Page 86 of My Star-Crossed Summer

I cringe as I reread that last message. No wonder she hasn’t gotten in touch again. She thinks I’ve changed my mind about us—because no person who was interested would let those last words go unanswered.

From across the kitchen island, Hannah says, “What’s happening?”

“Nothing.”

“Nice try. You look like you just learned a meteor’s about to strike and turn us all to dust.”

I sigh, turning my phone face-down on the counter. “I wrecked things with Victoria. Again.”

“What? Explain yourself.” She hops up on a barstool and rests her chin in her hand.

I start off with the broad strokes, and then end up spilling my guts and telling her every detail. Her brows shoot up to her hairline when I tell her about the night at the campground, and then she frowns when I get to the part about that last conversation we had after the dance. Hannah’s face goes through her entire range of expressions and by the time I get to the text messages, there’s a lump in my throat that feels like a rock.

“I should just call her, right?” I say. “Or text her back so she knows I’m not ignoring her.”

I reach for my phone, but she grabs my arm. “Okay, stop,” she says. “We can fix this.”

“We?” I ask.

“Obviously you need some pro tips here. You’re so lucky I’m around.”

“I think I know how to?—”

“Shush,” she says, holding her finger up to me. “This requires more than a text message or a phone call.” She taps her finger against her lip in that way that means she’s already five steps into a plan. She plucks Vic’s well-loved copy ofReady Player Onefrom the counter and shoves ittoward me. “Thank goodness for your shared interest in nerd-dom.”

“What does Ernest Cline have to do with anything?” Before the words are fully out of my mouth, I remember teasing Vic about the sticker she’d put on the back cover with her name andaddress, how she scoffed and said,I like to make it easy to have my things returned to me.

“That first chapter’s really good,” Hannah says. “I needed a palate cleanser after scouring apartment listings.”

I trace my fingers over the sticker, thinking of that moment in the bakery, when I caught a glimpse of what we could be like together when we didn’t have these silly camp rules getting in the way.

“We need more coffee,” Hannah says, opening her laptop. “It’s time for a big romantic gesture.”

Jasmine Falls isone of those small towns that’s just so dang cute it feels like it should be a movie set for the most heart-warming, feel-good film of the year. My GPS takes me straight down Main Street, where the town square’s all decked out for something called SummerFest that promises a cake-baking competition, pony rides, an art walk, and carnival-style games for the whole family—including the fur-babies.

Sitting at a traffic light lets me soak up all the details—pastel-colored storefronts, a tasty-looking cake shop, a gallery full of bright paintings. I’m curious to see more, but I lost an hour by stopping for fresh flowers, a bottle of shiraz, and two cupcakes from my favorite bakery in Summerville because Hannah insisted I not show up here empty-handed.

The GPS leads me past the outer edge of town, back into the rolling hills and pastureland. In a couple of miles, I turn onto a road that cuts through the forest and comes out by a sparkling lake. I drive past a more developed area, through a section that looks like a park, and come to a spot where the road ends right by two modest-looking bungalows that are side-by side. One’spainted white, the other yellow, and look like they could have been built at the same time. Two cars are parked by the white one, but the GPS directs me to the yellow one. When I see the number on the mailbox, I park by the garage and walk up to the front door, flowers in hand.

It’s easy to picture Victoria living here. A modest two-story Cape Cod-style house, it has big windows and a flagstone path. It’s cozy and welcoming, from the small porch with the blue front door to the flowering shrubs and irises along the split-rail fence by the garage.

I swallow hard as I walk up the steps and ring the doorbell. During the whole drive, I’ve been rehearsing what to say—and now all of those thoughts fall right out of my head.

After a few moments, I ring the bell again. When there’s still no answer, I pound on the big wooden door.

“She’s not here,” a voice says from behind me.

When I startle and turn toward the sound, I’m met by a woman who looks like a taller, curvier version of Victoria.

“Hi, Gwen,” I say. “It’s been a minute.”

“Noah Valentine.” She narrows her eyes and gives me a quick once-over. “It certainly has.”

“You don’t seem surprised to see me.”

Her brow lifts. “I’ve heard a lot about you lately.”

Based on her tone, that’s not a net-positive.

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