Page 111 of The Summer We Lie

"In Pennsylvania?" she asks incredulously. "For how long?"

"For as long as it takes. I'll move there if I have to. I know she doesn't want to leave her mom behind."

She stares at me for a long moment, truly seeing me perhaps for the first time in this conversation.

"Fuck, you do love her," she says, the realization dawning.

"I do," I say simply.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Skye

Five miserable days since I left California. Five days of feeling like I'd ripped my own heart out and left it behind in Dominic's house, still beating and bleeding on his pristine floors.

I stayed with my mom for the first two nights, barely leaving the bed that still smelled like fabric softener and the lavender candles she burns when she's stressed. She brought me food I didn't eat—grilled cheese cut into triangles like when I was little, soup that grew cold while I stared at the wall. She sat with me while I cried without asking too many questions, just smoothed my hair back from my face and made soft, soothing sounds that reminded me I was still someone's daughter, even if I felt like nothing at all.

But on the third day, she yanked the covers off me with the kind of determination that meant business.

"Enough wallowing," she said, hands on hips, looking every inch the woman who'd raised two kids. "They just need time, Skye. And so do you, but not like this."

So I dragged myself back to my apartment that night, key fumbling in the lock of the apartment I share with Harper that suddenly felt cavernous and empty. I tried to remember what normal felt like—what I used to do with my hands when they weren't reaching for someone who wasn't there. I even went live that night, put on the red wig that felt heavier than usual, did my makeup with shaking fingers, smiled for the camera like my world hadn't imploded.

The whole time I felt like I was cheating, which was ridiculous. I wasn't his. He'd made that clear when he called us a mistake, when he let me walk away without fighting for me.

Then yesterday, a text from Dom that made my phone feel like it was burning in my hands: I don't like people seeing what's mine.

I stared at that message for hours, reading it over and over until the words blurred together. Mine. He'd called me his. But I didn't respond because... what could I say? If I was his, why did he let me leave? Why did he say it was a mistake? Why did it take four days of silence before he reached out with a single possessive text that explained nothing?

I haven't heard from him since. Or from Harper, which somehow hurts almost as much. I've texted her repeatedly—long, rambling apologies and short, desperate pleas just to know if she's okay. But she never responds, and I don't blame her. Before summer ends, I'll need to move back home to my mom's house. No way she'll want to share an apartment with me now, not after I slept with her father and ruined everything.

There's a knock on my door that startles me from my spiraling thoughts. I set my sketchbook down—pages filled with architectural lines I'd drawn without thinking, strong jawlines and dark eyes that wouldn't leave me alone—and climb off my bed. My legs feel unsteady as I make my way through my apartment, past the easel covered with a drop cloth.

They knock again, more insistent, and my heart jumps.

"Coming," I call, my voice rusty from disuse, wondering who it could be. Nobody visits me here.

I open the door and freeze, my hand still gripping the handle, momentarily forgetting how to breathe. The air leaves my lungs in a rush that makes me dizzy.

Dominic stands there, tall and imposing in my doorway, filling the space like he belongs there. He looks somehow even more handsome than I remembered—if that's possible—wearing dark jeans and a gray henley that hugs his chest just right. His hair looks like he's run his hands through it, and there are shadows under his eyes that suggest he hasn't been sleeping any better than I have. He holds a stunning bouquet of white roses in one hand, so perfect they almost look unreal.

"Hey, baby," he says, his voice rough with something I can't identify. He extends the flowers toward me, and I catch the scent of them mixed with his cologne—that expensive, intoxicating smell that makes my knees weak.

"Uhhh... what are you doing here?" I manage to ask, my voice barely above a whisper. My brain feels like it's short-circuiting, unable to process that he's actually here, standing in my doorway like something out of a dream I didn't dare have.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" he asks, one dark eyebrow raised in that way that used to make my stomach flip. Still does, apparently.

I step back on unsteady legs, motioning for him to enter with a hand that trembles slightly. "I mean, you pay for the place," I say as he walks past me, bringing that familiar warmth and presence that immediately makes my apartment feel small. God, he smells so good it makes my chest ache with wanting.

"What are you doing here, Dom?" I ask again when the door closes behind him with a soft click that sounds final somehow.

He turns to face me fully, and the intensity in his dark eyes makes my breath catch. "I came to get you," he says simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

My heart sinks like a stone, all the foolish hope I'd been nursing crashing down around me. "I can't go back. Harper hates me." The words taste bitter in my mouth, true and awful.

He shakes his head immediately, taking a step closer. "She doesn't hate you. And I don't think you understand—I'm not coming to bring you back to my house."

"Oh." The word falls from my lips like a physical blow, and I feel it like a punch to the stomach, all the air leaving my lungs at once. Of course. Of course he just wants to sort out the logistics, figure out how to untangle this mess we've made.