Page 45 of Roses in Summer

I slept like shit. And when I say “slept,” I mean I stayed awake the rest of the night and tried to figure out what happened in the last eight hours.

I have to be at the restaurant early today, and I can’t help but take comfort in the fact that I’m covering an earlier shift for Diana and will have an excuse to leave this apartment. Picking up my phone, I note the early hour: six thirty in the morning. Even though I have to be in the kitchen at eleven, I still have over three hours before I need to leave.

Sitting up, I hunch my back, leaning my elbows against my knees, and stare down at the floor. I hate this. I fucking hate that I hurt Gemma last night, that we continue to hurt each other, but she seems content to stay in the same toxic cycle. I hate that I saw Seraphina last night and asked her about Mitch, and the anger that descended over her eyes made me want to grab her and carry her out of the restaurant. I hate that the only thing I want to do is avoid my apartment, run away from my girlfriend, and not confront our shit head-on.

Looking over my shoulder, I weigh my options: wake Gemma early and have the conversation we need to have now or wait until she gets up. With the way things ended with her last night, I know that our next conversation is not going to be a pleasant one. If I know anything about Gemma after our two-year relationship, it’s that she’ll either wait until right before I need to go to have the blowup, or she’ll stay locked in that room all morning, forcing me to show up to the restaurant in my clothes from yesterday. Either way, I’ll look like shit and feel like shit. I don’t doubt that both of those things will probably make her feel better after last night.

“Fuck,” I mumble, running a hand over my face. I settle my fingers against my jaw and swipe up on my phone screen to unlock it. Scrolling through my tiles, I find the one labeled social media and open the Instagram app, resolved to lose myself in an hour of mindless, pointless reels. Call it God, coincidence, or karma, but the moment the app comes alive, a carousel of pictures from last night pops up. Looking at the username, I scowl at Ava’s handle, knowing that I’m about to sift through a barrage of photos, hoping to get a glimpse of Seraphina.

When we first became friends, she had all the commonly used social media accounts, and I followed and friended her on each one. Though she didn’t post frequently, every time she did, I would look at her pictures, words, and thoughts and try to figure out what exactly was going through her head.

When she posted a video of her playing field hockey for her high school team, face mask and mouthguard on full display, did she want people to know she was more than just a beautiful face and smart brain?

When she posted the photo of her and her douche-nozzle ex-boyfriend, complete with a fake smile and dull eyes, did she think her internet “friends” assumed she was happy?

When we stopped talking, I had these little glimpses into her life, and it hurt like a bitch, but at least I was able to see she was somewhat happy. Living a life that didn’t include me but seemed to fulfill her.

And then, she deleted every trace of herself from the internet—tried to, anyway. Ava and Bianca still included Seraphina in their carousels and family posts, but there were no tags and no profile available for the middle Gregori sister. It pissed me off at first, not because I couldn’t keep tabs on Seraphina and ensure she was some bullshit semblance of happy, but because it felt like she was taking a protective measure.

It makes my comment about Mitch last night even more fucked up because I know he did something to her. I just don’t know what. And right now, with how the last two days are panning out, I doubt I ever will.

Sliding my fingers over the pictures, I look through the ten carefully curated photos, and my motions halt at a picture of the three Gregori sisters posed in front of Grey and Ava’s apartment building. There’s nothing sexual, offensive, or otherwise controversial about the photo, but for some reason, my jaw clenches, and I can’t help the desire that blooms inside of me.

Grey’s positioned behind Ava, hugging her around her neck and pressing his body to her back. On one side is Bianca, with a vibrant smile and a tiny orange dress hanging from her body. And then there’s Seraphina.

Despite Bianca looking like a damn traffic cone, my eyes drift to Seraphina instantly.

Though Seraphina’s body is highlighted in the picture, it’s not the main thing that draws my attention. While Bianca and Ava wear excited, happy expressions, Seraphina’s close-lipped smile and tilted head are aloof. My eyes stay on her face, taking in her dark-brown eyes, her high cheekbones, and the small dimple on her chin. It’s easy to say she’s beautiful; objectively, she is.

But it’s more than that. She’s intelligent, quiet yet witty, driven. She’s more than her face, more than her body, and somehow, her expression perfectly captures her inner beauty.

“Fuck,” I mutter again, dropping my phone to the couch and running a hand over my face. “This isn’t going to end well.”

“Why? Are you going to make me cry again today?” The sound of Gemma’s voice has me straightening immediately.

“What are you doing up?” In the the years I’ve been with Gemma, I’ve never seen her wake up before nine. Her presence in the living room at six thirty is unnerving and, quite frankly, weird as hell.

“You called me another woman’s name last night, and suddenly, I’m not even allowed to be in an apartment we’ve shared for the last year and a half?”

Clenching my jaw, I close my eyes, calling on every vestige of patience lurking inside me. “That’s not fucking fair, Gemma. I was sleeping; I didn’t know you were there. I wasn’t conscious.”

“And that’s supposed to make it better? I’m your girlfriend. Who else would you be dreaming about?”

Keeping my voice low and my tone as soft as my anger can, I bite out a reply, “I was sleeping. We had just fought, and you stomped to our room. I wasn’t expecting anyone or anything while I was asleep on our goddamn couch, Gem. I didn’t ask, nor did I want you to wake me up with sex or anything else you had planned.”

The look she gives me is scathing, a nonverbal rebuke of my reaction during the early morning hours. “You cheated on me in your mind. I don’t think I can forgive that, Lincoln. And now you’re trying to gaslight me.”

“I’m not trying to gaslight you, Gemma. I’m not discounting your feelings or trying to confuse or manipulate you. Listen.” I breathe out a heavy sigh. “I don’t want to fight with you. I understand you’re upset, and I get it; I’m sorry. But we’re in a fucked-up merry-go-round of bullshit, and we need to step off this ride.”

“What are you saying right now? I came out here last night to suck your cock and say sorry, and you’ve twisted this around to somehow blame me?”

“Gemma, I was fucking unconscious. And I’m not blaming you. I’m pointing out the situation we’re in.”

“Most men would be happy if their girlfriends woke them up with a blowjob. You’re acting so fucking dumb right now. Would you listen to yourself?”

My fingers flex against the blanket I’m holding in my lap, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to fling the fabric aside, get up, and walk out of this room. “I don’t know what you want me to tell you. What, that I’m not like most men? I have no idea how other people would react. I know how I’d react and how I did react.”

“Well, asshole, most men would appreciate me. Maybe I should find one of them!” she shouts, her voice bouncing around the apartment.

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