The Summer We Changed (Relentless Book 1)

by Barbara C. Doyle

  If anything, it’s endearing.

  I don’t know if that makes me weird, but if so, then I’ll embrace it. Because Will does those things for me.

  Every little criticism is an endearment—a reminder of our relationship. He accepts my craziness, and even feeds it from time to time. In all the years I’ve known him, he has never walked away from the crazy things I say or do.

  He never walks away from me.

  Not until now.

  Standing in the middle of my apartment kitchen, I gaze out the tiny window above the sink. The view of the backyard is sad—the parking area all mud from the rain we’ve had nonstop for the past three days, and tree limbs down from the amount of wind that’s been whipping.

  It’s like Mother Nature can sense my mood.

  Maybe if I think happy thoughts, a rainbow will appear.

  I roll my eyes at my train of thought.

  Yeah, I snort silently. And maybe if I think really hard, a unicorn will pop up beside me with a pot of gold on its mystical back.

  I really need to get out more.

  I move away from the window, almost stepping on Ollie’s tail behind me. Throwing my weight to the right, I lose my balance. Before I can catch myself, I smack my chin against the counter, tumbling to the ground.

  My hand goes to my chin, and I wince at the pain throbbing throughout my face. An instant headache fills my temples, and red liquid drips excessively from where my fingers touch the wound.

  Queasiness fills my stomach at the sight of blood, and the metallic-like scent doesn’t help the nausea. I’ve never been great with blood, and apparently that hasn’t changed.

  My phone goes off in my pocket, the familiar Relentless song “We Do” telling me it’s Ian calling.

  Managing to get to the sink, I put the damp washcloth on my chin. I cringe when it hits the area, probably still having dish soap from the dishes I washed earlier in the cloth.

  I hit the answer button. “Now’s not a good time,” I groan, applying pressure on the wound.

  “You sound like shit,” he informs me.

  I mentally smack him. “Where the hell have you been?” He’s been just as quiet as Will has the past four days. The last time we chatted was the day at the diner. Even after sitting on the idea Ian blossomed, I’m still not one hundred percent on board.

  “Aw, did you miss me?” he teases, voice playful.

  Honestly? No. It sucked not having him to joke around with, or even fangirl and talk music to, but his absence was nothing more than an inconvenience that fed my boredom.

  That makes me a bad friend, but I don’t care.

  “Your silence hurts me,” he says, sighing.

  “Ian, I really can’t talk.”

  “What’s wrong?” I can hear the genuine worry in his voice, and it surprises me. Although I consider us friends, we’re not close. Sure, he’s helping me find work doing something I like, and he’s helping—or thinks he’s helping—me get past my roadblock with Will, but I don’t know if that qualifies us as besties. We don’t talk every day, we don’t share secrets. We share adventures, a taste for something new.

  That’s where are similarities end.

  But the worry in his tone makes me feel comforted, because at least somebody is.

  I sigh. “I’m bleeding.”

  “Oh.” His voice sounds low. “That’s uh …” He clears his throat. “Like you’re having girl problems? Because I’m not sure I want to hear about that, Freckles. Maybe call your mom?”

  I roll my eyes.

  Of course he thinks I’m talking about my period.

  “No, dummy,” I murmur, leaning my elbows on the corner of the sink. “I fell and cut my chin. It’s bleeding.”

  I pull the washcloth away thinking it’d be done now, but more blood comes out.

  My stomach churns. “Oh, God. It’s still bleeding.”

  He swears. “Where are you?”

  “At my apartment.”

  There’s a knock at my front door.

  I still. “You’re here?”

  “Your mom told me where you were.”

  Of course she did.

  I press the once-green washcloth tighter against my chin before making my way to the front door. This time, I make sure Ollie is out of my way. He stays in the kitchen, his tail twitching and his green eyes on me the whole time I’m walking. I want to believe he’s sorry.

  But the bastard doesn’t look it.

  Unlocking the deadbolt, I open the door.

  “Jesus,” he mutters as soon as he sees me. “You’re pale. Like, paler than normal. And that says something.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  He looks me over, wincing at what he sees. “I mean, seriously, Freckles. I think I’ll have to start calling you Casper.

  I deadpan at him. Does he not realize I’m bleeding out here?

  Yes, some people think that porcelain skin is beautiful. I was told once it’s even desirable. But why? When I think about porcelain, I think about toilets. How beautiful are toilets really? Not very desirable to me.

  “Come on,” he says, tugging on my arm. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

  “I don’t need to go,” I argue, trying to pull away. Just as I move back, I get dizzy. My head gets light and my vision goes wonky around me.

  His arm hooks around my waist. “I’m not giving you a choice. You might need stitches. It looks like it’s bleeding pretty badly.”

  I groan loudly in protest. If there’s one thing I hate worse than blood, it’s needles.

  But, reluctantly, I grab my keys from the side table by the door, shutting and locking it behind me.

  I can fight him on it, but bleeding to death alone in my apartment doesn’t sound appealing. Then what would Ollie do for food? He’d have to eat me.

  I read an article once about an old lady who died in her sleep, and her cats had to eat her in order to stay alive. Because, of course the lady had like twenty cats.

  I refuse to let that become my outcome.

  He drags me to his fancy car, which is parked out front.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asks, opening the door for me, and guiding me to sit down. He’s being gentle, showing a side of him I haven’t seen in a long time.

  Not since the party.

  I answer honestly. “The potential of my cat eating me for survival if I die alone in my apartment.”

  He stares at me like my hair is on fire. A slight judgmental look flashes in his icy blue hues, all sincerity gone from the color.

  He thinks I’m nuts. Will wouldn’t think I’m nuts. He’d give me statics about the likelihood of being eaten alive by cats.

  He shakes his head, helping buckle me in like I’m incapable. “You’re weird, Tess.”

  I lean back, my headache easing when my head hits the headrest behind me. “I know. Been told before.”

  Closing the door, he jogs around the car, getting in quickly and starting it up. “So how did you fall? I remember you used to be clumsy, but never enough where you got hurt.”

  “I’m not clumsy!”

  “You tripped over your own feet once,” he reminds me, driving down the road. “We had study hall together. I was a senior, so you were, what? A sophomore? Anyway, you were walking around the table in the library and then all the sudden you just fall. It’s like you tripped on air.”

  He doesn’t hide the amusement in his tone.

  Sadly, I remember the day he’s talking about. I don’t bother telling him that I actually tripped over my own two feet. Apparently, the concept of walking is foreign to me.

  Mom used to tell me I was so talented, I could trip over painted lines.

  She would be correct.

  “Fine,” I grumble. “But I’ll have you know that I fell because my cat tripped me.”

  He makes a face while slowing for a stop light. “I can’t stand cats. It’s like they’re just there silently plotting your murder. Once, I looked into a cat’s eyes, and I swear I felt
my soul being sucked out.”

  I snort. “Yeah, whatever.”

  “It’s true. Cats are the devil.”

  I don’t argue with him, since I’m certain Satan himself created my cat.

  One minute he’s sweet, and the next he’s sour. He could totally be the feline sponsor for Sour Patch Kids.

  Total asshole status.

  “Well if you hate cats, clearly we’re not cut out to be friends,” I inform him, closing my eyes. The sun is hurting my head more than it already does.

  “Your loss.”

  “I’ve been doing just fine without you,” I say, almost a little too bitterly.

  He takes notice. “Down girl. I’m just teasing.”

  I curse silently to myself. “Sorry. I don’t do well with injuries. They make me irritable.”

  I can feel him look at me, but I don’t bother opening my eyes to see for sure. It’s like his gaze is burning doubtful holes into the size of my face.

  “You sure that’s it?”

  No. “Positive.”

  “You’re a terrible liar, Tessa.”

  I’ve been told that a time or two, as much as I hate to admit it. Once, when I was little, I wrote my brother’s name on the wall and tried telling my parents it was Doug. Apparently, the sloppy five-year-old handwriting insisted that it was a lie.

  “So, if I were to call Will right now—”

  “Don’t!” I all but yell. The action pulls on my chin, and causes my head to throb more. Biting back a groan, I squeeze my eyes shut.

  He snickers. “Thought so.”

  “Do you always feel the need to be right?” I grumble.

  “Only in days that end in y,” he muses.

  The pain in my head makes me want to cry, but the last thing I want to do is let Ian see me that way. There’s only been a handful of times when Will has seen me cry. And at least two of those times was over a sad movie.

  His hand brushes mine. “Hey, you okay?”

  “No,” I croak, pressing my hand against my head.

  He sighs. “I’m sorry, Tess. I just wanted to lighten the mood. We’re almost there, okay?”

  I don’t answer him.

  For a few minutes, we’re engulfed in silence that eases some of the pain. It doesn’t stop the awkwardness from creeping in, like we should be making conversation or something. I can hear my heart in my chest, so I count the beats to distract myself. The scent of blood is faint, but still there. My stomach is still weak, but not as bad.

  If Will were here, he’d be holding my hand.

  But he’s not, that pesky voice inside my head points out. If I could pluck that annoying pitch out of my skull, I would in a heartbeat.

  The car slows down, rolling to a stop. “Hey, we’re at the emergency room doors. Let me help you out.”

  I try waving him off, but he’s already out before I can. I crack my eyes open as he opens my door, guiding me out as gently as he can.

  He’s not Will, but he’ll do.

  The worst part of the hospital is the smell. Mom always questioned why I hated it, like she could never figure out how the scent was so bad. But everything is so sterile, so white. It’s like a mixture of pungent cleaners and people’s bad choices swirled together.

  Not to mention everything is so innocent. White plasters just about every wall. The rooms aren’t the kind that bad things happen in. Plus, I hate the décor. The stupid one through ten pain scale with the creepy faces are always watching me—judging me. It’s like they know my cat is the reason that I’m here, and their judgmental eyes are burning holes though me as I try avoiding them.

  God, maybe the fall damaged my brain.

  Well, more than it’s already damaged.

  I lay back onto the uncomfortable stretcher, the stiffness of the mattress making my back hurt. Readjusting the pillow with one hand, I attempt to keep the new cloth they gave me pressed against my chin with the other.

  The good news is, the bleeding has slowed down considerably. Probably a good thing since we’ve been here for a solid thirty minutes without anybody except a nurse checking in on us. Well, the guy in charge for registration also came by, but he only wanted my money.

  Lot of good he was going to do for me.

  The last time I was in here, it was for Will when the cow kicked him. I remember freaking out every time he moved and winced in pain. I think I went more postal on the employees than his parents did that night.

  The thought of him makes me frown. My head starts creating a whirlwind of questions, ones that I want answered, but are afraid to get the answer to.

  Curiosity is a bitch. Might as well call be Pandora.

  “You still alive over there?” Ian asks from the corner of the room where his seat is.

  I murmur an incoherent response.

  “I’ll take that as a maybe,” he says. I hear the scraping of chair legs get closer to me, then the sound of his sitting down in the air-filled cushion that makes a sound as his ass hits it.

  Cracking an eye open, I turn my head toward him. He’s watching me, worry etched into his features.

  “I’ll be fine,” I tell him quietly, hoping to ease some of the stress. “In fact, you don’t have to stay. I’m sure you’ve got better places to be.”

  He shrugs. “I’ve got nowhere to go tonight. Been ramming all week.”

  My face twists at the sound of that. I don’t want to know what—or who—he’s been ramming. Knowing Ian, it’s probably been a lot.

  “Well that explains why you’ve been AWOL.”

  “Careful,” he teases, flicking my arm. “Talk like that and I might assume you actually did miss me.”

  I shake my head, my lips cracking into a smile. “I have been bored without you around, that’s for sure.”

  “No Will?”

  My lips tighten together.

  One of his brows goes up. “Trouble in paradise?”

  I know he isn’t going to let this go, so I might as well just tell him. Who knows? Maybe he can help. Apparently, he’s got a PhD in Will and me.

  “His parents’ farm is going under,” I tell him, voice quiet, threaded with hurt. Hurt for him. Hurt for his parents. Hurt for the memories, although few, that we shared together there.

  Sure, it sucks that he never told me himself, but he’s got way more going on than I can help him with. The reality of it blows, because what can a girl like me do? I’m not even twenty-one, no life experience, no money.

  The brunt of the hurt is for him, and everything they need to figure out. Losing something they’ve worked so hard for has to be difficult.

  Ian lets out a heavy breath. “Man, that sucks. Again?”

  I’m surprised he remembered the first time they almost lost it. It wasn’t long before they headed out.

  “Don’t give me that look.” He leans back in the uncomfortable looking chair. “Shit, I have a lot of respect for Will after what he decided back then.”

  I gather enough energy to sit up. “What are you talking about?”

  He cocks his head to the side. “You mean there’s something that you don’t know about your bestie?” I can hear ridicule in his tone, and I want to slap it away.

  I wait impatiently for an answer.

  “Will had a spot in the band where Dylan is,” he replies casually. To me, it’s not casual at all. It’s surprising. Will can play guitar well—just about any song I wanted to hear, he would learn and play for me. Rarely, would he sing them. Only select times, like on my birthdays or special events, would he let his gravelly voice out to play when he performed.

  He tells me he’s not a singer, that he isn’t comfortable singing to others. I keep hearing the song he played at the bar, the one that made my soul hurt and emotion pierce the surface, and wonder if there’s lyrics to go along with it. I want to know them, to hear them from him. He’s better than he thinks, but he never allows himself to believe it.

  You’re my friend, he would inform me. You have to compliment me.

  I
always snorted at that, because friends can be brutally honest with one another. If he sounded like a tone-deaf walrus, much like I do, I would tell him that. If for no other reason, to save my own eardrums.

  But I like when he sings. Especially when it’s to me. It makes me selfish, but at least I’m honest about it.

  Really, it’s amazing what he can do, but he never once mentioned that he could have been in Relentless.

  I let that soak in.

  “When he found out about his parents’ farm troubles, he told me he couldn’t leave,” Ian explains, crossing his arms on his chest. “At first, I couldn’t believe he would let an opportunity like that go. He may not have been as open to attention like Bash and I, but he was a talented guitar player—a good fit for the band.

  “But, honestly, I had a lot of respect for him for choosing family first. I mean, all Bash and I ever talked about was leaving Clinton behind to become something bigger. Will even talked about it sometimes, but wasn’t as set on never looking back. Not when everybody he loves is still here.”

  I nod along. “He’s all about his family.”

  Even though he always tells me that Ryder gets on his last nerves, he loves his little brother. When people talk about him around town, Will shifts into a protective mode I wouldn’t want to mess with. Ryder hates when Will does it, but I think it’s sweet. It shows that Will cares.

  And deep down, I think Ryder likes it, too.

  Ian gives me a low chuckle. “His family isn’t the only one he stuck around for, Freckles.”

  I just stare at him, wanting to believe he’s not telling me what I think he is.

  Why am I so against believing he stayed for me?

  I shake my head. “I don’t want to hear it, Ian.”

  “Why?” he doubts.

  “Because Will had an opportunity do something he loved, and he gave that up. I don’t want to know I’m the reason he stayed behind. That’s just …” I shrug, not even sure what to say

  “It’s respectable,” he informs me, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his thighs. “And he didn’t just stay for you, but his family. He knew his family needed him, so he opted to make a decision. He told me to let Dylan take his place. And you know what? It all worked out in the end. I’d take Will back in a heartbeat, and still keep Dylan on. But things change. I can see that the dream he once shared with the rest of us isn’t the same anymore.”