Page 12 of Roses in Summer

“Fine. I’ll tell her.”

“Good boy. I’ll let you go. Drive carefully.Kocham cie.”

“Love you too, Ma. I’ll call you this weekend.” With that, I hang up, pulling off my exit as I do. Her lack of questioning about Seraphina confirms that my dad hasn’t told her—yet. Rolling to a stop at a traffic light, I check my phone once again for any messages from Seraphina.

Still nothing.

“Fuck it,” I murmur, typing out a quick message before depositing my phone back into the cupholder and continuing the drive.

Lincoln: Hi, pretty girl. You free?

—

It’s been three hours, and she hasn’t responded to my message, though I know she’s received it and read it based on the read symbol below the text. As I drink my beer, standing in an overcrowded room at a party I don’t really want to be at, I scowl, confused as to what happened in the twelve hours since I spoke to her and heard that fucker’s voice in the background.

I can’t help the feeling that some shit went down, and while I don’t want to be an annoying asshole demanding she speak to me, I can’t stop the need to constantly check my phone, wondering if and when she’ll reach out.

It’s been less than twenty-four hours since I’ve spoken to her, and this is how I’m acting, like a pathetic, obsessed schoolboy with an infatuation with the prettiest girl in class. I hate it, but I’m leaning into the feelings, not shying away from them. After seeing my two best friends get their asses handed to them by their girls, it may be that I’ve been conditioned these last two months to see the merits of a steady relationship. I’m man enough to admit that even now, with Dante and Grey standing next to me with their girlfriends and their friend Serena, I’m jealous that I don’t have someone to trade inside jokes or bullshit the time away with. I tell myself I want someone special in my life, that what I’m feeling is a need for companionship, not for any one particular person.

But it sounds like a lie. Maybe I’m feeling lonely, or maybe there’s just something about Seraphina Rose Gregori that haunts me.

I want it to be the former, but it’s probably the latter.

My mind buzzes as I continue sipping my beer and lean against a bare wall, surveying the party and drunk patrons around me. It’s so loud in here, and the beat of feet against the floor so steady that I nearly miss the vibrating in my back pocket.

As soon as I feel it, though, I can’t ignore it.

Grabbing the device from my pocket, my shoulders relax for the first time since before my shift this morning at the name on the screen.

Seraphina: Hey

It’s not a wordy text or playful or flirty like I’m used to. But it’s something, and I’ll fucking take it.

5

Seraphina

My stomach is in knots—not a simple twist, but one of those intricate braids they taught Boy Scouts in the seventies.

I close my eyes and let the last few hours play out like a movie in my mind. When I met Mitch during my freshman year, I thought he was special. When we started dating sophomore year, I thought he was a prince. After our first breakup, I thought he was a decent guy, but maybe not the one for me. But now? After agreeing to a charade of a relationship to keep my parents from living out a legal and ethical nightmare, I hate him. I’ve never understood that emotion until now.

I thought I hated cooked carrots, going to bed late, and circuit workouts. But those things are nuisances and do not deserve emotion. The all-consuming, rage-inducing disgust and loathing I have toward Mitch is the first time I’ve ever truly understood the darkness of hatred.

Part of me hates my parents and my need to protect them from the potential danger, though there’s no power behind it. And all of me hates what I know this will do to my—friendship? Relationship? Possible relationship?—with Lincoln. Because as soon as I tell him that Mitch is coming back into my life, I know that all our communication, flirting, and banter will vanish.

And how can I blame him for the hatehe’llfeel towardme?

I feel guilt and self-pity, but I have to silence those emotions if I’m going to get on with my life in the best way I can, with the worst possible partner.

When I spoke to Mitch, I made it clear that this sham of a relationship would only last until the election results—a little less than twelve months. After that, I never wanted to see him, his father, or any member of his family again. As it stands, my life feels like a horribly written soap opera, one that housewives in the nineties would watch while ironing and scream things like, “Rebecca, he’s your long lost brother from your parents’ first marriage; don’t kiss him” at the television.

The guilt drives me to pick up my phone and type a text message to the man I ignored earlier this evening. When he texted me, I was sitting in the passenger seat of Mitch’s car, talking about the arrangement and what the expectations are. In romance novels, where there are marriages of convenience or forced arrangements, there’s almost always a happy ending—the villain gets the girl, and while the start of their union is chaotic, there’s love and sex, respect and protection. I told Mitch in no uncertain terms that if he tried to touch me in private or intimately in public, I wouldn’t hesitate to punch him between his legs.

Gnawing on my lip, I wait for Lincoln to read and respond to the simple “Hey” I sent, hoping he’s still up and willing to speak with me.

His reply is almost instant, and despite the bullshit happening around me, seeing his name pop up on my screen does something to me.

Lincoln: Hi

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