Page 84 of One Short Summer

I know he didn’t mean it that way, but I’ve been thinking almost nonstop about Gabe since I left Brooksville—a lot more than I thought I would.

None of my past breakups—not that I’ve had more than a few—have ever felt this bad before. A few weeks apart, and I was as good as new.

Thiswasn’t even a real breakup, since we were never a real couple, so why does it hurt so incredibly much? Most days, it feels like my insides have been ripped apart before they got put back together the wrong way. It’s a constant painful reminder of how I’m not functioning the same anymore.

I’m damaged.

Irreparable.

“Come on, Mo.” A few people from my crew rush past my open door, and after one quick look in the mirror, I follow everyone behind the stage, my thoughts still wholly focused on Gabe.

If this past month has shown me one thing, it’s that Gabe has weaseled his way into my heart. Solidly. Without a doubt.

Permanently.

And it doesn’t seem to get any better—quite the opposite, actually—with every day that passes, I’m more miserable.

Surprisingly, it’s not even the sex I miss, even though that’s certifiably miss-able, but it’s more the everyday stuff, like talking about how our day went, sharing a good meal, or spending our evenings together.

I miss havinghimaround, in any capacity, and that’s never happened to me before.

My whole life, I’ve either had Charlie around or my dance crew, but not once have I missed any of them as much as I’ve been missing Gabe.

I miss the way he picks up a book shortly after he wakes up and before he goes to bed because, according to him, it puts his mind into the right place for the day and the night, even if it’s just a few pages he reads.

I miss the way he’s all dorky with his old-school music and the fact that he prefers to stay in with me to watch a movie over doing other exciting things a successful person of his caliber could surely do.

And of course, I miss the way he looks after me, so I don’t burn down the kitchen or break another bone, or simply how he looks at me with those warm, brown eyes of his, preferably right before he shows me with his hands, lips, and body how much he likes being with me.

Long story short, I pretty much misseverythingabout him.

“Mo, are you ready? There are only two more performances ahead of you.” Jessica, one of our older show coordinators, sets her hand on my shoulder, gently squeezing it.

I look at her like I’ve never seen her before, and I’m sure she thinks I’m crazy.

This whole time, I’ve stood at the side of the stage behind the curtain, doing my stretches almost robotically and going through the motions of my dance without once ever actually paying any attention to what I was doing.

My mind is several thousand miles away, on the other side of the country, apparently unwilling to leave that place anytime soon.

“Do you need anything, Mo? You look a little pale.” Jessica’s brows are dangerously close together while she waits for an answer.

Shaking my head, I clear my throat, trying to wipe my palms on my tights. “No, I’m good. Sorry. Probably just the nerves.”

She nods, even though I’m not sure she buys it. “Well, let’s get this over with then because you’re next. Time to get into position.”

We both watch the last few moments of the current performance until the crew comes pouring in from the stage.

“Show them how it’s done, Mo!”

“You’ve got this, Mo!”

The voices and shoulder squeezes around me barely register as my brain and body go into auto mode.

Thisis what I know.

Thisis what I’m good at.

Thisisme.

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