Summer

by Frankie Rose

  “What? No.” I want to wring Cole’s neck right now. He should never have signed off on that damn video. “No, Avery, I swear. I’m not seeing Marika. That kiss was entirely for the video. I had no idea that was going to happen. If I had, I wouldn’t have been in that position with her in the first place. I told the director to scrap that shot but he ignored me. It was included against my wishes.” A shadow of relief falls over Avery, but I can tell she’s trying to work out whether she believes this is true or not. She’s not sure. She looks so lost and hollow. Quietly, I say, “I was happy for you when I heard you’d moved on, though, Avery. I really was. You deserve to have some joy in your life.”

  “What?”

  “With Noah. Tamlinski saw you guys together in the park? Noah had lost his kid or something. He told me what had happened when he called me.”

  “Luke…I’m not with Noah, okay? I haven’t moved on. I’m still heartbroken over you.” A flash of emotion plays over her face, too fast for me to decipher, but she looks very unhappy. “I did try and sleep with him three weeks ago,” she says. “I’d just seen that girl riding you like a porn star on the television and I kind of lost it. But nothing happened.”

  Ever since Tamlinksi called and told me what he saw in the park, I’ve been torturing myself over what Avery and Noah have been getting up to together. The awesome New York adventures they’ve been having. The intense, amazing sex. The cozy family time they’ve been sharing with his daughter. It’s been brutal, but hearing her say out loud that she tried to sleep with him is gut wrenching.

  “This is all one huge mess, huh?” she whispers.

  “It is. And it’s all my fault.”

  Avery doesn’t confirm or deny this, but she doesn’t really need to. It’s the truth, and it’s painfully obvious. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the thumb drive Rafferty gave me during my last session with him before I left for Break. I hold it in my hands, pressing the plastic tightly between my fingers, hating what’s stored on it but also feeling grateful that I have it with me. Rafferty was right: it’s ugly and it’s wild in places, but it also shows how far I’ve come. I take a deep breath, and then I hold it out to my beautiful girl.

  She looks at it, hands balled into small fists, but then she unclenches them and takes it from me. “What is it?”

  “My therapy sessions. All of them. Rafferty records them and listens to them after we’re done. Says it helps him be present in the session while it’s happening. Anyway. You should listen to them. It might help you to…I don’t know. To understand? To know that I never wanted to hurt you.”

  I get to my feet, my body aching, my heart aching, and Avery remains locked onto the thumb drive she’s holding, like it’s both poisonous and valuable beyond belief at the same time.

  “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow in court,” I tell her. “I know…fuck, I know you won’t take me back now even if I beg you to, but if there’s any chance in the future that you might, please let me know. I’m not done loving you, Avery Patterson. Not even close.”

  Small, perfectly formed tears fall from Avery’s eyelashes when she looks up at me. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  AVERY

  I haven’t listened to the WAV files on the thumb drive Luke gave me. I spent an hour last night transferring them all onto my laptop, so I know there are thirty-six of them, though. Thirty-six therapy sessions. Each file is an hour long. That’s a whole lot of therapy to be doing in the space of four months. I went through a pretty hardcore regimen of doctors and psychologists after Dad died, but nothing anywhere near as intense as that. He must have really meant it. He must have wanted to get better really badly.

  The next morning, we’re called back to the courthouse in Break and Chloe Mathers’ appeal is rejected. District Attorney Whitlock, for some reason, seems really pissed off as he reads out his decision, and Chloe looks genuinely stunned. Brandon makes a comment about the Mathers family’s old money again—how her parents must have had someone paid to even make this appeal happen in the first place, probably Whitlock by the look on his face—and I can’t help but feel a little sorry for Chloe’s family. I’m sure they’re not bad people. They’ve just had shitty luck with their daughter, and they want to believe that she’s innocent.

  Luke sits with his mom on the other side of the courtroom, hair disheveled, wearing a plain black T-shirt that shows off his ink. I’m sure that’s not his intention—the guy is so completely oblivious to how his looks affect people, though these days he might be a little more aware. It would be hard to have so many people coming at him from all angles, telling him how hot he is and how women all over the country are going crazy for him, and for him not to finally get it.

  Will it change him? Will he become some conceited, big-headed, arrogant asshole that treats women like shit wherever he goes? I don’t think so, somehow. It’s just not in his bones. The idea that I won’t be around to find out hurts me more than I can bear. I think this thought, immediately followed by the thought that it might not need to be that way if I don’t want it to. I could be with him. He abandoned me and he wounded me in the most profound way, but it wasn’t because he didn’t love me anymore. It wasn’t because he didn’t value what we had. It was because he was scared of himself, and he was worried for me. I’ve been thinking about this ever since he showed up at Brandon’s place last night. Does his reasoning excuse the damage he did? Does it make it okay? Or in the very least, does it make his actions forgivable?

  I just can’t decide.

  Chloe Mathers is removed from court the same way she was brought in: handcuffed and miserable. She wanted something from me, and I didn’t give it to her. My refusal to cower in her presence clearly had an impact on her, which brings me some comfort. It actually feels as though a weight has been lifted from my shoulders in a way. For months and months now, Chloe has plagued my dreams. I’ve been afraid of her, even knowing she’s locked behind bars and can’t get to me. I know I’ve turned a corner where she’s concerned, though. She won’t feature in my nightmares anymore. In time, I’m hopeful that days will go by sometimes and I won’t even think about her at all.

  Luke and his mom are waiting when Brandon and I finally make our way outside. He gives me a sad smile as Brandon pulls me over to them. My uncle obviously doesn’t value his life. “I hate you,” I whisper under my breath.

  “You actually love me,” Brandon whispers back. “At some point, you’re going to turn around and thank me for this, kiddo.”

  “Doubtful.”

  Luke shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, hands in his pockets, as we approach. “Hey,” he says quietly. His mom and Brandon might as well be invisible for the amount of attention he pays them. “How are you doing?”

  “Okay. Glad that it’s over. I suppose I was worried for a moment there that they might let her out.”

  He shakes his head. “They were never gonna do that. There would have been hell on earth. Chloe confessed. Everyone knows what she did.” Luke gives his mom and Brandon an awkward look, and then holds out his hand. “You want to…can we talk for a second? If you have time?”

  I’ve dreamed about what Luke’s hand feels like around mine so many times since he disappeared. I used to lie in bed at night and trawl through every single memory I have of the physical contact we shared. It used to make me feel safe, hurt less somehow. Now, looking down at the hand he’s offering out to me, I don’t know whether his touch will make me feel safe at all. It’s likely to make me feel miserable and in pain.

  Taking his hand would feel like a decision, too. It would be like telling him I forgive him, and I’m not ready to do that yet. I nod, but I don’t place my hand in his. Instead I walk off to one side, shooting Brandon and Marlena a tight, polite smile as I leave them. Luke follows behind, with a flat look on his face. His eyes have turned hard, somehow, like a wall has come down inside his head and he’s distancing himself from me. From everything by the looks of it.

 
“Did you listen?” he asks.

  I look down at my shoes, picking at my fingernails. “No. Not yet. I just…I don’t know, Luke. I need some time. Months of hurt don’t just dissolve overnight. I’ll get to them when I’m feeling strong enough.”

  He clenches his jaw so hard that I can see his heartbeat in his temple. He looks so intense, so serious and so tortured, and a massive part of me wants to wrap my arms around him and feel him wrap his arms around me. I want to rest my head on his chest so I can feel the heavy, slow, rhythmic thumping of his heart, beating as though it’s beating for the two of us, and my eyes begin to prick. There was a time, not too long ago, when Luke’s heart stopped because he had worked so hard to keep me alive. As soon as help reached me, that’s when his body gave out. That’s when his will to carry on fled him—when he knew I was in safe hands.

  “I know. I’m sorry. I just…” He shakes his head, casting his eyes up at the blue sky overhead. “I just had this idea in my head that everything would be okay once I explained things to you. I knew it was a mad thing to think, though, I really did. It was just a lie I told myself so I could keep pushing forward.”

  “Luke, I—”

  “Here. I want you to have something,” he says, cutting me off. He reaches into his pocket and takes out a folded envelope, slightly creased and dog-eared, and then hands it over to me. My name is written on the front in his blocky, Luke-ish handwriting, and I remember the first time he sent me an envelope with my name on it, when he’d dropped off a letter for me with my old roommate, Leslie. Inside that letter, he’d been asking me if I recognized any of the symbols the Wyoming Ripper had branded into his victims. It’s strange how much has changed since then.

  We were in love. We almost died. We survived, only to have to face separation anyway. Leslie was sentenced to a three-year prison term for selling Morgan the pills that nearly killed her, and Luke’s band has blown up all over the country. Sometimes it all feels too surreal—that there’s no possible way any of it can actually be happening to us.

  “More murder mystery clues?” I ask.

  Luke laughs softly, rubbing his fingers into the back of his neck. “No, not quite. Something far less stressful, I hope. Don’t open it now. Wait until you get home or something, huh? I don’t think I can take seeing the rejection on your face right at this moment. Better to imagine a little while longer that you might be pleased with what’s inside instead.”

  I fold the envelope back up and slip it into the back pocket of my jeans, clearing my throat. “So you’re heading back to LA now?” I chide the sad, hopeful part of my brain that’s silently crossing its fingers in the hope that he’s about to say no, he’s coming back to New York.

  “Yeah, I have to,” he says, and he doesn’t sound thrilled about it. “I thought maybe this thing would take a week. Two if I was lucky. That way I was gonna be able to get out of something I agreed to with the band. And then I got here and realized how absolutely fucking horrible it is going through all of this bullshit again, for me and for you, and now I’m glad it’s done. Cole knows it’s all done and dusted, so I can’t get out of heading back to California. I mean…” He shakes his head again, glancing around, like he’s looking for something. “I thought this thing I have to go do in Cali was going to be terrible. I’ve been dreading it for weeks. But the truth is I’m actually kind of looking forward to it now. I think…I think it might even be fun.” He smiles and the heaviness that weighs over him lifts a little. It’s so wonderful to see him smile. My heart pulls, aching badly enough that I have to curl my hands into fists inside my own pockets.

  “I guess I’ll see you around, Avery,” he whispers. “Be well.” Before I know what he’s doing, he steps into me and gently places his hand against the back of my head, drawing me forward so he can press his lips against my forehead. My breath catches in my throat. His chest presses up against mine and it feels like a piece of my body that’s been missing for so long has finally snapped back into place. The sensation is fleeting, though. Luke doesn’t linger. He takes two giant steps backward, as if he’s had to physically rip himself away from me.

  “If you decide that you never want to see me again, Avery, I’ll understand. You’ll get over me, and eventually I’ll get over you, I suppose, but you have to know that I’ll never stop loving you. My heart just isn’t capable of it. I’ll be bound to you until the day I die. You’ll always be the other half of me.”

  He turns and walks away before I even have a chance to process what he’s saying, let alone respond. I stand there, stunned, as Marlena slowly approaches and folds me into a warm hug.

  “He’s a good man, Avery,” she whispers into my ear. “And you’re a beautiful, fine young woman. I hope you two can overcome the obstacles that lay between you right now, but if you can’t, please know that you hold a special place in my heart. Be happy, girl. Find your happiness, and live a wonderful, full, contented life.” She kisses me on the cheek, smelling of roses and sweet perfume, and my eyes are full of tears when she releases me from the hug. With one last squeeze of my hand, she lets me go and follows after her son, pausing to smile briefly at me before she climbs into her parked truck. Luke’s already in the driver’s seat. Even from this distance, I can see that he hangs his head for a second as his mom places her hand on his back. He rights himself after a second, though, lifting his head, nodding, starting the engine, and then driving away.

  I cry all the way home, and Brandon drives with his arm thrown over my shoulder, holding me to him, telling me that it’s going to be okay.

  Later, when I’m alone in my room, I open up the envelope Luke gave me with shaking hands and inside are two tickets. On each of them, it says:

  ADMIT ONE

  VIP

  FALLEN SAINTS

  Live at the Staples Center, Los Angeles

  With support from D.M.F.

  September 18 2016

  Doors at 7pm. Over 21s only.

  *Management reserves the right to refuse admittance at their discretion.

  M. J. Rafferty MD, PHD,

  Suite 8, 2365 Wellbeck

  Beachwood Canyons

  CA 90068

  Patient: Lucas Andrew Reid

  D.O.B: 10/06/1989

  Past treatment files: XXSEALEDXX

  Permissions: Granted

  Current Medications: Triazalam

  Session Record

  Lucas appears to be making significant progress. I harbored some concerns about his trip to Wyoming, however he seems much relieved now. He informed me about the interactions he shared with Avery, and he was notably down as he described her anger and hostility toward him. The tension that has been plaguing him for weeks seems to have eased, though.

  We discussed why this might be. Lucas was perceptive in his assessment that having some form of resolution to the situation has given him peace of mind, even if the outcome of the meeting was not what he had hoped it might be.

  Lucas is handling the pressures of his workload remarkably well. He seems less on edge and less stressed than he has in previous weeks. We spoke about taking him off the Triazolam, and Lucas agreed to only take medication if he struggles to sleep instead of as a preventative measure.

  I firmly believe Lucas is on the road to recovery. If he employs the calming techniques we have discussed, and if he continues to discuss the trauma he suffered as a child with me, then I foresee him being much changed in a short number of weeks.

  Michael Rafferty.

  TWENTY-NINE

  AVERY

  New York doesn’t feel like the same city anymore. It feels weird, disjointed…like I don’t belong here. Since Dad died, New York has been the only place I’ve felt rooted and secure, and to lose that now feels like the world is ending.

  In less than a week’s time, D.M.F. are playing at what is easily the biggest musical event of the year, and I’ve been walking around the city with two VIP tickets in my purse, trying to decide whether or not I should go. I feel like I’m being tor
n in two different directions.

  I’m on my way back from seeing Morgan and Sam when Noah calls. Then it feels like I’m being pulled in a third direction, and my head is fucking spinning. I feel guilty about talking to Noah again, which is crazy since nothing is going on between us, but still… Luke still feels like he’s with me every turn I make. Before, that felt like a burden, something I couldn’t escape no matter how hard I tried, and now, since I saw him, since he explained himself and he placed that goddamn kiss on my goddamn forehead, I don’t know. Fuck. Everything is just so fucked up again. I answer the phone, taking a deep breath.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey, stranger. Just thought I’d better call and see if you were alive. Haven’t heard from you since you got back.”

  “I know, I’m the worst. I’m sorry. I’m just…processing.”

  “Processing is good.”

  “Processing is hard.”

  He makes a hmming sound. “Yeah, it’s that, too.”

  I dodge people in the street, doing my best to avoid hitting anyone as I walk back toward my apartment. Across the other side of the road, a guy steps out onto the blacktop and the cacophony of screaming car horns that follows is almost deafening.

  “Where the hell are you, Patterson? Beirut?”

  “Oh, y’know. Just navigating Brooklyn Heights. It’s a jungle out here.”

  “Brooklyn Heights is not a jungle. Come visit me in TriBeCa and we’ll talk.”

  “Okay, sounds like a plan.”

  “Great. Neve was beginning to think you’d forgotten all about her.”

  I suddenly feel seriously guilty for neglecting Neve. She’s not at an age when she can appreciate that people’s lives take them off on paths they don’t want to go down, and there’s nothing they can even do about it. “Oh, god, Noah, I’m sorry. I should have called her or something.”