Page 53 of The Summer I Destroyed You

“It would never have worked out with us,” she says softly. I hear a question in her voice, as if she’s hoping I’ll argue.

I walk out the door. “You made sure of that, didn’t you?”

* * *

Talking to Melanie might have come easily a year ago. Now, it’s a lot like craving a steak and being forced to choose from a vegan menu. Even the best dish won’t suit.

And unfortunately, I came here, I suspect, hoping to find a different version of Emerson—a girl who’s sharp, funny, and tough, and who has an ass that won’t quit—but a version of her who surfs and wants to settle down, a version of her who wouldn’t be quite as hard to win.

And Melanie is not that.

She is chatty, but she isn’t amusing. She has lots of opinions, but I suspect she wouldn’t stand by a single one of them if pushed. And she’s spent the entire dinner trying hard to sell herself, trying to tell me how sought after she is, how well-traveled she is, how generous she is…and the more she sells, the less I’m interested in buying.

The entrees have just arrived, and I’m already wondering how soon I can escape.

“Bridget said you surf?” I ask.

“I like to go down to Costa Rica,” she says. “That way I’m contributing to their economy too. So, you know, I visit all the shops and I make sure I tip—that kind of thing. I just think it’s important to give back.”

“So you don’t surf locally?” I ask, politely restraining the urge to suggest that shopping in Costa Rica isn’t the same as contributing.

“I went down to the wharf once in Santa Cruz,” she says.

The wharf is where you learn to surf, which tells me Melanie has surfed, but does not actually surf. And why the fuck does it matter anyway? When Emerson said, “I’d look too good in a bikini. I’d be a distraction,” I’d laughed.

Five minutes ago, she was telling me she’s thinking about volunteering to play with the dogs at the animal shelter. “They just break my heart, you know? I want to adopt every single one of them.”

Before that, she was telling me how she can’t drive through San Francisco anymore because all the homelessness makes her cry.

I’m guessing Melanie has never spent several hours unloading sandbags without telling everyone she did it. I bet she’s never quietly cuddled a dog she purports to hate without talking about how much it made her want to cry. I bet she’s never gotten someone fired to protect a colleague.

And it isn’t necessary that she do those things. But with Emerson, I liked the way it felt like I was peeling back layers, getting closer to the sweet spot, while Melanie’s outer layers are already too sweet, the sort that makes me think what lies beneath them has probably begun to decay.

Melanie says she can’t surf at the wharf anymore because of an ex who’s obsessed with her, and then says Bridget told her I used to surf with Luke Taylor before he joined the tour. Before I can even confirm this, she starts telling me how she saw Luke and his wife walking into a restaurant once in Hawaii, which she somehow spins into a fifteen-minute story about her and her friend waiting in the parking lot for Luke and Juliet to finish dinner.

While I’m pretending to listen, my phone vibrates. I wait until she’s chugging her wine and asking the waiter for another to glance at it.

The Princess

How’s your date?

I wonder if Emmy’s down at the bar, doing her level best to ruin someone’s night. I swear to God, she’s ruining mine without even being in the same section of town.

Stop thinking about Emmy.

“So tell me about your job,” says Melanie, who seems to have finally exhausted the topics of charities she cares about, exes who are obsessed with her, and friends of mine she’s stalked.

It’s too broad a question to reflect any actual interest, and I’m saved from replying by some acquaintance of Melanie’s who walks over to the table.

I glance at my phone as they chat and discover another text from Emerson.

The Princess

Is she pretending to be fascinated by your job yet? You should pull out your little hammer. That might interest her.

It’s not all that little. Which I assume you know. I’ve caught you looking in that direction more than once.

I can’t believe you’re texting me about your dick size when you’re on a date with someone else.

---