Page 47 of The Summer I Destroyed You

“We ran into some problems,” he says, “and she realized this wasn’t what she wanted.”

Fuck.

“What kind of problems?” Please let the problem be that you were cheating on her, Harold. Please let it be that you kept telling her to lose weight.

His lips purse. “This is probably TMI, but we had some trouble getting pregnant and learned, along the way, that I’m infertile. I’d have been happy to use a sperm donor, but it just changed something for her. Maybe she thought it made me less of a man? I’m really not sure. It’s been hard.”

Fuck my life. So far Harold is entirely blameless. I hate that for me.

“Our wedding got postponed because of the pandemic, and then she kept postponing. Maybe I should have seen the signs.”

Goddammit, Harold. I think you’ve cut my cruel enjoyment of this whole thing by half.

We arrive at the art exhibit, which is held in some sad, abandoned storefront in downtown San Jose that looks as if it was once a car dealership. The art sucks, and they aren’t even passing out champagne—we have to go to a little stand at the back where they sell bottled water instead. If this was a standard Saturday date with Harold, I understand why his fiancée cut bait.

Harold is currently explaining the causes of low sperm motility and assuring me it has nothing to do with organ function. I suppose I could say, “Let’s see how that organ is functioning right now”—I’m sure there’s a bathroom here somewhere—but it would be awkward, given how fucking miserable he is about the whole thing. I decide to hold off.

We get coffee afterward and he tells me about the honeymoon they were going to take—watching wolves migrate through Canada by helicopter—which sounds incredibly expensive and also incredibly lame. I’d have postponed that wedding repeatedly too.

I’m not going to proposition him. The coffee shop is small, and everyone would see us walking into the bathroom. I also think there’s a strong possibility that he will cry during sex—he seems like the type. Mostly, I just don’t think I can go through with it. I suspect—thanks, Liam—I was never actually going to go through with it in the first place.

He drops me off at my car and kisses my cheek without suggesting he’ll call, and I should be offended, but instead, I’m swept with relief. It’s only in this moment that I realize how deeply I’d dreaded this date going further than it did. This might prompt a wiser girl to question whether her need for revenge is more destructive than helpful, but I mostly just feel like I dropped the ball.

When I get home, I make dinner while my mom watches some show where all the realtors are scheming and hot and dressed like expensive escorts. I’d fit in with them perfectly.

Afterward, I’m cleaning up and accidentally let one of the cabinets close too loudly. Closing anything too loudly was enough to get me hit as a kid. Even all these years later, the sound of someone carelessly letting a cabinet slam shut feels like a slap in the face.

And indeed, my mother’s head jerks toward me, her eyes narrowed. “Are you being loud on purpose,” she asks, “or are you simply that graceless?”

I meet her gaze. This is where I could tell her how I spent my afternoon. This is where I could ruin all her fantasies about Harold. But instead, I keep it to myself. There’s power in knowing things she doesn’t. And the next time she says, “You’re never going to keep that weight off” I’ll be able to think you don’t know everything, Sandra, and actually have some proof on my side.

I smile at her. “Cabinet doors occasionally slam, Mom. Feel free to cook the next meal if it bothers you though.”

I go upstairs, pulling off my push-up bra as I go. I shimmy out of the tight jeans at the top of the stairs and throw them toward the hamper as I flop onto the bed. So much effort and discomfort and no revenge achieved whatsoever.

Both Liam and Chloe have texted. Because I’m weak, I read Liam’s first.

Yard Boy

So, how was your date? Are those wedding bells I hear ringing?

Do we live in a feudal society where I can be forced to marry? Otherwise, no. Because, as I’ve made clear. I do not want to marry. I simply wanted to defile the good doctor and rub it in my mother’s face afterward, as one does.

So you’re saying you did it.

I’m saying that it’s none of your business. I had needs. You were unwilling to meet them because you want someone who will find you if you fall through a roof.

I wait for him to reply. I’m joking, obviously. Sort of. Though it isn’t his business, I do have needs he was unwilling to meet, and he does want to find someone who will find him if he falls through a roof.

So, I guess I sort of wasn’t joking.

And he doesn’t reply, which I guess means he didn’t find it funny either.

It leaves me feeling restless and unhappy, too much of both those things to possibly fall asleep. So I text Chloe and tell her to meet me at Beck’s instead.

25

LIAM

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