Page 102 of Summertime Friends

I’ve thought that’s enough, but it’s nagging at me. The wondering if she does or doesn’t is nagging me like a bug that won’t leave. I know that if I don’t find out, it’ll be as if the bug bites me, leaving an itching sensation behind. If she doesn’t say it, I’ll be itching to know if she loves me till, shit, who knows when with her.

“Do you love me?” I ask her.

She says nothing, of course. The soft smile on her face vanishes instantly, replaced with a face you’d make if you accidentally poured sour milk into your tea. I don’t know if I expected her to say it back, but I expected at least some sort of answer.

She drops her arms and takes a step back. I ask again, “Do you love me?” Maybe she didn’t hear me the first time.

She doesn’t say anything again.

After a few moments, she stands on her tiptoes and kisses me. It’s different from her earlier kisses.

The kiss is quickly followed by her turning around and walking away. I double-check that everything is turned off in the kitchen and follow her. In three strides, I quickly catch up to her and reach my arm out to clasp her elbow, stopping her from taking another step.

I can’t let her go.

I can’t have her not love me back.

42

LIAM

Three Summers Ago

Waiting for an answer from Emerson is like waiting for rain in a desert. I don’t think there will be one.

Maybe it would be better if she didn’t reply. Perhaps if she doesn’t, we can rewind to before that moment. We can go back to how things were before I told her I love you, and she didn’t say it back. I was happy with our situation—I think. We had each other in every way possible but one.

It was enough. It was enough till I knew I could have more. We could have more.

Telling her I love you was a release. A horse off to the races, and her love is the prize.

But am I going to be jockeying toward a prize that keeps getting farther away? I’ll do it. It’ll fuck me up in the process, but I’d do it. I’d do anything to have her. Anything to have her.

“Do you love me?” I ask for a third and final time. If she doesn’t answer, I’ll stop torturing myself and find a way to make peace with it.

Emerson shakes her head no.

I don’t believe her. I don’t believe that she doesn’t love me.

“You’re lying.”

“Maybe.” She shrugs her shoulders. There, I’m right.

“Why?” I ask through gritted teeth.

“Because I can’t. I wish I could. If I did, I’d have the ability to feel all of this without it crashing down on me like a ceiling. You shouldn’t have to ask if I love you. I should be able to sa—” shecuts herself off.

Her shoulders drop. My gaze drops to her hands. The nails of the pointer fingers of each hand are digging into her thumbs. It’s not obvious to most, but it’s a tiny tick that she does when she’s anxious. “That’s because you do. Emerson, you do love me. I know it,” I respond to her.

Her head shakes from side to side. Turning around to face me, she’s sucking in her lips, trying to do everything in her power to restrain herself from telling me.

I take a few steps backward, giving us space. Don’t want to, but I do.

“You can. You have to try. I’m trying here, Emerson. Please try with me,” I plead with her.

“I tried, but I can’t,” she says to me, her head still shaking.

Her tears and emotions overtake her body. I can see them raking through her, shaking her to the point that she collapses to the floor. Her knees underneath her, she falls forward, her hands catching her head in them. Emerson cries there on the floor in front of me.

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