when I failed to show up because that’s who I was—a guy who didn’t show up for a sort-of date because I’d had a couple beers after surfing and fallen asleep, who didn’t show up at Beck’s bar because some girl had invited me over, who didn’t show up for brunch with my sister because I was too hungover.

Yes, I knew I wanted more—I wanted to be the center of someone’s world, and I wanted her to be the center of mine—but I figured there was no rush. That just like George Clooney and Mick Jagger and every other guy who’d spent his life knee-deep in options, I could simply bide my time, waiting for the woman who’d make me sit up straight.

But during the long three days I spent in and out of consciousness, followed by week after week in traction, I began to wish I hadn’t waited quite so passively.

That’s why I’m meeting Bridget’s friend Holly out tonight, and why I’m already dreading it: because I’m trying not to be passive, but the new way of handling things doesn’t seem to be working either.

Holly suggests meeting at Beck’s Bar and Grill, which is still owned by my friend Beck, though he’s barely here anymore and is in the process of selling it. I’m not sure if it was a random suggestion or if Bridget gave her some kind of inside scoop, but I regret agreeing the second I walk inside. Sure, I’m comfortable in this place, but I’m also reminded of the passing of time. I met my friends here every Tuesday for years, but now they’re all too busy with their fiancés and girlfriends and work to while away their time with me. Their lives have moved on, and mine has not.

I wait for her at the bar and get roped into a conversation with the guys to my left, two of whom I know only vaguely. They’re younger than me, but I built a nursery for one of them last year and recognize another from the lineup at Long Point.

We talk about surfing, a depressing topic as I haven’t surfed once since I broke my leg and then about Beck leaving, which also bums me out.

“Can’t believe he’s selling the place,” says Pete, the guy I did some work for. “But it seems like everyone in Elliott Springs is selling, so I guess he followed the crowd.”

Beck isn’t following the crowd. He’s following the girl he’s proposing to next weekend. But these idiots can think what they want.

“You know who’s behind all of it, too?” Rex, the surfer, asks. “Emmy. Emerson Hughes.”

Pete laughs. “No fucking way. Emmy the Semi?”

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