Summer Apart (3 page)

This is why I didn’t sign up for that freaking mailing list. I don’t need to be reminded that Park is some famous guy where he comes from. I like thinking of him as the hot guy in a tuxedo who drove two days straight just to walk my best friend down the aisle at her wedding last summer.

I absolutely do not, under any circumstances, want to think of him as some girlfriend-stealing mildly famous California boy. That kind of guy doesn’t bring you shipping boxes to help you jump start a business. At least, that’s what I used to think. Now I don’t know what to think at all anymore.

The truth is in the pixels on my computer screen. He’s a player. He’s a girlfriend-stealer. He doesn’t care about me any more than he cares about the dirt on his racing boots. 

I think that deep down in my heart I knew this would end up happening. Anytime a guy is gorgeous, confident, and tells you to your face that you shouldn’t trust him, you should probably listen. And that’s what I did when I told him we couldn’t be long distance lovers. So why does it hurt so much?

Tears stream down my cheeks as I sit on the floor, hovering over a computer screen that has shown me my worst nightmare. I knew this would happen. I totally knew it.

So why am I in so much fucking pain?

The image of Park and that girl floats across the screen again and then the marquee changes to another headline. I close the browser window and stare at the desktop screen. It’s an image I saved from Pinterest.

Friends are connected heart to heart. Distance and time can’t break them apart.

It’s an image of the quote written in the sand of a beautiful beach shore. I saved it on the day that Bayleigh had moved to Mixon and I was feeling particularly sad that my best friend was leaving me in our hometown while she moved on to greater and better things that were an hour away from me.

Now I stare at the image, wondering if it could have two meanings. Are Park and I just friends? We get along great most of the time. There was a point in our relationship where we both wanted more, and perhaps we still do, but I made the choice that we would have to just stay friends. Just friends. Does that mean we’re connected heart to heart in the way that Bayleigh and I are?

Or does it mean that we’ll never be friends? I’m not a psychic—I’m crap at telling the future. I can hardly tell what’s happening in the present. And I’m only nineteen so that makes me about a zero on the scale of worldly wisdom and knowledge. But even with my lack of experience and low boyfriend count, I still have a sneaking suspicion that when two people like Park and I fall so fast and so hard for each other and then have it ripped away by distance, there’s simply no staying friends after that.

It’s all or nothing. Hot or cold. Black or white.

Blonde or brunette.

California or Texas.

Looks like Park has already made his choice.

My phone rings around six o’clock. I know if I don’t answer it then Park will either call back until I do answer, or most likely, he’ll show up at my door and inform me that my phone is broken. Because he wouldn’t believe for a second that Becca Sosa, his little Texan play thing, would ever purposely ignore his phone call. As much as it hurts, I know that’s all I am to him. I’m just the pathetic girl from Texas who he visits when he needs a break from hooking up with other girls.

Thank god I never fully hooked up with him. If I had given my virginity to him, I’d be in much worse condition right now. I sure as hell wouldn’t be listening to Mumford and Sons while painting a canvas in my bedroom, sulking but trying to get over it like the strong woman that I know I can be.

No, if I had given him my all, I would be a complete mess. A shudder rips through me at the mere thought of it. I guess if any good thing can come from this, it’s knowing that I still have my dignity and virginity intact. My heart is a complete mess, but I’m sure it’ll survive.

With a sigh, I set down my paint brush and grab my phone on the fifth ring. “Hello?”

“Hey!” It’s amazing how a voice that only hours ago would have made my insides light up and dance is now repulsive to my ears. “Are you hungry? I can come get you in about twenty minutes.”

I pull the phone away from my ear and draw in a deep breath to calm myself. I exhale slowly and then say, “No, thanks.”

“Fine, thirty minutes,” he says with a laugh. “But you don’t have to get all dressed up you know. You’re perfect in your pajamas. Although you probably shouldn’t wear them to get Italian food.”

Ugh. Why doesn’t he get it? Can’t he hear the annoyance in my voice? “No, I meant I won’t be joining you for dinner. You go with Jace or something. I have to go now, Park—”

“Wait,” he says, just like I knew he would. Park doesn’t accept it when he gets an answer he doesn’t want. “Why aren’t you coming to dinner? Is something wrong?”

Yes something’s wrong! You’re a massive player!
The words are on the tip of my tongue and I want to say them so badly, but I’m scared of the results. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just not hungry and I’m really busy over here. So maybe I’ll see you tomorrow or something.”

He didn’t want me to know about his stupid California girlfriend so I’m going to pretend that I don’t. It’ll be a lot more powerful if he thinks I just suddenly lost interest in him. Maybe then he can spend forever wondering why he wasn’t good enough for me.

Maybe then he’ll know a little of what it feels like to be rejected.

Just like how I feel right now.

An hour later, I’m still working on this same canvas, painting the pains of my heart onto it. My music pumps louder as I crank up the volume, making it as loud as my little laptop speakers can handle. I paint to the rhythm of the music, losing myself to its acoustic trance. This will be okay, I tell myself. Park is an asshole but I am strong and will continue to be strong. This will all be fine.

I think I hear Mom call my name from down the hallway, so I yell back, “Yeah?” And then when she doesn’t answer, I call out again, thinking maybe I hadn’t heard her at all. “Mom?”

My door opens as I continue working on my canvas. A figure appears, much too tall to be my mother. My paintbrush stops in mid-stroke. Dad isn’t home. Mom isn’t that tall. This can only mean one thing.

“Sorry, I’m not your mom.”

I wasn’t exactly expecting Park to show up, so the shock on my face is raw and unfailingly real. Dammit. I didn’t have time to prepare myself, to cover up my emotions and smile and act like everything is perfectly fine. As a quick recovery, I slap my hand over my chest and say, “Oh my god, you scared me!”

“Sorry,” he says, looking as if he doesn’t quite buy my excuse. “Your mom yelled that I was here.” He walks over to my laptop and lowers the volume. “Guess you couldn’t hear it.”

I shrug and turn back to my painting. My thoughts zip around my head in panic mode as I try desperately to think of some kind of excuse to get him out of my room and away from me for the rest of the day.
Think, think, think.

“Whoa,” Park says under his breath. I dab some more paint on my brush as I feel him approach me. The scent of his cologne used to make me woozy but now all I can think about his I wonder how many more women have smelled that same cologne on him?

“What’s up with this painting?” He steps into place right beside me but I still don’t look over at him.

“I’m just experimenting,” I say, swallowing the lump that forms in my throat. I’d been so busy painting and jamming to music, I hadn’t really taken the time to actually look at what I’d created. Where the canvas used to be solid white, it was now nearly completely black. I’d used a thin paint brush and black paint to write an inspirational saying on it at first, but then that quote sucked so I’d painted on top of it with another one.

And then another one, and another one. And then I’d gone through every single quote in my quote journal, each one layering on top of the last one until none of them were readable and the only thing left was a frightening mixture of words that meant nothing. It’s as if all of the inspirational quotes in the world couldn’t help mend the pain in my heart.

In fact, this canvas was perfect.

He picks up a half-empty bag of cookies on the counter next to my paints. “I thought you weren’t hungry?” he says, tilting his head to the right as he examines me like I’m some kind of escaped mental patient.

“I wasn’t,” I say before I have the mental capacity to filter it out. Technically, you don’t have to be hungry to eat away your feelings with cookies and ice cream, and oh god, how many fun sized candy bars had I consumed since our last phone call?

Park sets down the cookie bag and folds his arms over his chest. His head tilts a little bit, his eyebrows lifting and his lips press into a flat line. In just one second, it’s as if the guy I used to know has transformed into a very pissed off father. “What the hell is going on, Becca? Why are you avoiding me?”

Normally, I consider myself to be a pretty good person. I don’t make fun of the less fortunate and I always hold open the door for people and help old ladies reach items on the high shelves at the grocery store. I don’t disrespect my parents and I don’t use drugs or do anything else that’s illegal. And on top of that, I am a good and loyal friend.

So why is my brain yelling at me right now, telling me to
lie lie lie
?

Say you’re sick.

Say your mom has been sick and you’re worried about her so you need to stay home take care of her.

Say it’s that time of the month and cramps are killing you.

A long stretch of silence accompanies me wrestling with my mind, trying to think of a believable lie to tell Park about why I’m avoiding him. He doesn’t wait long enough for me to figure it out.

“Tell me what’s going on. You were fine earlier today. What happened?”

The good news is that I make the split-second decision that I don’t want to lie. I don’t want to be that type of person who lies to get out of tough conversations. Of course I also wish I was the type of person who never got into tough conversations…but no one’s perfect.

The bad news is what falls out of my mouth next. “Did you sleep with her?”

“Who?” he says. He doesn’t even flinch. I can’t tell if that means he’s totally unaware of what I’m talking about or if he’s just an exceptionally good player.

“You know who I’m talking about.” I’m pretty sure that nothing he says now will change how I feel, but now that I’ve gone and slipped up and admitted that I know about his other girlfriend, I might as well get some answers so I’m not wondering forever.

His hands unfold from across his chest and fall to his sides. “I seriously don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been with Jace all day. I didn’t talk to any girls at all, besides you.”

I let out an exasperated sigh and roll my eyes to the ceiling. “I don’t mean now, Park. I’m not stupid. I mean back in California. That blonde.”

Confusion flickers across his face for a second before it morphs into understanding. “You looked up the motocross news,” he says with a slight nod. He smiles inwardly and shakes his head before looking back at me. “I didn’t sleep with that bitch.”

“Is that what women are to you? Bitches?” My voice is stern and angry. But inside I’m feeling relief in knowing that he hasn’t slept with her. Of course that doesn’t mean he hasn’t slept with countless other girls since we met each other.

“Some women are bitches. Not all of them.”

“And some men are assholes,” I snap. “Like the kind who act all sweet when they visit you and then they go off and bang hot women at motocross races.”

Despite the anger making my voice rise, he replies calmly. “I said I didn’t sleep with her. And seriously, who uses the word bang?” He snorts. My hands ball into fists and I actually think about throwing something at him. “This isn’t funny, Park. Why the hell are you laughing?”

He holds up his hands in surrender. “I’m laughing because you’re way too upset about this. You saw an article online with some jacked up pictures that don’t even remotely show the truth and now you’re pissed without letting me explain.”

I suck in a deep breath and gnaw on my bottom lip. “Then explain.”

He picks up a dry paintbrush and flips it over in his hand. “Honestly, I don’t know why I should explain.”

“Excuse me?”

He takes a step closer, leaning over to place the paintbrush into the cup where I keep the rest of them. Then he straightens, placing both of his hands on my shoulders. “I didn’t have sex with that girl.”

“You didn’t?”

“No.”

I lift my eyes to meet his. “And why don’t I believe you?”

“Because you’re pissed off and you want more reasons to hate me.”

“I don’t want reasons to hate you, Park.” I shake my head slowly. He doesn’t get it at all. “I want reasons to believe you.”

“You’re going to believe what you want to, Becca. Nothing I say will change that. I promise I didn’t have sex with her and that article is wrong anyhow. I didn’t steal Jake’s girlfriend—they had been broken up for weeks. But you either believe me or you don’t.” He releases my shoulders and shoves his hands in his pockets. “And not to be an asshole or anything, but frankly, you can’t even get mad about this.”

“What the hell does that mean? Of course I can get mad. I thought we had something, Park.” Oh, shit. Warm tears fill my vision and I blink them away, refusing to cry in front of him.

“It means you can’t get mad at me dating other girls when you’re the reason I’m single.
You
rejected
me
, and you shouldn’t forget that.”

“Seriously? So that’s how it is? I’m just some idiot girl you flirt with when you’re in Texas and I don’t mean shit to you? You don’t care enough about to me to stay away from other girls while we figure this out?”

Park throws his arms in the air. This is the first time I’ve ever seen him look truly angry. “What the hell is there to figure out? You left me!”

“I—I,” I stutter on like an idiot, totally unable to find the words to say. He’s right and I don’t want to admit it. I refuse to be wrong even though I know I am.

“Look sweetheart—this is how it is. That’s who I am. I date around and it’s all meaningless. I tried telling you that when you first met me so why is it all my fault when you finally believe it? Why am I the asshole for doing only exactly what I told you I did?”

His words make my stomach hurt. I blink back tears again and clench my jaw to stop it from quivering. “I just…I thought we had something special.”

“We did. I would have given it all up for you, Becca. I tried doing that, if you’ll remember. I poured my heart out to you. I wanted to settle down with you. I only wanted you. And you told me no. Repeatedly, I might add.”

There’s no way I’ll be able to stop myself from crying much longer. “You should leave,” I manage to say, before turning back to my canvas, doing my best to ignore him.

“Fine,” he says quietly. “If that’s what you want.”

I wait until the door closes behind him and then I burst into tears.