Page 119 of Summertime Friends

I sit up, leaning against the headboard.

“Do I look alright?” I ask back.

“I suppose no. Want a cuppa? Coffee?”

“Coffee, please.”

“I’ll put a pot on the stove. Take your time. . . just not too much,” he says, and I think he means it differently, one that I’m not ready to unpack.

I shuffle into the living room, where I find Cal reading a book on the couch. He sets it down.

“Coffees in the kitchen. Mugs and milk are sitting out on the benchtop already.” He gestures toward the small kitchen.

“Thanks.” I try to force out a smile but fail.

“Remind me what time your flight is?”

I didn’t wait for Liam to rearrange my departure. I bumped my flight up to today.

“Not until this afternoon. Only a few more hours of having to have me in your lives. States finally will stay in the States.”

“Interesting. I don’t remember saying I wanted you out of my life. Neither did Liam, if I stand corrected.” Cal is giving me a don’t-put-words-in-our-mouth smug grin.

“I need to get my stuff from his place. Liam should be at work by now—wait, shouldn’t you be off already?” I ask him.

“Brunch this morning. All of us are—were going.”

“Oh, right.” I forgot.

I pour myself a cup of coffee and walk back into the living room. At the bottom of three giant, arched windows is a bookcase overfilled with books. In front of the wall are two oversized chairs facing the kitchen. I take a seat in one of them while window-shopping the bookshelf.

“Not George’s.” He confirms my curiosity about who these belong to. “My aunt is a writer. Growing up, every holiday or birthday came with new books.”

“What’s her name?”

“Mary Adamson.”

“I’ve read a few of her books! The twists at the end are consistently unpredictable. I’ve never been able to predict a single book. The last one had me on the edge of my seat,” I cheerily say. “I didn’t realize you were a reader too.”

“Few do. That’s one of the things Liam and I bonded over.”

“I know the feeling.”

This is what I’m going to miss, and it will haunt me in the post-Liam phase of my life: all the ways we connected—shared common interests, shared different interests.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

“I—what—am I making a mistake?” I ask him reluctantly.

“Honestly, yeah.” I’m happy he’s honest with me, but it hurts to hear. Cuts deeper than I thought it would. “He told you he loved you, yeah?”

I nod.

“And you didn’t respond—”

“You know the answers to these questions.”

He shakes his head. “Wasn’t asking a question, States.” Cal rests his mug on his knee. He blows out air and tilts his head, staring at me as I believe an old brother would. “You don’t need to say it back, but you shouldn’t have said no. We both know you do. You’ve been leading him on. You can’t play with his heart and think that he won’t get attached.”

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