Cure for the Common Breakup (19 page)

“Okay, but he didn't run off or settle down with Pauline, right?” Summer clarified. “You guys should have banded together and gotten revenge! Put sugar in his gas tank! Spelled out obscenities on his lawn with salt!”

Hattie laughed mirthlessly. “Pauline was far too fragile for anything like that.
She
was so heartbroken that she couldn't even set eyes on Mies without crying.
She
was so devastated that she threatened to kill herself when the engagement announcement was published. So my parents sent her off to California, while I had to stay here and molder.”

“Why didn't you take off for California? Or Florence or London or Madrid?”

“Someone had to take care of my parents. I wasn't their favorite, but I'm the one who saw them through illness and old age. And I had to grit my teeth and bite my tongue every time I saw Mies and his bride and their ill-mannered children.”

“And look at you now: grand marshal of the bitter parade.” Summer shook her head. “Seriously, Hattie, it's been long enough. You have to at least try to move on. Isn't that what this town's all about?”

“I don't want to move on.” Hattie set her jaw. “I don't ever want to feel that way again.”

This is what happens,
Summer realized.
This is what happens when you wallow too long, when you keep picking at the scab. You fester. You get infected. You feed the fear and numb the pain until you don't have the option to heal anymore.

She gazed at the stately old lady who had wasted her whole life wishing she could change the past. Who cherished old grudges like family heirlooms.

Whatever Hattie saw in Summer's expression seemed to enrage her further. “Stay away from Mayor Jansen. That's not a request.”

Summer didn't bother to hide her irritation. “Do you really not see how dumb this is? I get that you have a blood feud with his grandfather, but Dutch didn't actually
do
anything. You're single; you're powerful; you're filthy stinking rich! If I had your money, I'd enjoy every dollar. I'd be partying like the Great Gatsby every night.”

“You're not me, Miss Benson.” Hattie arched one eyebrow. “I believe we've established that.”

“Haven't you ever heard that old saying: ‘Resentment is like drinking rat poison and waiting for the rat to die'?”

“I don't mind dying, as long as I can take the rats down with me. Stay away from him or you'll be sorry.” Hattie's vengeful smile tightened. “And so will he.”

S
ummer's heart had nearly resumed its normal rhythm by the time Ingrid parked Scarlett near the porch steps.

“Good job today,” she managed to say. The afternoon was damp and cloudy, and her cheeks were freezing from driving around in the wind with the top down.

“Really?” Ingrid handed back the car keys.

“Really. But let's set some goals for next time.” Summer reminded herself to breathe. “Number one, the sign says ‘yield,' not ‘surrender.'”

“I was just being cautious.” Ingrid bristled. “I didn't want to cause an accident.”

“Which leads us to goal number two: If you don't want to cause an accident, bear in mind that a stop sign is not merely a suggestion.”

“I told you, I didn't see it because you were distracting me with the radio.”

“I cannot listen to any more Mozart,” Summer countered. “And besides, when you turn up A Tribe Called Quest high enough, you can't hear that engine noise.”

“What's wrong with your engine?” Dutch asked, rounding the corner from the backyard. He'd spent his morning working in the garden, and had the sweat, dirt smudges, and fresh scratches to show for it.

“It's making weird scraping noises,” Ingrid reported.

Dutch turned to Summer, hand outstretched. “Give me your keys.”

Summer shot Ingrid a look. “It's fine.”

“Keys.”

“It's fine.”

Dutch took off his work gloves, pried open Summer's hand, and took the keys from her. She looked at his hands and his gloves, and when she glanced up at his eyes she could tell he was also remembering their romp in the rose garden.

He cleared his throat. “You're risking life and limb in a car with a new driver and an engine making, quote, ‘scraping noises.' It's not fine.”

“She is not risking life and limb.” Ingrid put her hands on her hips. “I'm a very safe driver.” She paused. “Well, except for that one stop sign.”

Dutch popped open the convertible's hood and disappeared into the engine cavity. “I'm taking this into the shop.”

“Here, let me give you my credit card.” Summer dredged through the receipts, pens, and loose M&M's at the bottom of her purse.

Dutch waved the card away. “Forget it. Go have a glass of wine and decompress. Are you free tonight? Let's have dinner.”

“Oh, I can't.” Summer pouted. “Hattie says I have to—”

“Seven o'clock?” Ingrid asked.

“Make it eight,” Dutch replied.

“Jeans or little black dress?” Ingrid asked.

“Little black dress. Better yet, little lavender dress.”

“She'll be ready.” Ingrid saluted. “And, bonus! I'm going to the movies tonight, so you guys can have the house to yourselves after dinner.”

“You just doubled your allowance for the week,” Dutch told Ingrid as he walked around to the ignition and started the car. To Summer, he said, “See you at eight.”

Summer followed Ingrid into the house with her mouth hanging open and her hands flung wide. “Did you two just railroad me into a dinner date? Hattie's going to be pissed.” She brightened. “Maybe she'll fire me.”

“It's nice, huh?” Ingrid tugged Summer's purse strap. “Having some nice guy do nice things for you? I bet you could really get used to it.”

“He's not doing it for me.” Summer took off her sweater as she stepped into the foyer. “He's doing it for you. You're the one learning to drive.”

Ingrid continued as if Summer hadn't spoken. “I mean, I'm sure guys fall all over themselves doing nice stuff for you all the time. Flowers, fancy dinners, jewelry . . .”

Summer laughed. “I live quite the life in your imagination.”

“But I'll bet none of them were as nice as Dutch.”

“That's true.” Summer sighed. “I haven't dated many nice guys. Just one. And that didn't turn out so well.”

“I've decided I'm only going to date nice guys,” Ingrid announced with great authority.

“I'm glad to hear that. Makes perfect sense since you're such a nice girl.”

“Once I get Maxwell out of my system.” Ingrid grinned and darted into the kitchen.

Summer stayed right on her heels. “Excuse me?”

“Don't worry; I know I'm never going to be his girlfriend.” Ingrid opened the refrigerator, pulled out two bottles of water, and handed one to Summer. “I know he's out of my league. I just really want to sleep with him before he leaves for college. Is that so wrong?”

Summer grabbed a bottle of water, twisted off the cap, and chugged half the contents while she tried to strategize her arguments. “Yes, it's wrong!”

“Why?”

“Because . . . because . . .”
Chug, chug, chug.
“Listen, I don't know this guy, but I
know
him. I know the type.
You
are out of
his
league, and don't you forget it.”

“Oh, God.” Ingrid scrunched up her face. “Here we go with some lecture about how I'm so smart and such a good person and I should wait for someone else who's such a good person.”

“That's right! Here we go with that lecture!” Summer pounded her bottle on the counter, splattering drops of water across the floor. “Sit down and make yourself comfortable, missy.”

But Ingrid was having none of this. “I don't want anyone else. Yeah, he's shallow. Yeah, he's superficial. Yeah, okay, he can barely fill in his name on standardized test bubbles. But guess what? I don't care! I just really, really want to know what it's like to kiss him.” Ingrid lifted her chin. “Haven't you ever felt like that about a guy?”

“Um. Maybe.”

Ingrid's expression went from defiant to desperate. “Why does being smart mean I have to be boring and lame?”

Summer sighed, combing her fingers through her windblown hair. “It doesn't. But—”

“You have to help me get his attention.” Ingrid snapped her fingers. “Ooh, I know! I'll take off my underpants and send them to him in a glass!”

“What? No!”

“Yeah, I guess we don't really use glasses at high school parties. Okay, I'll send them to him in a red Solo cup!”

“No. No way!”

“Why not?” Ingrid gave her a look. “
You
did.”

Summer sputtered. “How did you hear about that?”

“Are you kidding? The whole town heard about that.”

“Well, erase that image from your mind.” Summer strode to the other end of the kitchen.

“Too late; I'll be talking to my therapist about it for years.”

“Then talk to your therapist. But don't waste your time and energy on some mouth-breathing troglodyte in a lacrosse jersey. You deserve better.”

Ingrid got right up in her face. “Why is it okay for you to do it, but not for me?”

Summer put her hands on Ingrid's shoulders. “Because, honestly, you're better than me. You're brilliant and beautiful and destined for greatness.”

“So are you.”

Summer wasn't about to get sidetracked arguing that point. “You don't need validation from some jackass who doesn't see what a gem you are.”

“I don't want validation.” A note of whiny exasperation crept into Ingrid's voice. “I want to make out with him. Just once.”

“Oh, boy. I know that face. I've seen it in the mirror many times.” Summer glanced at the cabinet doors. “Where do you keep the Advil?”

“Here.” Ingrid rummaged through a drawer by the dishwasher.

“Thanks.” Summer pressed her hands to her forehead. “Fine.
Fine.
Make out with him if you must, but don't have sex with him. I'm begging you.”

“Why not? It's just virginity. Don't be such a slave to the patriarchy.”

Summer sagged back against the countertop. “I'm having a heart attack and dying right now. You may not be able to see it on the outside, but trust me, inside, my circulatory system is screeching to a halt. You have no clue what you're saying. You're seventeen. A child! A toddler! An infant!”

Ingrid gave her a knowing look. “So you were still a virgin when you were seventeen?”

“I, uh . . .” Summer waved her hands. “That's not the point!”

“Try to remember what it felt like to be seventeen,” Ingrid pleaded.

“I don't have to remember,” Summer said. “I
still
feel seventeen.”

“I'm so sick of being smart and responsible. I'm tired of thinking about how my behavior reflects on my brother and my family name and all that shit.” Ingrid looked a bit terrified as she cursed.

“Did you just say ‘shit'?” Summer had to laugh. “You
are
in a rebellious mood.”

“I just want to be pretty and fun for once. I want to do something exciting.”

“Then apply to study at the Sorbonne. Join the Peace Corps. Go heli-skiing. Don't swap bodily fluids with some guy who makes you feel like you have to bleach your hair and pretend like you don't know the difference between ‘there,' ‘their,' and ‘they're.' And yes, I'm aware of how hypocritical I sound. But that's why I'm your mentor—you can learn from my mistakes!” As she said the words, Summer realized that Hattie had said the exact same thing to her.

Ingrid stuck out her jaw the same way Dutch did when he got obstinate.

So Summer played her trump card. “Guys like that aren't even good in bed. Trust and believe. Sure, he looks hot on the outside, but that's not going to do you any good once the lights are off. You're looking for excellent concentration and attention to detail.” She raised an eyebrow. “Does Mr. Mouth Breather have excellent attention to detail?”

Ingrid looked away. “I don't know.”

“Then it's a pass.” Summer swept back into the living room to indicate that the subject was now closed. “I mean, ultimately, it's your decision.”

“That's right.” Ingrid nodded.

“I can't physically stop you.”

“That's right.”

“But. I can tell your brother.”

Ingrid gasped. “You wouldn't.”

“I would.” Summer touched up her lip gloss while Ingrid pitched a thirty-second temper tantrum. “So make the right decision. Be responsible for your actions. Now let's go. I have to buy a little lavender dress before eight o'clock.”

—

By the time Summer and Dutch returned from dinner in Rehoboth Beach (“Where no one will interrupt us to rant about whose beach chairs are touching whose fence—I hope”), a light drizzle had started to fall.

Dutch took off his jacket while he walked around the car to open Summer's door, and when she stepped out into the rain, he draped it over her shoulders.

Summer, shivering in her lavender blouse and black skirt (all she could find on short notice), tried to hand the jacket back. “I'm okay.”

He smoothed the silk-lined wool over her back. “Would you please let me take care of you?”

She stumbled as her high heels got caught in the white gravel lining the driveway. “I don't need you to take care of me.”

He placed his hand under her elbow to steady her. “I'm well aware.”

“But you—”

“I'm being a gentleman,” he said.

She shut up for about three seconds. “Well, I'm just saying. You don't have to be careful with me. I'm not some delicate flower.”

He guided her up the wooden stairs to the porch, where she could smell the faintest trace of blooming roses and fresh soil. As the rain fell faster and thunder rumbled in the distance, he tilted up her chin and looked down into her eyes.

“Summer?” His lips were inches from hers.

“Yes?” she breathed.

“Do you want to stand out here and pick a fight, or do you want to come inside?”

She realized that it was too late to make a choice—she'd already let down her guard. She felt safe with him. She trusted him. She wanted to stay up all night, laughing and talking about nothing with him.

This was the best part of falling: the rush, the high, the illusion that it could go on forever.

But it wouldn't go on forever. And she didn't want him to be careful with her because that would only compound the heartache when he inevitably stopped being careful and she had to pick up all her baggage and walk it off again.

“I want to come inside.”