Page 9 of The Summer You Found Me

Once upon a time, a situation like this would have made me panic. Now I just want to go back to bed. “Get one of the line cooks to run to the store and buy what we need.” Paying regular prices for everything means we won’t even make a profit off food today, but it just takes two assholes bitching on Yelp about how they couldn’t get a burger here to ruin everything.

Laura falls into step beside me as I walk toward the office. “Mueller said you asked him to close last night because you had a guest,” she says. “Afemaleguest.”

My shoulders sag. “I never told Mueller my guest was female.”

She winks. “But you’re not denying it, so...is she cute?”

I walk into my office, leaving her behind. “No.”

It’s not a lie. Kate is a hurricane in human form, and no one has ever called a hurricanecute—especially one who walks around my house in nothing but a fucking T-shirt. She clearly thinks being married to one of my closest friends will stop me from doing something I should not.

I’m somewhat less sure. One of many reasons I need her out of my home.

6

KATE

It’s the Fourth of July.

Out in the world, people are hosting barbecues. Families are heading to the beach. On Main Street, there’s a parade going on right about now—a group of veterans sweating in their uniforms, the town mayor waving from a car, all the little kids cycling along on their tiny bikes.

Tonight, they’ll gather under the stars on picnic blankets and watch the city’s lame fireworks display. Toddlers will fall asleep in their mother’s laps with popsicle-stained mouths, the sticks still clutched in their grubby little fists.

Do those parents realize how goddamn lucky they are? Do they pull their children close and consider, really consider, all the ways fate could have stolen away everything they love? I’m sure they don’t. I wouldn’t, either, if it hadn’t been stolen from me.

The box I keep in my suitcase calls to me, but I can’t go there now. Not when I’m doing my best to pretend that darkness isn’t still inside me.

I open my laptop instead and expand the job search to San Jose. The commute will suck but employment, in this case, isn’t about happiness or quality of life. It’s about reminding Caleb of who I was. Who I can be.

I email my creatively worded resume to several jobs I don’t want and then the emptiness of my day hits me in the face.

I watched movies nonstop in rehab, but being in rehab was a lot like being stuck at the airport, waiting on a delayed flight—you did whatever you could to avoid losing your shit. I theoretically can doanythingnow. I never expected it to feel worse. I never expected to still have to fight this gnawing, craving thing inside me that wants something more.

To fill the time, I sweep, knock down cobwebs, scrub grout—and then I stalk Lucie. Beck didn’t say I couldn’t, after all, and it’s a victimless crime.

Correction: atpresentit’s a victimless crime.

There are loads of pictures of her online—mostly at events with her ex-husband, Jeremy, a smug bastard flashing a Rolex and a smirk in every photo. It’s easy to see why she jumped at the chance to sleep with my husband rather than her own.

To my vast irritation, she’s set all her social media profiles to private, but I’ll get around that soon enough. I send her a follow request from the fake profile I’ve set up—BayLee652 #twinmom #organicbaby. BayLee’s posts, thus far, are all about food (“Yummers, homemade acai bowl for the win!”)

It’s possible I hate BayLee even more than I hate Lucie.

BayLee652 is in the process of posting a cute dog pic (“Meet our first baby, Wilson . . . He thinks he’s one of the twins, LOLz”) when Caleb’s name appears on my phone at last.

My heartbeat triples as I push away from the counter and swipe my index finger over the screen to answer.Is his romantic trip already over? Was it so boring he came home early?

“Hi, Caleb.” It comes out as a purr and I mentally scold myself:Be the new Kate—don’t shit-talk Lucie, don’t flirt unless he flirts first.I clear my throat. “What’s up?”

“Hi. How are you?” He is polite—nothing more.

When we first began dating, he’d say,“I’m coming over. Get undressed,”his voice all command and need.That’sthe Caleb I want back, not this merelycivilone asking about my health as if he barely knows me.

“I’m—”

There’s echoing noise from his side of the line, the chatter of people walking past. I suspect he isn’t going to listen to my answer, that he doesn’t actually care how I am, but if he’s back in the office, his romantic trip is definitely over, so...silver lining. “You sound busy.”

“Just stopped in the office to grab some stuff.” He says something about quarterly reports that isn’t directed at me. I’m beginning to think this conversationwon’tlead to nudity.

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