Page 20 of The Summer I Destroyed You

“Goddammit,” I mutter. I refuse to meet Liam’s smug gaze. “Can you hand me the hose?”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he replies. “Have you ever sprayed a dog down? She’ll shake herself dry, all over your suit. Throw me a towel. I’ll do it.”

I stiffen. Why is he offering to help me? Does he think I’ll just hand over Lucas Hall because he rinsed off my dog? Even Liam’s not that dumb. And allowing people to do things for me always comes at a price. Even if that price is merely being civil going forward, it’s more than I want to pay.

He’s already taking Snowflake by the collar and leading her to the hose, however, so I go inside for a towel. When I emerge, mud and water are flying as Snowflake shakes herself off.

I brace for his inevitable irritation with me. I wait for him to say, “I told you so.”

It’s not like you were all that clean to start with, I’ll reply.

But instead, he laughs. “Throw me the towel,” he says, reaching out a hand. He seems to catch it without even looking and then kneels down to dry Snowflake off when I assumed he wanted the towel for himself.

“There’s a good girl,” he coos, holding her by the collar. “Doesn’t that feel better?”

I’m uncharacteristically tongue-tied. I wish he’d tell me I’m a stupid bitch for not listening to him in the first place. At least then I’d know how to respond.

“Thank you,” I say, the words quiet and hoarse. “Do you…need a clean shirt?”

His gaze drifts over me. “I’m gonna go out on a limb and say we probably aren’t the same size.”

“I…my father…” I never speak about my father. Ever. It’s too hard, and I don’t want anyone’s pity. “Most of his clothes are still here.”

Suddenly, there’s something almost gentle in his face. “That’s okay,” he says. “But thank you.”

He sends Snowflake in my direction and pulls up his shirt to dry his face with the underside. Classy. But he’s got the abs of a Greek god and there’s something intoxicatingly male about the gesture, so I’ll let it slide.

I follow Snowflake to the kitchen with the troubling suspicion that I’m right back where I never wanted to be: inclined to trust a guy who will end up hurting me in the end.

* * *

My mother’s follow-up with Dr. Sossaman is late that afternoon. While she’s in his office, I walk out to the vending machines. My mouth waters at the sight of stale baked goods and candy that’s pure corn syrup. I’m not sure I even want any of it. I just know that I’ve likely got an entire evening ahead with her judging me for the little I do eat, and I want to know for certain that I won’t go to bed hungry because of it.

“Don’t do it, Emmy,” I hiss. “It’s a slippery slope.”

When I walk back to the waiting room, a nurse says Dr. Sossaman would like to speak to me.

“To me?” I repeat. “I’m not the patient.”

She nods. “It’ll just take a minute.”

She leads me back to an office where a guy in his mid-thirties sits with my mom.

“You must be Emmy,” he says. “I’m Dr. Sossaman.”

I find it irritating when doctors presume they can use my first name while not using their own, but I’m too busy being shocked by how young he is to focus on that right now. My mother made it sound like they were peers.

“I’ve been explaining to your mother that it’s important to rest after surgery in order to heal,” he says, “and I wanted to make sure you understood.”

I glance from him to her. There’s something a little pointed in this reminder, and unnecessary as well.

I arch a brow. “Doesn’t it go without saying that you need to rest after surgery?”

Dr. Sossaman turns to a nurse hovering near the doorway. “Can you take Miss Atwell to the PT room and get someone to show her the rehab exercises listed in her file again?”

I rise when my mother does, but Dr. Sossaman gives a polite cough to get my attention. “I was hoping we could chat for a moment.”

I sit back down.

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