Page 60 of Summer's Echo
“You good, Sunshine?” I asked, then gently pinched the tip of her nose.
She turned to me, her lips twitching at the nickname. “Yeah, I’m good.”
I wanted to ask her when she was planning to leave her parents’ house—to resume her routine. Hell, I wanted to beg her to get on this plane with me. But instead, I just sat back and enjoyed the ride, letting Jill Scott croon through the speakers about being put back together again. I wondered if that’s how my Sun felt about us. We pulled into the parking lot of First Watch, and before we even stepped inside, I could tell this was her spot. As soon as we walked in, one of the waitresses greeted her like they were old friends.
“You come here often?”
“Mm-hmm.”She slid into the booth across from me. “Sometimes I come here to work when I can’t focus at home.”
I nodded, filing that piece of information away, then placed my order after she placed hers. The waitress returned a moment later with our coffee and water before scurrying off, giving us space, but I didn’t waste time.
“Have you talked to him?” I asked, cutting straight to it.
She exhaled, stirring a sugar packet into her coffee. “I texted him, but we haven’t talked.”
“Did he respond?”
She gave me a small nod. “Yeah, surprisingly. While this is hard, I think we both know it was for the best. Saved us on attorney fees in the long run, I guess.” Her words were light, but I saw the seriousness behind them.
I let a beat pass, then leaned forward. “When am I going to be able to see you, Summer?”
She lifted a brow, looking away as if searching for the right answer. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I still have a lot to figure out—clean up my shit, as my daddy told me yesterday.”
She laughed, shaking her head, and I had to laugh too because Mr. Knight was like my father, a straight-shooting man of few words but unquestionable truths.
I sighed, leaning in. “This is going to sound crazy, but I want you to take the time you need…” I reached across the table, taking her hands in mine. “I just don’t want you to take too long.”
She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t meet my eyes either. Instead, she changed the subject. “What did you say to your dad?”
I drew in a slow breath, steadying myself. “What did my dad say to you?” I shot back, unwilling to let her deflect so easily.
She paused for a beat, fingers tightening slightly around her coffee cup. “He…apologized…I think.”
My brows pulled together. “You think?”
Shrugging, she fiddled with her hoop earring. “In his own way, I guess. But yeah, I’m pretty sure it was an apology.” A short pause followed, then, “He even asked about my parents.”
I relaxed in my seat, rolling my shoulders as I processed that. My father? Asking about her family? I snickered, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “Well, damn.”
Summer then tilted her head to the side. “Now your turn.”
I shrugged, my thumb absentmindedly tracing circles over the back of her hand. “I spent my whole life following my dad’s rules—trying to be who he wanted me to be. It was a life that looked good on paper but never felt right.“ Her eyes lifted to meet mine. She knew all too well the pursuit of false perfection. “I told him I don’t want to live like that anymore,” I said steadily and with certainty. “I want a life that looksandfeels perfect, and I told him that was you.”
Her mouth opened slightly, as if she had something to say, but the words never came. I let the moment settle between us before reaching into my bag.
“I have something for you.” I pulled out a box I had grabbed when we got out of the car.
She didn’t say a word as I slid it across the table. But the coy blush in her eyes? That said everything. She untied the bow, peeling back the wrapping paper with careful fingers before lifting the lid of the box. A sharp gasp escaped her, and her eyes misted instantly at the sight inside.
“E,” she whispered. That one letter, my name on her lips, never failed to send a shiver through me.
I bit the corner of my lip, watching her take it in. “I found my sketchbook buried in a box in my closet,” I admitted. “I drew so many pictures that summer, I didn’t even remember this one. But when I saw it again…it just felt right.”
Reaching into the box, I lifted the framed sketch, turning it toward her so she could see it fully. It was her. Crisscrossed legs on the tree stump draped with a blanket, sketchpad on her lap, lost in her own world. I shaded the curve of her face, the way her lashes cast delicate shadows against her cheeks, how her bottom lip jutted out just slightly when she concentrated. The moment was captured just as a cluster of butterflies surrounded her, drawn to her like they belonged there. She was art. She always had been.
She brushed over the edge of the frame. “It’s beautiful, Echo,” she said.
But I wasn’t looking at the drawing. I was looking at her. I searched her face, trying to unscramble the thoughts running through her mind. And when her gaze lifted to mine, I saw it… reverence, care, something deeper, something adoring. Then, she smiled. That dimpled, breathtaking smile that had owned me since we were kids.
