Page 17 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer
He leans on the railing, all casual confidence. “You could’ve mentioned your ex was back.”
The porch light flickers.
“It just happened. Today.” I swallow hard. “But also, you know, I’ve been thinking a lot about us.”
His smile falters. “You forgot our date. You’ve been thinking. That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not,” I admit. “I don’t think this is working. You deserve more than… this. More than me half here and half still… somewhere else.”
“Somewhere else,” he echoes, glancing behind us toward Noah’s shadow in the doorway, all alpha possessiveness and broody disposition. “You mean him.”
“I mean my family. My mess. All of it. I can’t give you what you deserve right now.”
Jake runs a hand through his hair; disappointment etched across his face. “I get it. I guess. I just wish things were different.”
“Me too.”
He leans in and kisses my lips, gentle, resigned, then walks away.
I turn back, and there’s Noah in the doorway. Watching. Waiting. Expression unreadable, but the air between us crackles like live wires.
This isn’t over. Not even close.
ten
. . .
Elle
It’s late.
I can’t sleep. Again.
Insomnia’s a bitch. A dirty, cunty bitch.
It started when Noah left. Okay, that’s not entirely true—I had sleep issues when I was younger too. But once I met Noah, they all went away. When he was in bed next to me, I slept like the dead. And tonight, I can’t even smoke enough pot to drug my brain into thinking it’s just a tiny bit dead.
And poor Jake. Didn’t deserve to get drop-kicked out of my love life tonight. But let’s face it—he was never Noah. Nobody is. That’s the problem.
The pad of my thumb runs over the jagged edge of a nail I broke gardening today. I need to remember to file it before I flail around and cut myself. Noah used to joke he was going to find grown-size baby mittens for me—the only adult he knew who could cut herself with her own nails just like a baby.
I sigh, ready to head back inside, when something catches my eye.
Someone creeping through the backyard of the Jenkins’ place.
From my deck, there’s not an inch of their yard I can’t see. Normally, unspoken rule says no spying, but this is different. Maybe Celeste is sneaking a boyfriend into the house.
The thought makes me chuckle; the girl gives them a run for their money for sure.
Except—wait. The Jenkins are supposed to be in Cabo this week. So, the boyfriend could use the front door. Which means no one should be creeping around back there.
Celeste might be inside that house. Alone.
And suddenly, this isn’t neighborhood gossip or idle curiosity. This is a nineteen-year-old girl who could be in danger.
My stomach knots as the shadowy figure crouches near her window.
Fuck.
