Page 25 of The Summer I Destroyed You

“She sounds amazing.”

He gives me a reluctant half smile, a flash of teeth. “She’s okay.”

My heart gives an odd, hard thump. We aren’t enemies anymore, and I guess I already knew that. But there’s something in that she’s okay—weak vote of approval though it is—that makes me feel as if I’ve won the lottery.

And it makes me wish we were friends. It makes me wish I deserved to be his friend.

“Come on, Snowflake,” I say, turning toward the house. “Let’s let yard boy do his work.”

I don’t look back, but I get the feeling he’s smiling. It’s only as I walk in the door that I realize I am too.

* * *

“The hardwood is uneven,” I tell Gary.

“It’s fine,” he says.

I take a deep inhale, trying to control my rage. “Here’s how this works, Gary: you, the contractor, aren’t the one who gets to decide it’s fine. If I, the client, want to decide it’s fine, that’s on me, but I, the client, have not decided it’s fine because it’s fucking appalling, so you need to fix it, pronto.”

He throws out his hands. “The floor is level! It just looks like it’s not because we’ve only done half, and we need to add shoe molding along the back wall. The fixtures are coming in soon so there’s no time to tear this out and redo it, which would be crazy anyway because it’s fine. You’ll see.”

“I won’t see,” I reply. “And if you put down the rest of that hardwood and it can’t be salvaged when I tear it out, I promise I’ll be suing you for the full three hundred grand it cost.”

I turn away, already texting Stella.

See what we need legally in order to fire Gary and how much we can get back of what we’ve already paid. And see if you can find another company to do the job.

Stella

I swear ninety percent of my job is helping you fire people.

And yet you have no qualms about being a smart-ass with me, which is fascinating.

In order for you to fire me, you’d first need to make ME hire my replacement. We both know that wouldn’t work out well for you.

Whatever. Just make sure I can fire Gary.

When I get home with groceries in the afternoon, my mother watches me unpack. “You’d better not be sneaking food in your room,” she says with narrowed eyes. I set a can of tomato sauce on the counter with a heavy thud.

Am I angry over the accusation or am I ashamed because she’s right? I am keeping food in my room. Just protein bars so that I know I have something to eat if things get bad. So that on those nights when she’s judging me, I won’t go to bed starving.

“I’m twenty-eight,” I reply. “What leads you to think I need to sneak food anywhere?”

Her gaze drops to my ass. I’ve never been one of those flat-assed girls, no matter how badly I’ve wanted to be. “You’re definitely eating something. Have you even weighed yourself since you got home?”

I grip the counter while my stomach tightens, fighting the panic in my chest. Am I gaining weight? Shit. I don’t think I’ve gained anything, but the mere possibility of it is enough to make my skirt feel too tight.

I march out of the room without a word, changing into yoga clothes and driving straight back downtown. Chloe’s the only one in the yoga studio. My shoulders drop in relief.

I’m not in the mood for other participants, and I like the way her constant chatter distracts me—she’s relatively new to Elliott Springs, having only moved here recently with her boyfriend, but she’s surprisingly knowledgeable about the town’s residents. She’s friendly with everyone it seems—Jeannie, who owns the diner; the old guy who owns the garden center; the teenage girl protesting the destruction of Shaw Lake.

I enjoy getting Chloe’s detailed rundown of who has slept with whom, who’s fighting, and who’s broke. Today, though, it’s not quite enough to deplete my anger at Gary and my mom.

“You’re still in a bad mood,” she comments toward the end of the session, going into downward dog.

I follow suit. “My mother had surgery. It’s been trying.”

She falls out of position and turns to me. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

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