Page 22 of Summertime Hexy
I snort. “Creepy.”
“I could say the same about you crying into a notebook.”
“I wasn’t crying.”
He tilts his head slightly, and that tiny almost-smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Sure.”
I roll my eyes and clutch the journal tighter.
“She was such a little idiot,” I say. “This version of me. Bright-eyed. Obsessed with unicorns. Thought if she just workedhard enough, she couldfixeverything. Be the one everyone needed. Be… enough.”
Derek doesn’t respond right away.
When he does, his voice is low. “Maybe she wasn’t wrong.”
I blink. “Wow. Is that a compliment? Are you okay?”
“I didn’t say itwell,” he mutters. “Don’t make me regret it.”
Too late.
I’m already doing that thing where my chest feels warm and heavy and something inside me wants toreach out. I don’t. But it’sthere. And that’s bad enough.
“You’re a menace, you know,” I say. “All broody and supportive and weirdly poetic.”
“I haven’t said anything poetic.”
“Exactly. That’s the worst part.”
He exhales. Shakes his head. But he’s stillhere.
And it’s thebeing herethat’s wrecking me.
Because I’ve had a lot of peopletalkat me. Fix me. Lecture me. Walk away from me.
I’ve never had someone justsit.
Especially not after seeing the messy, broken, glitter-free parts.
“You’re not leaving?” I ask, voice smaller than I want.
“No,” he says simply. “Not unless you make me.”
I don’t say anything.
I just open the journal again.
And this time, I let him stay.
—
I’m not spying.
Let’s just get that out of the way.
I’m simply… observing. Casually. From behind a magically camouflaged bush. As one does.
It’s not my fault Derek is currently kneeling beside an eight-year-old camper named Phoebe, who is holding a frog andcrying like it personally betrayed her. I was walking to the greenhouse!Coincidentally.At the exact moment he crouched down, coat sweeping behind him like some dark prince from a particularly emo fairytale.
