I pull away abruptly and sit up, looking down at him. ‘Areyou joking? I can’t leave my brother now, Finn! I can’t go anywhere!’
I inhale sharply, but my lungs won’t fill. I try again and again, but my body is not cooperating.
‘Hey.’ He sits up, concerned, his hand on my shoulder. ‘Breathe, Liv. Breathe.’
I shake my head violently, panicked.
‘Follow me,’ he coaches urgently. ‘Breathe in: one, two, three. And out: one, two, three, four, five. Come on, Liv. And again: one, two, three …’
I stare into his eyes and eventually I’m able to inhale properly again, but my chest is aching even more because this kind, sweet person who already means so much to me will be gone in three days.
‘It’s going to be okay,’ he tries to reassure me again. ‘We’ll stay in touch, try to make this work, FaceTime, text—’
‘No,’ I cut him off.
He stares at me, taken aback.
‘No,’ I say again more softly, shaking my head. ‘I can’t.’
‘Can’t what?’ he asks warily.
‘I can’t do it. This has to end with you leaving. The thought of you going on Tuesday hurts so much. But you’ll fly home, I’ll stay here, and I’ve got to try to pick up the pieces somehow. I’ll need to find the strength to be here for Michael, to decide what the hell it is I’m going to do with my life if I’m not moving to London. But every time you and I speak, every time we say goodbye, I’ll feel like I’m losing you all over again. It willruinme. I can’t bear the thought of it. I don’t want you to call me. This has to end here,’ I repeat.
‘Liv …’ He shakes his head, stricken.
‘And you have so much going on back in LA,’ I say, because, of course, this is not just about me. ‘You need to focus on the band.’
He reaches out and grabs my hand, squeezing it tightly. ‘We could make a plan to speak every week or so.’
‘But then I’ll put my life on hold waiting for your call. I know I will. I know what I’m like.’ I bite my trembling bottom lip and extract my hand. ‘I need to focus on life here. You need to do the same.’
He looks crushed as he pulls me into his arms, burying his face in my neck. I clutch onto him just as fiercely.
‘What if I come back next summer?’ he asks in a muffled voice, his lips pressed against my skin.
‘I’ll be here. But let’s not make any promises, okay?’
He nods against my neck and my heart cracks at the thought of him meeting another girl and falling in love with her, of losing him forever. I’m not sure I can do this after all.
Suddenly he shakes his head and pulls away from me. ‘No. Idowant to make a promise.’ His fervent words fill me with light. ‘Iwillreturn next summer. And I’m not saying that I expect you to wait for me, because I don’t. But if weareboth single …’
His sentence trails off and I nod tearfully, overwhelmed with relief at the compromise we’ve found as he tugs me into a hug.
For the first time in two weeks, I feel something akin to hope.
THIS SUMMER
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘And then I said, “You must be the artist!” and he snapped, “No, I’m not,” in this deeply grouchy voice, and I said, “But you’re the one drawing the pictures on the beach, right?” and he muttered, “Not any more,” and went into the apartment and slammed the door in my face! Can you believe it?’ I swipe my wine glass and take a large gulp, my eyes wide with indignation. ‘Grumpy git.’
My friends appear highly entertained as I share the details of my run-in with my downstairs apartment guest on Monday afternoon.
‘What does he look like?’ Rach asks.
‘Very tall and very broad.’
‘Like,Dan-level tall and broad?’ Amy checks.
