SUMMER
Life is good. The weeks have rolled well into October and brought a sense of new beginnings, and I know spring is usually reserved for the whole 'regrowth' thing, but autumn is better. Leaves transform and change color, and then everything sheds. Ridding itself of dead weight, readying for a tough winter ahead.
I felt like I needed that more than regrowth. I needed to shed everything away.
I now have tutoring sessions twice a week in the library with Grant, and he's such a good teacher that sometimes I forget he's a student too. Some people are born with that spark. That ability to make information flow like music. I've always hated math, but maybe I never had the right teacher until now. Who am I kidding? I still hate math - Grant just makes it bearable for the first time in my life.
As for Ashton, we're... nothing. Basically back to strangers at this point. We don't argue, we don't seethe or steal glances or do anything outside of short and civil workstation interactions. When the dust settled and I vented it all to Lola and Fawn, they offered their anger towards him, but I told them I was putting it behind me. And I have.
Pretending Charlie's party didn't happen gets easier every day. Ashton is nothing more than an annoying stain on my first month of culinary school, and I'm thankful the rest of it won't be contaminated by him.
❖❖❖
I rush up to Grant after we've filed out of class, bursting at the seams to tell him how I did on the test we just took. "I don't wanna get too cocky, but I crushed the accounting section. Murdered it."
"Very un-cocky." He laughs quietly, motioning for me to join him on the couches.
"Seriously, it felt like I didn't even have to think," I say, dropping to a cushion. "I've never had that with anything math related. Normally it feels like all my wires are burned out, but that was like, good. Is this what it feels like to be good at math? It's like having freaking superpowers or something."
He lets me ramble away, his dark eyes flickering with humor.
"Crap, just watch this overconfidence bite me in the ass." I groan. "Okay, if the result is bad then I'm going to bury my head in the sand and never come out again. Can you dig the hole and bury me?"
"But then who's going to bury me?" He slumps back. "If you do bad then that's only a bad reflection on my tutoring, isn't it?"
"Right. We'll need a third-party digger," I say matter-of-factly. "Someone who doesn't mind burying two people alive."
"Steven. I think he's a secret psycho," Grant whispers, beckoning me closer. "Silent and deadly. Way too good with a knife."
We eye him and Lola in close conversation, hanging on each other's every word.
"Poor Lola," I sigh out. "Maybe we should save her and just bury Steven instead."
"Good call."
"Did we just become partners in crime?"
"Is it a crime if we're saving the world from a raging menace like Steven?"
"Nope. So, vigilante partners?"
"Vigilante partners." Grant kisses his fingers to the sky. "RIP Steve. Sorry my bad tutoring led to this."
We look at each other and burst out laughing, ending our fictional vendetta.
"For real though," Grant says, smiling, "if your result is bad, which it won't be, then we'll up the library sessions."
"And I'll be there with bells on."
"And you won't have to, because when you get your good result back, we're going to go out and celebrate. Deal?"
I shake his outstretched hand. "Deal."
❖❖❖
Even though he's usually in his study while he's here, the house seems emptier without Mr. Villa. In his business trip absence, Mrs. Villa has preoccupied herself more than ever. Going off to the spa or the country club during the day, turning her attention to me when I'm the only one around to focus on at night.
I miss being able to sit quietly at dinner while she talked his ear off. Now it's like she's invested in getting a daily report of everything I've done at school. It's exhausting.
After a dinner of grilled salmon, broccoli, and stilted small talk, I do the dishes and make an excuse to go to my room to catch up on homework. I don't have homework, but it's never a bad idea to squeeze in some studying. My French cooking terminology is now the weakest link I have to work at after accounting.
At 8:12 my phone rings, 'Mark' flashing across the screen. A whirlwind of thoughts go through me. There's been a few texts exchanged since he left. He sent the first one. Everything was still fresh, and it was a clear attempt in cheering me up from afar. They sort of kept going after that.
Innocent texts about nothing significant. A picture of coffee spilled on his shirt; a plate of chocolate eclairs I made in class, a street musician in Central Park with a cat draped around her shoulders, a pink sunrise on my morning jog. Little things that friends might send each other. Not that we're friends. He's never even called me until now.
I stare at the bold letters of his name, finally giving in and picking up. "Mr. Villa... hi."
I can't bring myself to call him Mark. Out of everything, being on a first name basis is what feels out of bounds.
"Hi." He kind of sounds surprised that he's calling me too. "I was just, uh... sorry, is this weird? Me calling?"
"No, it's not weird," I say, getting up to close my door.
"It's a little weird."
"Yeah it's a little weird."
He laughs, and it's like butter melting through the phone. "I just wanted to check in. See how things are going over there."
"Isn't that something you could ask your wife?" That came out snarkier than it meant to, but the smile in his voice is so strong I can almost see his pearls flashing right in front of me.
"I could, but she wouldn't tell me if she was being too hard on you, would she?"
"True," I hum. "But I'm behaving myself, so she's fine. Everything's been fine."
"Really? Because it wasn't when I left."
"That was weeks ago. I swear, it's all okay now." I sit on the edge of my bed, tracing my fingertip over the daisy design on the comforter. "I'm okay."
"You're not just saying that?"
"I'm not just saying that."
He goes quiet on the other side. So quiet that I think the line has cut off before his voice comes back. "I should have stayed longer."
"Stayed?"
"In Cloverbrook," he says. "I just up and left when you were so down. I should have moved my flight and stayed longer."
I shake my head before I remember he can't see me. "It's not your job to be the shoulder to cry on for my stupid boy problems."
"Those problems aren't stupid if they're hurting you, Summer."
The weight of his words land right in my chest, expanding against my ribcage, threatening to bring back the pain I've successfully bottled up. I slide off my bed and open the window, a gush of chilled autumn air hitting me head-on.
"Well, your job was waiting. And New York." Goosebumps blossom over my arms, but I stay put. "Must be nice to be back in the city, anyway."
I know he'll be able to tell that I'm changing the subject, and I know he's considerate enough to take the hint.
"Nothing quite like it," he says dreamily. "Although, I find myself missing Cloverbrook these days. Really missing it."
"Yeah? I thought there wasn't anything special about this town to miss."
"There wasn't before."
"Before what?"
He breathes a low laugh, and I know he's choosing his next words carefully. I like putting him on the spot, testing the waters he won't surface from. He's too cautious to break the allusive language. If he did, this light back and forth would start to become real.
"Goodnight, Summer," he finally answers, staying safely below the surface.
"Goodnight, Mr. Villa."
The call ends and I smile to myself, picturing him gazing out of a wide penthouse window, the New York skyline a blur of lights and energy. I picture his dark hair disheveled after a long day at work, tie loosened, whiskey swirling in his hand. And I wonder if he's picturing me here in my room, or if my mind is running away from me with these thoughts. If I'm looking into something that isn't there. A dangerous illusion.
A vibration courses through my fingers. I read the new text, and it's a hundred times more effective than the icy night air rendering me frozen.
Mark: Before you.
❖❖❖
I hated biology in school. I hated dissecting innocent little frogs and analyzing their organs, I hated the casualness of prodding the insides of a dead animal, I hated the smells. I hated everything about it. So when a whole raw chicken is placed in front of us after an unsettling deboning demonstration, familiar queasiness rises the second I pick up my knife.
At least the act of removing bones step by step is enough to get that text from Mr. Villa out of my head. I never replied, but I'm thinking about it too much. Cutting off contact should solve that.
I watch Ashton crack the thigh bones like it's nothing. He moves his blade along the skin, creating incisions as if he's performing surgery, sliding out the bones and keeping the meat intact. My stomach churns into my throat.
Halfway through my second thigh, the nausea gets worse when I overhear Ryan and Diego talking about what it would be like to debone a human. Those two are the real secret psychos.
"Would you guys just shut up?" I snap.
Ryan snickers, slithering over to my workstation. "This stuff skeeve you out, princess?"
"Excuse me for not taking joy in fantasizing about grisly murders."
"So what do you fantasize about? Different kinds of bones?" He swoops down, bright eyes latched on mine. "I've got one you'll like. Meet me after class and I'll let you play with it."
My disgust falters when he's abruptly dragged back. Ashton's holding him by the scruff of the neck. "You were wondering about deboning humans, right? Let's test it out."
Okay, maybe Ashton is the secret psycho.
Ryan laughs again, but he can't hide the quiver of nerves lacing through. "I'm just messing with her, man. If she wants to take me up on the offer then—"
Ashton's grip tightens, his other hand flexing around the handle of his knife.
Ryan squirms around like an eel. "All right, dude! I'll cut it out if you do."
Ashton keeps his hard stare, then jumps from zero humor to that signature grin breaking. He lets Ryan go and shoves him away, all bro-fists and laughter.
What the hell was that?
I watch him return to his board as if nothing out of the ordinary happened in the last thirty seconds. "Don't expect me to thank you for calling off your caveman of a friend."
"I wasn't."
"Good, because I can take care of myself."
"I know," he mutters, focus locked on the motion of his blade.
"Well, if you think playing nice is suddenly going to make us friends then—"
He thumps his knife down, searing his eyes into mine for the first time in weeks. "I didn't do that for you, Summer. I did it because I can't fucking stand here and—" He cuts himself off, teeth bearing in annoyance before he drops his gaze.
"And what?"
It's like he's receded into himself. Locked me out. I watch him take his knife and slash through the skin of the chicken, yanking on the spine. A fresh slew of nausea overcomes me. I can't think of a better time to get some air.
❖❖❖
Taking a slow lap around the courtyard, my thoughts are just as misty as my breath hanging in front of me. What was at the end of that sentence? Why would he stop himself?
The short interactions with Ashton had been working. They were wooden and empty. Void of anything real. But now, one ounce of heated emotion thrown my way and he's back on the brain. I'm pathetic.
I stop at a water fountain on the way to the kitchen, my queasiness lessening with each gulp. When I turn the corner, I slam into another body and hastily steady myself against the wall. I think it's Ashton at first, but when I meet those contrasting gray eyes, I know in an instant.
"Mr. Banks?"
He looks at me in vagueness. "Sasha."
"Summer."
He snaps his fingers. "Summer. Ashton's friend."
Friend. I give a little nod even though that word makes me want to scream my lungs into dust.
"Damn, sorry about that. This place is a maze," he says, smoothing his shirt. "You okay?"
"Yeah, don't worry about it. Are you looking for Ashton? He's in class but I can—"
"No, no, I've got a meeting with the dean," he says through an eerily familiar smile. "I thought his office was down this hall but I guess I got turned around."
"Oh, wrong building. It's in the one across the courtyard."
He's cleaned up since I met him at the store. Button-down shirt, stainless jeans, no faded baseball cap. And with his beard shorter and dirty blonde hair tucked behind his ears, the physical resemblance to Ashton is clearer.
He thanks me but doesn't move, thoughtfully looking me over instead. "I think I owe you an apology, Summer."
That sentence is so out of the blue that I know my puzzled face is saying it all.
"About my son," he elaborates. "I know you're hardly friends after... what he did."
It's as if someone has stacked cotton balls down my throat in the space of a millisecond. "I—he told you?" I splutter.
Mr. Banks slips his hands in his font pockets, and the little action is so Ashton-like that looking at him squeezes icy fingers around my heart. So tight that I need to focus on the grooves of the bricks we're standing on.
"I was waiting for him in the parking lot when I saw you two in an argument. He wouldn't have told me if I hadn't seen it," he gently says. "You must hate him, and for good reason. I'm sorry he messed around with you like that."
I swallow the shame-soaked cotton. "You don't need to apologize for him, Mr. Banks. You had nothing to do with it."
"I raised him, didn't I? And doing it alone... sometimes I... I dunno." He lets out a ragged breath, wiping a hand over his tired face. "Sometimes I wish I did better. He didn't really have any women around to look up to, you know? I tried teaching him the right way to treat girls but he stopped listening to me a long time ago. Pretty much the day he started this pattern."
"Pattern?"
I'm sucked in. Ashton clearly gets this from his dad, too. This magnetizing draw that makes you hang on his every word. I'm too intrigued to question this unexpected openness. This is the man who's known Ashton since birth. If he can shed the slightest bit of light on who the real Ashton is, maybe I can understand what went wrong. No one in the world knows him better.
"What he does with girls." He shakes his head like he's in a never-ending argument he can't win. "I saw he had his sights set on you, that night I met you. I told him not to screw around. In one ear and out the other. And once he's got a target, boy, that's it. Like a kid with a toy, having his fun, getting bored and throwing it away to play with the next shiny new one. It's a pattern I never wanted him to form, but he did, and at this stage it won't change. So yeah, he's my kid, and I have to take responsibility for how he turned out. And I'm sorry you were another toy for him, Summer. I really am."
I'm hooked on the shining gunmetal in his eyes. How do you respond to something so raw? You can't. You can only absorb the finality of the truth. There's nothing to understand because it didn't go wrong. At least, not for Ashton. Mr. Banks nailed it down perfectly. I naively thought I was special, but I was only special when I was the new toy he wanted to play with. I was just another part of a pattern that will never end.
That's who the real Ashton is, and I can't believe I fell down the rabbit hole of self-doubt today. Hearing this is all I needed to pull me out.
"Summer, Kent's wondering where you are." Ashton's irritated voice echoes down the hall. He's striding toward me, unaware of his dad hidden by a pillar. "She says she got ginger tea that's supposed to help with nausea or something. If you're still—" He slams to a stop.
"Speak of the devil," Mr. Banks quips, his relaxed demeanor opposing Ashton's surprised one.
"Dad, what are you—" His voice cracks slightly and he clears his throat, eyes ticking between us. "What are you doing here?"
"Meeting with the dean, which I'm late for. Summer, it was a pleasure seeing you again. Ashton." He turns to him. "I'll see you at home."
I barely watch Mr. Banks walk across the courtyard before Ashton's sidled right next to me. "What did he say to you?" I turn on my heel. He's one step behind. "Whatever it was, it was bullshit. You can't believe anything he says."
My eyes roll. "Oh, but you've given me every reason to believe what you say, right?"
"You don't know my dad, Summer."
"I don't know you, Ashton." I force myself to look at him, my hand on the kitchen door handle. "I never did. And honestly, what your dad just told me is the most believable thing I've heard in weeks. Now excuse me, I think I'm going to take Chef Kent up on that tea. I'm suddenly feeling nauseous again."
a/n: Whatever you feel when you're reading - frustrated, annoyed, creeped out - just know that I usually feel the same when I'm writing these things too!
Also, while you wait for the next update, check out my new story In Waves if you haven't yet. It's a revamp of my old story Finding Ourselves Together, and I'm really excited about it. So if you're into messy love stories with surfers and the beach and jealousy and love triangles, give it a whirl ♡