Page 44 of Summer's Echo
He let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “No, Summer. What is going on?” His gaze traveled past me, landing on Echo. He stiffened. “Why are you with him?”
Behind me, Echo’s voice was fixed. “Sun.” I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t. He stepped forward, close enough that I could feel him, but not so close that it would push this into something worse. A warm hand settled lightly on my shoulder. “I’ll be back with your car,” he said, voice calm, laced with something I couldn’t quite name.
Deshawn’s patience snapped. “What the hell is going on?” he repeated, his voice rising, his body tensing as he took a sudden step forward, his finger pointing aggressively toward Echo. “I’ll ask again: Why is he here?”
Before he could get any closer, my brother moved, stepping in his path.
“Deshawn.” My father’s voice was firm, a quiet command. “Step outside.” His next words were for Echo. “And you should go.”
My attention bounced between the four men in the room, each imposing in their own way, but the common thread was me. They all loved me. I silently begged Echo to leave, to trust that we’d talk later. He gave a small nod, acknowledging my unspoken plea. I kept my back straight and chin high when I turned to face the fire—Deshawn—because that’s just what Echo had instilled in me. Bravery. But when I heard the front door click shut behind me, a bit of that moxie wavered.Here we go.
A sharp inhale cut through the room. Deshawn’s stare abandoned the door and locked onto me, his face unexpressive, but his eyes—penetrating and pained—those gave him away. Without a word, he turned on his heels and strode through the kitchen, heading toward the four-season sunroom attached to the back of my parents’ home. I paused before following. The space had been a retirement gift to my parents from me and my siblings—a sanctuary meant to bring them peace. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the backyard, allowing natural light to spill in, seamlessly connecting the indoors and the beauty of the chilled autumn afternoon outside. On any other day, it would’ve felt open, airy, free. But right now, as I stepped in, the walls were closing in on me. The space was too small. The air too thick. The looming hurt in the room too much.
Deshawn stood by the window, arms crossed tautly over his chest, his back impossibly straight. He didn’t move, didn’t turn, but the tension rolling off him was suffocating. I sank onto the plush ivory couch, perched on the edge like a bird ready to fly away at any second. Guilt and anxiety pressed down so heavily, I swore I might topple over. No turning back now. This was really happening.
Shaking his head, Deshawn turned to face me, though his stance remained rigid. “You said we’d talk,” he said, voice flat, “so talk. The floor is yours.”
I swallowed hard. “I know I owe you the truth, and—”
“Oh, you owe me a hell of a lot more than that, Summer,” he interrupted, jaw clenched so tight I swore I heard his teeth grind. “You fucking humiliated me.” His voice was raw and cutting, slicing through the space between us.
“People were running around, worried about your ass, thinking you were in an accident or some shit, and you were…” He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. “God only knows where.”
I stayed quiet, letting him get this out. If the roles were reversed, I’d probably have been upside his head by now.
“I was waiting for you. In my tuxedo. Ready to say ‘I do’, and you humiliate me like I ain’t shit. Like we ain’t been shit.” His bitter laugh was eerie. “And you chose to do this in front of my family, my friends, my business partners—” He shook his head. “The damn mayor was there, Summer.”
If I weren’t the guilty party, I might’ve cocked my head in confusion. What the hell did the mayor have to do with anything? But I didn’t interrupt. I just swallowed hard, nodding as I let him vent.
“I know,” I said, “and I’m so sorry, Shawn. I never meant to hurt you.”
His eyes snapped to mine, burning with disbelief. “Then why, Summer?” His voice was quieter now, but the anger hadn’t faded, it had only sharpened. “You said out there that you couldn’t marry me. Why?” Slowly, he stepped closer. The room shrank to the size of a chickpea. His voice dropped lower; each word weighted with barely restrained fury. “And I swear to God, if you say cold feet or that you need more time or any other Hallmark bullshit, I might lose it.”
For the first time, I felt something I had never felt with Deshawn before: fear. Not for my safety, but for the flood of unrestrained emotions cracking through his exterior. The heartbreak, the betrayal was palpable. This was a side of him I’d never seen, an imbalanced side…a rageful side. I promised to be honest. To tell him the whole truth. So here it was.
“I’m not scared of marriage.” I paused, calming my breath. “I’m afraid of marrying you.” The words left my lips like an exhale, like a truth I had been holding in so long my lungs had grown tired of carrying it. And yet, despite the guilt suffocating me, I couldn’t ignore the relief settling deep in my bones.
Deshawn, on the other hand…his expression was a collision of devastation and downright outrage. “Wow.” He breathed as if I had knocked the wind out of him. He ran a hand over his face before sinking into the chair beside the couch, close but still keeping a deliberate distance.
“Is that supposed to make it all better?”
I shook my head. “No,” I admitted, “but it’s my truth.” His attention shifted to the ceiling, to the floor, anywhere but on me. I pressed on before my courage failed. “I kept telling myself that love would come.”
At that, his head lifted slightly. “So, you don’t love me, Summer.” His voice was quieter now, ragged. “Since when?”
“I love you, Deshawn. I do.” I swallowed against the lump in my throat. “But I’d be lying if I said I wasinlove with you. As much as I wanted to be…” I exhaled shakily. “I thought I was just overthinking things again, that if I leaned into the life we were building…the butterflies would come.” My voice trailed off, as if the wind had carried my last words away.
But I couldn’t stop now.“The truth is…” I delayed, then forced the words out. “I never felt it the way I should have. Not the way you deserve.”
Slowly, I moved from my seat, lowering myself to kneel in front of him. He didn’t look at me. I reached for his hands, fingers curling over his, holding on even though I could feel his resistance, his grief. “You are an amazing man, Deshawn,” I said, “and you’ve been an even better friend to me.” Finally, he lifted his eyes to mine. “And I am so sorry.”
He stood abruptly, practically stepping over me to get away. “And when did you figure this out?” His voice was quiet, but the weight of his pain was undeniable. “That you didn’t love me?”
He turned toward the window as if searching for an answer in the autumn sky. I stood, too, instinctively seeking my own window, needing something to ground me before I spoke.
Before I could find the words, a butterfly landed on the windowsill. Its vivid orange wings traced with bold black veins fluttered against the cool glass. A quiet smile ghosted my lips as a memory surfaced: Echo sitting on a tree stump at camp, his sketchbook in hand, capturing the delicate creatures that danced around us in our secret place.
“These are monarchs,Sunshine,” he had said, eyes bright with wonder. “Their wingsmay be fragile, but they’re stronger than they seem.They are known for their resilience and endurance, even intheir delicacy. Monarchs migrate thousands of miles every year, nomatter what. I sometimes wonder what kind of remarkable journeysthey’ve been on.”
