Summer Girl: A Friends to Lovers Romance (Happily Forever)

by A. S. Green

  That’s been Mom’s big complaint about Dad leaving—she keeps saying how she’s never had any “closure.” Consciously or subconsciously, I equate the state of being unfinished with credit card bills and collection notices. I will finish this book, then I will finish this summer job, then I will take my money, finish school, and get on with my life.

  Chapter Nine

  BENNET

  We made our last run across the channel at nine thirty. Now Doyle and I are sitting at a gouged wooden table in the middle of the tiny ferry office. It’s still light out, but barely. All I can see through the one small window are the silhouetted masts of a dozen sailboats, hash marks against a purple sky.

  We’re going through the day’s receipts, which have more than doubled since a month ago. With the warming weather come the summer tourists. Doyle mumbles and works the dull stub of a pencil across his books. I double-check his work with an old calculator that spits out a roll of paper from its back end.

  Doyle doesn’t look up as he mutters, “Saw you checkin’ out the new summer girl.” He hocks up something thick and phlegmy, then spits into a Styrofoam cup.

  I don’t answer right away, tapping out a few numbers before losing my place. “You saw wrong.”

  “She’s somethin’ to look at,” he says. His head is still bent low over his papers. He owns a pair of those little reading glasses, but he refuses to wear them. Says they make him look old. I want to tell him that ship has sailed.

  Dragging the back of my hand under my nose, I sniff loudly and sit back against my chair, watching him, waiting for him to say more. What’s he getting at? When he acts like it’s my turn to contribute to the conversation, I chime in. “If you say so.”

  “So? What’s her name?” he asks with an exhale. He stands up and turns. The office is so small, he doesn’t even need to take a step; the coffeepot is on a narrow counter directly behind his chair. He pours a cup, swivels, then sits back down. The man drinks so much coffee the smell is imbedded in his clothes—coffee mingled with the odor of wet chewing tobacco and smoked fish.

  “I didn’t catch her name.” I enjoy how I sound like a true Little Bear resident, but inside I’m thinking Katherine. Katherine D’Arcy. Like in Pride and Prejudice, but with an apostrophe. I still think it’s pretty funny, the whole D’Arcy and Bennet thing. In fact, there’s a lot about her that makes me want to laugh. Maybe not out loud. But inside…inside it feels kind of nice.

  “Hmpff,” Doyle responds. He gets a lot of mileage out of his repertoire of grunts and exhales. This hmpff says that he knows I’m full of shit, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of an opening—he can sweat it out. I make banal comments about the weather just to piss him off.

  “Cut the bullshit,” he says.

  “Aye aye, Captain!” He smiles at that, and I think maybe we’re done here. We’re not.

  “Listen, I know from experience when I tell you to leave that one alone.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I tip my chair back, balancing it on two legs, and lace my fingers behind my head. I’d already decided to do exactly that, but I’m eager to hear his rationale.

  “Yeah,” he says.

  “You don’t even know her.”

  “I know the type.”

  Interesting. I do, too, but wouldn’t have thought Doyle was well versed in prep-school girls. “And what type is that?”

  He drops his pencil on the ledger, and it rolls in an arc across the table. His eyes are dark and narrowly set. When he looks at me, they are glittery, like an old fox.

  He leans forward, pressing his chest against the edge of the table, and says, “City girl. Young. Pretty. Comes up here for the cash. She’s got no intention of staying. She’s living without consequence. Will do what she wants. Say what she wants. String you along. Make you think there’s something there, then she’ll be gone, like all the ones before, and all the ones that come after.

  “You let her, she’ll break your heart. And kid, I’ve been watching you for two years now. Never seen you laugh. Not once. It’s like looking in a mirror some days, and I hate that for you, but I got to tell you, you don’t need more misery in your life. Listen to me on this one. Stay away from her. She’ll be gone soon.”

  I don’t know how to respond. A part of me wants to agree. Another part wants to make some sarcastic comment. And some tiny part of me wants to defend her, though I’m not sure what that’s all about. My primary inclination, however, is to stare slack-jawed at my boss. That had to be the most words I’ve ever heard him string together at one time.

  “Wow,” I say, deadpanning, “you are in need of some serious therapy. Summer girl do you wrong, Cappy?”

  “Don’t be a smart ass.” He waves his hand at me.

  A broad grin spreads across my face. “Fine. I’ll make you a deal. You stop leaving your nasty ol’ chew cups lying all over the office, and I won’t make you stitch up my broken heart.”

  “Still being a smart ass,” he grumbles, then he licks the end of his pencil.

  “You said you speak from experience?” My curiosity is piqued.

  “That’s all you’re getting out of me, rookie. Get back to your numbers.”

  I rock my chair flat on all four legs. “Gladly. But—just saying—you brought it up.” I don’t go back to my calculations immediately; it’s too intriguing to think of Doyle ever falling for someone, let alone a summer girl. But that has to be what he’s talking about. Or rather, not talking about. Jesus. How much damage could one girl do? If you believed Doyle, you’d think all summer girls had the plague. Or worse.

  Doyle hmpffs, then spits into the wrong Styrofoam cup. He looks down at the wad of chew that’s floating in his coffee and growls. “Looking forward to Sully getting back. Get you outta my hair. Sully never gave me any grief.”

  I smile big, but only on the inside. Sully’s return means I’ll be a free agent again, able to go wherever the wind takes me, play my music on any street corner, in any bar or recording studio that will have me.

  I tell myself this is a good thing but…fuck. Samson. I’m going to miss that dumb ol’ dog.

  Chapter Ten

  KATHERINE

  I would have thought by nighttime that Calloway’s dog would have settled down, but no. It’s still whining and scratching at the bedroom door. “Go away,” I yell.

  There’s a whimper. Then, after a second, a thump at the back door. It startles me at first, but then I remember Calloway mentioning the doggie door. The thump is followed a moment later by a bark outside my bedroom window. I peer through the glass to see the dog trotting across the moonlit driveway. “Well, at least you’re obedient. I say ‘go away’ and off you go, whateveryournameis.”

  The memory of that guy Bennet’s words rushes back to me: Your name hardly matters. No one on the island will call you anything but Summer Girl. Your stay is too short for them to bother.

  I don’t understand it. If I’d grown up in such a remote spot, I’d be desperate for new faces, but I guess that’s what Calloway was talking about when he warned me about being lonely. For the first time in my life, I’m an outsider. An other.

  I have a pang of longing for home and Andrew. Andrew Mason’s girlfriend. As fake titles go, Macie would say it isn’t any better than Summer Girl. Anonymity is anonymity.

  Well, I’m here, at least in part, to change that. This is the summer I figure me out. That was Macie’s assignment, and I’m not going to let her down. Even if I’m destined for anonymity, at least I’ll know for sure. I’ll know what raw material I’m working with.

  Before I can think anything more about that, there’s an explosion of sound, followed by something thrashing and rustling around in the garbage cans.

  I leap from the bed and run into the living room, fumbling with a couple of light switches before I find the one for the outside lantern that’s mounted over the door. It’s dim and only lights the yard enough for me to confirm that the trash cans have been tipped and garbage is scattered across the yard
. Hundreds of white paper napkins are illuminated by the moonlight like ghostly leaves.

  I don’t see the dog, but maybe it’s a raccoon? Whatever it is, it’s certainly making a mess. A huge mess. And guess who’s going to have to clean it up? Crap!

  I grab a fireplace poker, wondering, if it’s a raccoon, do I aim for the eyes or the tail? It occurs to me that I don’t know a lot about raccoons. Can they jump? If so, how high? Should I get protective eyewear?

  Surprisingly, I’m not that afraid. Maybe I’m not destined for anonymity after all. Maybe I’m Katherine D’Arcy, Raccoon Wrangler.

  I step outside and onto the walkway, searching through the darkness because everything is quiet now. Too quiet. I cock the fireplace poker over my shoulder and step closer to the garbage cans.

  I’m ten feet away from the epicenter of the mess when there is a bellowing roar.

  My heart hits my throat, and I choke on it.

  It’s not a raccoon.

  It’s a bear. An enormous black bear foraging through Calloway’s garbage.

  Slowly, I take one step back. The gravel crunches under my feet, and I freeze. My breath sounds loud in my ears. The bear doesn’t look my way. It’s got its head buried deep in an overturned garbage can. That’s one small blessing.

  More quietly now, I back away. My pulse is pounding in my ears. I’m almost to the safety of the house when the dark outline of Calloway’s dog standing frozen at the edge of the driveway catches my attention. Of all the times to decide to come home.

  “Go away,” I whisper-yell to the dog. “Run away.”

  But the dog gives a menacing growl followed by two sharp barks. The hair on its back bristles as it stalks toward the bear.

  “No!” I cry out. “Stop!”

  The bear pulls its head out of the can. It sees the dog, lunges left, then right, then stands on its hind legs, easily five times the size of the dog. It makes a short grunt or huff, and its breath vaporizes in the night air. I can tell it’s meant as a warning, but the stupid dog keeps moving closer.

  “Come. Here. Dog!” I back up, taking step by measured step as I try desperately to retreat. My shoulders hit against the exterior wall of the house and air catches in my throat.

  The bear drops to all fours and moves its large head slowly back and forth like a pendulum. Everything in me tells me to get inside the house, but I can’t leave the dog outside. What if she gets killed? How would I explain to Calloway that it took me less than a day to get his best friend dead?

  Goose bumps rise on my arms. “Get over here, you stupid dog!”

  She doesn’t obey. She’s not even listening. They’re only feet apart. I need to get closer to the dog. I need to drag her by the neck back to the house. But to do that would mean getting closer to the bear.

  Good lord, I can smell the rank manginess of it from here. My palms are slick with sweat. One presses tight against the stone wall while the other works to maintain a grip on the poker. I’d like to turn my head, to see how far away the door is, but I don’t dare take my eyes off the bear, terrified it will come after me as soon as my back is turned.

  The bear swipes at the dog’s nose. The dog yelps and dodges, circling and nipping at the bear’s hindquarters. That’s it.

  I bend down, my body tense and protesting, and pick up a handful of rocks from the side of the house. With every bit of my strength, I throw them at the bear, but they only bounce off its matted coat.

  Good news, the bear loses interest in the dog. Bad news, it finally notices me.

  The bear bellows and shakes its head. Its paws are like catchers’ mitts. Great gobs of saliva hang from its muzzle. It takes three charging steps at me.

  Oh, hell no. Hell. No.

  I rise up on my toes and press myself against the wall, turning my head and closing my eyes.

  The dog barks and races around the bear, planting itself protectively between me and it. She lowers her head, stretching out her neck, and growls. The hair on her back is as bristled as a hairbrush.

  The bear lunges, huffing and snorting.

  The dog snaps back.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God.

  The bear swipes with its paw, and it must have made contact because the dog yelps in pain and darts away. The plaintive sound shakes me out of my paralysis, and I lurch my body toward the door. “Come. Here!”

  The dog dodges yet another vicious swipe, then bolts toward the house. She circles around me, giving one last bark for good measure, then races inside. I follow and slam the front door against the outside world, turning the deadbolt. Crap. Crap, crap, crap.

  My chest is heaving. My lungs burn. My heartbeat pounds in my neck. I raise one shaking hand toward the switch plate and turn off the outdoor lights. I don’t want to see what’s out there anymore—even if I have to listen to it banging around all night.

  “Enough,” I say as I drop the poker and stagger back to the bedroom, holding onto the wall as I go. When I get there, the dog is quivering at the foot of the mattress. A large crimson spot glistens at the end of her nose.

  For a second, I don’t know what to do. The idea of letting her sleep on the bed is about as foreign to me as driving on the left. Still, she got that bloody nose thinking she was saving my life. It doesn’t seem right to send her away, especially when she looks so scared. Had all that bravery been an act?

  I take a hot shower, hoping when I get back that the dog will have lost interest in me, but when I’m done she hasn’t moved. Reluctantly, I put on the Sponge Bob negligee Andrew sent and stand at the side of the bed, wondering if she’s too heavy for me to move.

  The spot of blood on her nose catches the light and, after a second of indecision, I retreat to the bathroom and retrieve a Band-Aid from my kit. Holding it stretched taut between my thumbs and index fingers, I approach the dog.

  We both jump and yelp when a garbage can crashes against the side of the house, then she whimpers and lays her head on her paws.

  I finish my approach and slowly cover the bloody spot with the bandage. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’m touching a dog’s wet—really wet—nose. Are they always like this? The ends of the bandage don’t want to stick.

  Then suddenly, a giant pink tongue flips out of the dog’s mouth and up over its nose. I shriek and dive onto the bed, pulling up the covers. The Band-Aid has completely disappeared. The dog swallows then settles her weight over my feet, pressing me deeper into the mattress.

  Well, so much for first aid. At least the dog is warm. And solid. Solid is good. Solid is safe. And safe is a very good thing to be. I cover my head with a pillow, muffling the riotous crashing still coming from outside, and pray for sleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  BENNET

  The phone rings as I’m eating breakfast, and the caller ID shows area code 323. I check the clock. It’s nine, which means seven o’clock on the west coast. It’s got to be Jordan, but my agent has no business being awake this early. “Hello?”

  “Bennet! Dude, I was hoping to catch you.”

  “You caught me,” I say as I shove half a piece of toast in my mouth.

  “How do you feel about Nashville?”

  I choke and clear my throat. “At this moment?”

  “In general.”

  “Okay, well…” I wipe my hand on my pants. “I feel like it’s a crowded town about a fifteen-hour drive from here.” I lick the crumbs from my lips and drop down onto my couch.

  “Crowded? Come on, you’re talking to a guy from L.A.”

  “You know what I mean. Everybody with a guitar is either already in Nashville or packing their car and plugging it into their GPS.”

  “Can’t argue with that, but you’re not ‘everybody.’”

  “No, I’m the guy with the toilet paper commercial.”

  Jordan doesn’t laugh, not that I was trying to be funny. “You need to find some other songwriters to work with. That’s where it’s at. You told me you were going to be productive on that…island? What’s it call
ed? Never mind. But you’ve given me shit. Scratch that, dude. Shit would mean that you’ve given me something shitty. You’ve given me nothing.”

  There’s a familiar tug at my gut. I haven’t felt it since leaving home—that sinking sensation of letting someone down.

  “So now you’ve got some collaboration sessions set up in Nashville.” After a beat, he adds, “You’re welcome.”

  This gets my attention. I brush the crumbs from my T-shirt and swallow the other half of my toast, hardly chewing. “With who?”

  “Now you’re clicking with me,” Jordan says with a laugh. We both know that a killer song could get me to the next level. “Do you want to guess?”

  “Just tell me.”

  “C.C. Knight.”

  Jordan doesn’t have to elaborate. Knight took home pretty much every award at the CMAs last year, not to mention a couple of Grammys. He’s the new country-pop crossover artist, and Jordan’s got to be shitting me.

  “Knight’s willing to co-write with me?” I ask.

  “Yep. RMI set it up. They’ve given you a generous advance. It’s time to start earning it back.”

  “Yeah, but Knight?”

  “He works with RMI, too, and he’s listened to your EP. He’s in. But not until the end of September because he’s touring all summer.”

  “This is amazing.” Except that I think I’m going to be sick. Holy…! C.C. Knight!

  I can practically hear Jordan grinning. “When you get down there, you’ll have a songwriter’s spotlight at the Bluebird, too. I faxed the contract and some other information to that little post office of yours. It should be there for you to pick up.”

  My palms are clammy, and the phone slips in my hand. “Right,” I say, because my command of the English language, at least in this moment, is seriously lacking. Every thought in my head twists and loops like a tangled ball of yarn.

  “I’m not going to let you go stagnant, dude,” Jordan warns, his voice softening and sounding almost sympathetic. “You’ve got too much promise. Time to shake things up and get writing.”