Page 59 of The Summer I Destroyed You

“You gonna tell me who that was?” Bridget asks with a grin.

“You always do this.” I frown, continuing on toward Beck’s. “I get within a hundred feet of anyone with a vagina and you’re there, trying to make it seem like it meant something. I’m doing a job for her, and I’m doing a job for her mom. You want to go meet her mom, too, so you can see which vagina is the better fit?”

Bridget laughs. “You haven’t changed since you were five, Liam. I’d ask you who some cute little girl in your class was and you’d start screaming about how much you hate her.”

I shake my head. “Well, if I screamed it this time, it’d be relatively accurate. Because that one in particular is driving me crazy.”

“I can see why she’d be driving you crazy. I’m straight and married, and I think I want to sleep with that girl.”

I turn up the road to the bar. “This conversation would be a lot more interesting if you weren’t my sister. But since you are, drop it.”

She elbows me. “I’ll stop if you admit it.”

“I’m not admitting something that isn’t true.”

I don’t want to sleep with her. I want to punish her, devour her, make her beg, tear her apart, and put her back together. There wouldn’t be a minute of sleeping.

It’s late that night, and I’m about to climb into bed when Emmy texts.

The Princess

So, was that the soulmate? Is she willing to meet your roof surveillance needs?

Why? Are you jealous?

Of course not. I just don’t know why you’d call me a whore when you’ve had multiple sexual partners in one week.

I didn’t call you a whore. I asked if you wanted me to treat you like one and you said yes. And, I should add, you fucking loved it.

It was okay.

I wasn’t on a date—you saw me with my sister. And you’re jealous.

The fact that I hear nothing back from her pretty much confirms I’m right. Now I just need her to realize it.

31

EMMY

I wasn’t jealous.

Jealousy is an emotion reserved for people who want to possess a thing, and I don’t want to possess anyone. I’d simply borrowed his penis for a brief—regrettably brief—period of time and thrown it back into the wild.

That wasn’t jealousy. It was irritation. He doesn’t get to judge me for Troy and Dr. Sossaman and end a call from Donovan as if he owns me, all while he himself is actively seeing other women. Maybe she was his sister, but I didn’t know that. I objected to the hypocrisy of it all.

But when I close my eyes and recall seeing him walking down the street with her, I still feel exactly the way I did then: as if I’d been punctured. As if he’d stuck a thousand tiny knives in the center of my chest and all the air was escaping.

Which is not the way one typically reacts to hypocrisy.

Shit.

I go to sleep thinking about him groaning my name and wake remembering how rough and demanding he was. I should hate all of it, but I don’t. I love the way sweet, sweet Liam turned aggressive. I love the way he didn’t take a minute of my shit, the way he tore my panties and pressed his palm flat to my back.

God, I loved it so much.

He’s in the backyard when I walk outside in my sleep shorts and sweatshirt, Snowflake at my feet. I feel exquisitely naked under his gaze.

“Good morning, princess,” he says.

---