Today is one of those days.
When I finally manage to pull into Summer’s father’s driveway, she’s passed out in the passenger seat.
I shut off the car and round the front to her side. She barely wakes up as I lift her into my arms and carry her toward the house. My hip protests the whole time, but I don’t care. I’m not about to make her walk.
“Sunny,” I say softly into her ear. “I need to get you inside. Do you have a key?”
“Hmm?” She blinks once, twice. Then she looks around, realizing what’s going on. “Wait, what are you doing? Ezra, your hip.”
“Shh. I’m fine,” I tell her, readjusting her, and she’s already turning into me and snuggling closer. “I just need your key.”
“Code. No key.”
“What is it?”
“Zero-three-one-five. Mom’s birthday. Dad never wants to admit it out loud, but he misses her. I do too.”
I smile at her sleepy confession, then punch the numbers into the keypad. The door makes a whirring noise, and I try the handle. It opens.
I’m surprised that, despite the house’s exterior looking a bit older, the inside has been updated. It’s not as modern as my place, but it’s not as dated as I had pictured it would be either.
I save my exploring for later and carry an already-sleeping Summer through the house to where I assume the bedrooms are. I try two before I find what I think is hers.
A pale-pink floral wallpaper covers most of the room, and the rest is painted a soft color to match it. The furniture appears to have once belonged to a teenager, but it’s still nice and clearly well maintained.
I couldn’t imagine going back to my childhood home like this. I feel so far removed from that life. Summer’s braver than I am, that’s for sure.
I settle her onto her small twin-size bed, and she stirs.
Her eyes flutter open. “Ezra ...”
“It’s me.” I sit down next to her, practically hanging off the tiny mattress. “Just rest, okay? I’ll warm up your soup and get you something to drink. Are you feeling all right?”
She extends her hand, wiggling it back and forth.
I laugh lightly. “Just call out if you need me.”
She nods, and I wait for her to close her eyes again before I move.
I hurry out to the car for the supplies I grabbed from the grocery store, then head for the kitchen. It takes me a while to locate a pot so I can warm up the chicken-and-stars soup I found in the refrigerated section. Once it’s going, I take the three different flavors of Gatorade I got into the bedroom for her, along with some aspirin, just in case she wants it. I don’t know about her, but whenever I’m sick, I always get a splitting headache.
She lies curled on her side, her mouth slightly ajar, her hair moving up and down as she snores softly.
For someone who is so clearly miserable, she still manages to look beautiful. I have the urge to bend down and kiss her forehead, but I don’t want to bother her. So I force myself to leave and check on the soup instead of standing here staring at her like some weirdo.
On the way to the kitchen, the photographs lining the wall catch my eye, and I slow down to take them in.
The first is of Summer as a baby, and she somehow looks so much like she does now, and completely different all at once. The second is of her and—if I had to guess—her mother. Their smiles are identical, almost eerily so. And the third is of her parents at what appears to be their wedding. They look happy, like they’ll never get tired of each other. You canfeelthe love pouring out of each photo, and I wish that Summer never lost this. I wish I had never lost it too. I don’t oftenthink of my parents, but I suddenly find myself missing them in a way I haven’t in a long, long time.
I peel my gaze away and check on the soup. Once it’s ready, I scrounge around for a bowl and a spoon and take it to her.
To my surprise, she’s awake.
“Hey,” I say softly. “How you doing?”
“Tired. Hot. Cold. So many different things.”
I hold out the bowl of soup. “Want something to eat?”
