She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Oh my God. Then what?”
I sipped my coffee. “Then things progressed.”
“Progressed,” she repeated.
“Oh yeah.”
She sat back in her chair and looked at me with wide eyes over the rim of her mug. “Summer Banks. You naughty girl.”
“So naughty. Three times naughty.”
“I’m jealous.”
“He had to climb back out this morning when you woke up and I may have pushed him a little too hard. Poor guy is going to be the one walking funny today.”
Becca stared at me and laughed. “I can’t believe you. Why didn’t he just text you or knock on the door like an adult?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably because he left before Dad did.”
“You two kids,” she joked.
“I know.” I sighed and sipped my coffee. “I’ve been on dates since him. A few. And they were perfectly fine. I dated Bodhi. It was all fine.”
“Fine,” she said.
“It felt like we’d never been apart,” I said. “Like the last four years were just a bad dream and this is where we were always supposed to end up.”
“Oh, man,” she said with a sigh. “You have got it so bad.”
I didn’t even try to argue. I knew she was right. “I know,” I said.
“You are in love with him.”
Which I knew. And that was exactly why September was going to be a catastrophe.
“I never stopped,” I admitted quietly. “I thought I had. I told myself I had. But seeing him again and the dinner last night. His face when he talked to the kids, and the way he and Dad got along.” I stopped and took a long breath. “I’m right back to that first summer. Puppy love, sunshine and rainbows. Us against the world.”
Becca set her coffee mug down on the small table between us. I watched and waited. The laughter had faded and she was very serious. I knew that look. I waited for her to find the words.
“Pause,” she said.
I stopped mid-smile. I felt it fade. I’d been on both ends of that word my whole life. Mom had taught us how to use that word. Not as a command, but as an invitation.Stop. Listen. Be open.We’d passed it back and forth between us ever since she was gone. She used it on us throughout our childhood. When things spiraled and we were having a meltdown over something or nothing, she’d simply saypause.
It worked. It wasn’t stop. It was a breath. A moment to think and recalibrate. Just taking a second to think and catch our breath. A pause wasn’t to be argued against or rejected. That was the beauty of it.
I set my own mug down. “Okay,” I said.
“I’m happy for you,” she said. “I want you to understand that. I’m so happy for you, Summer. Last night was the most alive I’ve seen you look in years. Maybe ever.”
“But,” I said softly.
“Not a but,” she said. “Just a pause.” She picked up her mug again, looking away from me and out at the water. “Things are moving fast. And I know that feels right. I know it feels like it’s supposed to move this way because there’s all that history and all that time you lost and it just feels like catching up.” She glanced at me. “But it’s fast.”
“I know.”
“You invited him to dinner last night,” she said.
“I know.”
