Page 7 of Summer's Echo
Echo
July 2019
A Few Months Earlier
I nudged a few unpacked boxes out of the way as I stepped into my condo, shaking my head at the mess that still surrounded me. When I’d decided to buy a place, I hadn’t factored in the endless hours it would take to unpack, organize, and decorate.
Maybe I can getKemi to help me,I thought.
My sister, Yekemi, had an impeccable eye for design. She’d moved to Los Angeles a year ago, and while I liked to think it was to be near me, I knew her real motive—advancing her career in beauty and fashion.
Tossing the mail and my keys on the counter, my steps slowed as I made my way farther into the two-story open-concept condo to admire the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the bustling city. The warm hues of the July sun setting reflected off the glass, and without thinking, I let out a contented breath. I’d called LA home for the past eight years and thought it was about time to plant some roots here. There was a time that I thought my situation would be temporary and I would return to the Midwest. I always considered Chicago home, so maybe I’d return there one day. Maybe return toher. But that was no longer my fantasy or reality. I was never going back.
To my surprise, my parents had settled in St. Louis for good. My dad received tenure at his university, and my mom launched a small catering business once my youngest sister, Sadie, was in high school. The house I grew up in became their forever home, a rarity for a family that had moved as much as we had.
I often wondered about Summer after we parted ways before college. She headed to Atlanta, and I stayed in St. Louis. I didn’t want to intrude on her new life, and truthfully, I needed time to adjust to my own. I threw myself into my studies, graduating with degrees in art and English from Washington University before diving straight into an MBA program. It was hard as hell, but over the years, I’d learned to tuck the memories of Summer away in the farthest corners of my mind. They were locked there, only to be uncovered when I allowed myself the luxury of reminiscing.
When I first moved to LA, I landed an internship at NBC Universal, which was a fancy way of saying I was an errand boy. Despite my degrees from one of the most prestigious universities in the country, I was scraping by, making barely a thousand dollars a month. Thankfully, my education was covered due to my dad’s tenure benefits, so that thousand dollars was just enough to secure a closet-sized room in an apartment I shared with three other people—one of whom was my ex, Kourtni Lang. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was a start.
Over time, I worked my way up the ranks to become a senior graphic designer, working on popular studio films, television shows, and even a few independent passion projects that were gaining recognition. I poured my heart and soul into my work, thriving in a competitive, cut-throat industry and flourishing within the company for years. But recently, I’d felt compelled to step out on faith, hope, and everything in between to start my own business.
The Black creative community in LA was small, close-knit, and deeply inspiring. Over the years, I’d made many lifelong friendships and invaluable connections that motivated the decision to take a leap. Of course, having a father who was a stickler about saving and investing didn’t hurt either. Once I moved beyond living on ramen noodles, he practically demanded that I set aside a fixed amount of money monthly. He took those savings and invested them on my behalf, creating a solid safety net if my entrepreneurial dream did not go as planned.
It had been a hell of a long week, so a glass of cognac was more than necessary. I laughed at the lone glass, plate, fork, knife, and spoon sitting in the sink—a clear sign that I’d barely settled into my new place after two weeks. I hadn’t had time to breathe, let alone unpack. Taking a sip of the Angel’s Envy neat, I let the warmth settle my nerves. My attention shifted to the pile of mail transferred to my new address cluttering the already cluttered counter. I shook my head, never understanding why I received so much mail when ninety percent of my life was managed online.
I sifted through endless sales ads, credit card offers, and outright junk until a shiny ivory envelope with an embossed seal caught my eye. The ornate lettersSandDpressed into the wax seemed to sparkle under the kitchen light. It was addressed to me, with a PO Box in St. Louis listed as the return address. A familiar unease settled in my chest as I turned it over in my hands. Taking another sip of the smooth brown liquor, I prepared myself, knowing that I’d need a little liquid courage to confront whatever was inside the envelope. I pulled out the stool at the kitchen island and plopped down, running a finger beneath the intricate seal. The card I pulled out matched the same iridescent sheen of the envelope. The meticulously inked handwritten calligraphy was elegant, but despite its beauty, the message it carried was downright ugly.
Youare cordially invited to the wedding ceremony of Summer SierraKnight and Deshawn Micah Towns.
“I don’t want this bullshit,” I barked, then balled up the paper and hurled it against the wall. Anger simmered in my core, threatening to boil over. No, it wasn’t just anger, it was something sharper. Rage. Shit, more like hurt. A hurt I hadn’t experienced since the last time I’d seen Summer Knight. “Why the hell would she send this to me?” I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper, thick with frustration.
Exhaling deeply to simmer my angst, I was fixed on the crumpled paper on the floor. I shook my head, torn between walking away from it and picking it up to destroy it further. I started to sip my drink but instead, drained it in one long, burning gulp. My first instinct was to call her, to demand answers. Ask her why she thought I’d want to see this shit. But it had been about a year since our last conversation, and that encounter wasn’t unpleasant, but it definitely didn’t rekindle our friendship.
Picking up my phone, my thumb hovered over her name—Sunshine—the word stared back, mocking me. I needed clarity, but it wouldn’t come from her, so instead, I dialed the one person who would keep it one hundred with me, no filter. The one person who’d seen me through all the highs and lows with Summer. The line rang twice before a familiar voice greeted me.
“Yo,” Maxell said.
Since meeting at camp all those years ago, Max and I had become more like brothers than friends. He’d been my sounding board through every twist and turn with Summer—and Kourtni, for that matter. If anyone could understand how seeing the announcement of Summer’s wedding hit me like a sucker punch, it was him.
“I got mail today,” I said, not bothering with small talk.
“Oh yeah,” Maxell replied, his tone a mix of interest and expectation. I was pretty damn sure he’d received the same invitation.
“Yeah,” I muttered, rubbing the bridge of my nose like I could knead the frustration out of my skull. “Why the hell would she send me this shit?”
Maxtsked knowingly, the kind of sound that came from someone who was about to tell you the whole truth and nothing but the truth. “I don’t know, man. Maybe because no matter where y’all are in life, she still needs your support. She’s always had your support.”
I shook my head, the weight of the words pressing on my chest. “Not this time. I can’t do it, Max. I can’t watch that.”
“Why not?” he shot back, calm but unwavering. “If I remember correctly, she gave you a chance to tell her what you wanted. Asked you straight up, but you—”
“Man, don’t start. I don’t need a damn recap,” I snapped, harsher than I intended.
Max wasn’t fazed though. “So let me ask again: If you’re not planning to tell her how you feel, what’s stopping you from showing up to watch her be happy? What’s the problem, E?”
The silence between us grew heavy, like it was daring me to fill it with the truth I didn’t want to face. This felt like a death—a kind of loss that was hard to explain, but impossible to ignore—a quiet grief I knew would linger for the rest of my life.
“Happy…” I muttered, almost to myself. “You think she’s happy with that nigga?”
