Page 31 of The Summer I Destroyed You

She takes a seat at the counter while I chop the chicken. “Do you need help?”

“Do you know how to make stir-fry?”

“I know how to order stir-fry. And I’m capable of taking direction.”

I throw the chicken in the pan and return to the freezer for rice. “Somehow I doubt that,” I say, and she laughs. The chicken begins to fizzle and pop in the oil, Emerson’s still smiling and I wish I could capture this moment somehow, the coziness of it. “So I suppose living in the city you just order in all your meals?”

“I wouldn’t have time to cook even if I cared to,” she says just as her phone rings with an incoming video call.

The name on the screen says Donovan Arling, and even though she rejects the call and turns the phone face down on the counter, that name registers like a hard pinch, though I don’t even know why he’s calling her yet.

“Donovan Arling?” I ask. “As in the Olympic swimmer, Donovan Arling?”

She grins. “Names don’t mean much. You’re in my phone as Yard Boy.”

“So, who’s in your phone as Olympic swimmer Donovan Arling?”

Her mouth twitches. “Olympic swimmer Donovan Arling. He’s a friend.”

I already know exactly what sort of friend he is, and I’m jealous as hell though I’ve got no right to be.

“How do you have a relationship with anyone if you’re working so much?”

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t bother with relationships. The last thing I need is someone crying about how much I work or insisting that I skip an important trip because he feels neglected.”

So she’s simply fucking Arling. That doesn’t make me feel any better.

“Maybe you could choose someone who doesn’t cry about shit in the first place,” I grumble.

She laughs to herself. “No offense, but you all cry eventually. I’ll pass.”

There’s certainty in her voice. Perhaps this is a conversation we should have had a few months ago, before I started reading and rereading her messages, before I started going to bed each night thinking about what I’d text her next.

I’ve been enthralled with this girl for months without really knowing anything of substance about her. But the truth is that she’s not what I’m looking for—and she’s apparently not looking for me either.

A change of subject is necessary. Focus, Liam.

“How’d you even know there’d be sandbags available this morning?”

Her arms cross over her chest, as if she’s protecting herself from me or the question. “My dad and I used to come down and help with the sandbags when I was little. I honestly have no idea how I lifted them.”

I turn to look at her. “I used to come with my dad too. I don’t remember you.”

She raises a brow. “Were you still a kid when I was a kid?”

“Maybe I’m not aging as well as I’d thought. I’m probably four years older than you at most. I doubt it’s even that much.”

Her arms squeeze tighter. “I don’t remember you from high school.”

There’s something wary in her voice. I think of Pete at the bar, laughing about her weight. Is she always bracing for someone to still be an asshole, all these years later? I’d have thought it was ridiculous if I hadn’t witnessed those guys in action.

“I went to Prep,” I say softly, when what I want to say is I know what happened, and I’m so fucking sorry, and I swear to God I wouldn’t have let them treat you the way they did if I’d been there.

She smiles. Her relief is palpable. “Oooh, fancy. I wouldn’t have pegged you for a little rich boy.”

I carry the bowls to the table and slide one her way. “I wasn’t. I went on a baseball scholarship.”

Her head tilts. “Ah, a big-time athlete. That explains the overconfidence. Did you play in college too?”

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