Page 88 of The Summer I Destroyed You

I hear the jingle of Snowflake’s collar near the phone and smile. “You’ve got her on the bed, don’t you?” I ask.

“She’s lonely,” he says. “She keeps watching for you. It seemed like the least I could do.”

Tears sting my eyes unexpectedly. I hate the idea of her watching for me, wondering when I’ll get home every day. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with her in New York,” I say, my voice slightly hoarse. “There’s a dog walker who comes to the building, but it seems like such a lonely day for her. I’m never home.”

He’s quiet for a moment. We haven’t really discussed the fact that I’m leaving, that this is nearly done, and I’d rather not discuss it. I’ll be checking on the progress of the construction once we’ve torn down Lucas Hall, but I won’t be back often. These last few days with him are really the only ones I’m going to get.

“I can keep her,” he says. “Depends on the job that’s underway, but I’m spending more and more of my days just driving between jobsites and she can come with me for that.”

I swallow. It’s a kind offer. It’s the best solution. I don’t know why it makes me so fucking sad. “Thank you,” I whisper. “Well, I need to get to bed.”

“Are you crying, Em?” he asks.

I brush the tears off my cheeks. “I don’t cry.”

He laughs. “Of course you don’t. But Em? We’re going to miss you too.”

* * *

I return on Friday and head straight to the grocery store. Liam’s guys are already done here—it’s pristine and ready for business, aside from the empty shelves. It’s no longer my problem—we’ve hired a manager and as long as she does her job well, my involvement is done.

I walk back to my office for the final time, and my throat is tight. It’s a shitty office—not a single window, cinderblock walls. I should be thrilled that I’m finally clearing my shit out. But it was a little island in time, an awful space where I was strangely happy. Which I guess could be said of Elliott Springs as well, these past few months.

I’ve just finished packing the final box when Charles calls. I’m tempted not to answer, but he’ll just keep calling if I don’t.

“Has the diner agreed to sell?” he demands in lieu of a greeting.

I don’t actually blame him for being so persistent. While most of Main Street consists of old rowhouses we can’t get torn down, the diner sits on its own large parcel of land. There are a million things we could do with it once the apartment building is in.

“No,” I reply. “It’s been in their family for forty years. I think you’d need to make a really nice offer for them to even consider it.”

“It’s not worth shit at the moment,” he argues. “I’m not clueing them in to what it’s worth by offering them millions. Did you call the health department?”

“Yes,” I lie. Paul is a dick, but I just don’t have it in me to ruin Jeannie’s business. It seems to me she’s suffering enough just having him as a kid. “Elliott Springs is inconvenient. It might take them a while.”

“Time there has made you fucking incompetent,” he says as he hangs up. “I’ll do it myself.”

I sink into my chair. It’s so…wrong. It’s so incredibly wrong. He’s going to destroy this woman’s family business because he thinks it will make him money. But I’ve been helping him because I wanted revenge, half of it against people and places that never did anything to me, which probably isn’t any better.

Being bullied probably should have taught me that bullying was wrong. Instead I decided to be the biggest bully of them all.

I throw the last box in my car and walk to the diner just as the lunch shift is dying down. It’s probably not the best time to talk to Jeannie, but I’m not sure there’s ever a great time. She’s here all day long, and she’s always working.

If Charles was just willing to make her a decent offer for the property, I’d think she should take it. As things stand, though, selling the diner will simply mean she’s entering the job market for the first time at an age where most people are retiring.

Paul is wiping down the laminated menu with a cloth I can smell from four feet away. He has a bandaged nose and a black eye—I imagine I know who did it.

“What do you want?” he asks, as surly as ever.

“For you to fuck off and die,” I answer with a tight smile. “If that’s not an option, however, I’d like to talk to your mom.”

“She doesn’t need to talk to you,” he replies. “If you’re trying to buy us up like you’ve done with the rest of the town, the answer’s no.”

“Hmmm, if I wanted to have an important business conversation, it wouldn’t be with the guy whose primary responsibility is wiping down the menus,” I reply, walking past him toward the kitchen. I’m improving, but I’ll never be a fucking saint.

I poke my head in. Jeannie’s at the far end, talking to one of the line cooks, but comes over quickly. “Hi Emerson,” she says, “is everything okay?”

“Not really,” I reply. “Can we speak in private?”

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