Page 120 of Summertime Friends

“I would never do that.”

“You’ve been doing it for years—”

“He’s been doing it too!” I defend myself. “We’ve been doing it to each other.”

“Are you sure about that?” No, I’m not.

Maybe he’s right. I don’t think Liam has ever led me on.

The gravity of everything Liam is to me compounds, rooting me down into the chair I’m sitting in.

“I never meant to bring him into my mess. . . or any of you by association.”

“And you didn’t have to let what hurt you become who you are.”

We return to silence.

I turn my body towards the window. . . wondering if the answers to my problems are out there. They aren’t. All I find is a gray, gloomy London morning, the sky filled with clouds like the weather is an extension of me.

You didn’t have to let what hurt you become who you are.

Is that what I have done?

Is this who I have become twelve years later?

Something cold drips on my cheek. I raise my hand to it, grainy as salt. A single tear is falling down my face. I don’t wipe it away. This one isn’t for Liam, but for me—the younger me who was hurt and is still hurting. Unhealed and broken.

I thought I’ve been protecting myself by putting up these walls around my heart. Keeping myself close to people but not lettingthem get close enough to me to hurt me. In reality, I’ve been hurting myself all along.

I let what hurt me become me.

“Brunch is at eleven. Up to you if you want to come.” Cal pauses, biting the inside of his cheek. “He’ll be there. You should talk to him.”

I drink the rest of my coffee slowly. Callum and I sit there in a peaceful quiet.

Rising from the chair, I walk over to Callum.

“Thank you.” Leaning down, I kiss his cheek softly and turn, walking toward the guest room I stayed in last night.

“States,” he calls after me. I stop walking but don’t turn around. “Being enough for love and loving someone enough, means as much to him as it does to you.”

49

LIAM

Three Summers Ago

Gliding through the entryway of the restaurant is Callum.Alone.

Everyone else is already here. I arrived first, purposely. Wanted a seat watching the door in case Emerson decided to show. She was invited, after all.

Plus, when she left, Emerson didn’t take her stuff with her last night.

Which was a mistake. Her bags and that I should never have let her leave. I was her father 2.0—maybe not entirely; I may not have left, but I allowed her to walk out without a fight.

I thought I was giving her space—to think, to do whatever the hell she needed—but what I thought—no, what I knew she needed—was for me to have her stay, to keep fighting for us and prove thatwe are enough.

I was selfish and impulsive. When she wanted to leave, I said go. I needed Emerson gone. I was furious with her.

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