SUMMER

The more I try to make sense of it, the more nonsensical it becomes.

Yet somehow, any other outcome would be an illogical one, right? Ashton Banks treats everything like a challenge he has to win. So why should I be any different? The challenge was to get in my pants. He won.

The simplicity of it is right there, but accepting it is admitting a defeat so excruciating that it eats me from the inside out.

I'm in the kitchen prepping a bolognese sauce. Mrs. Villa left the ingredients out with a Post-it instructing me to have dinner ready by seven. Still not a fan of the notes, but at least this one was less demanding and included a 'please'.

I cleaned up my blotchy face and watery eyes, but I'm still reeling. A hot iron brands his stinging words on my brain over and over, the callous look on his face sewn into the fabric of my mind. It's as if I never left that parking lot at all.

The echo of the front door travels to the kitchen. "Denise, you home? My flight's moved up tomorrow so I'll have to leave a little earlier than—oh. Summer."

Mr. Villa stops sorting through the mail as he walks in, and I drop my focus to the onion I'm chopping.

"She'll be back at seven."

"Great," he says slowly. "Everything okay?"

I nod to the board, keeping my chopping pace. "Yeah. She wants spaghetti bolognese for dinner so—"

"I meant, are you okay?"

My eyes are burning from the onions, but I feel my own tears welling. On the verge of exposing every emotion I'm fighting to suppress.

"I'm okay."

"Summer... look at me."

"I'm fine." I sniff. "It's just the onions."

I want him to believe me, but he's walking closer, and my vision is blurred from the tears on the edge of spilling. A sharp pain suddenly slices across my thumb. I drop the knife with a gasp, a line of crimson breaking through the blur.

"Shit," he says, dumping the mail on the marble island. He takes my forearm, guides me to the sink and runs cold water over my thumb. "Don't move, okay? I'll be right back."

I blink, letting the silent tears go. My bones are rusted and stiff. I can't move even if I try.

When he comes back, he turns off the faucet and looks closer in the dusky light. "All right, not that bad. You won't need stitches or anything."

He opens a first-aid kit and picks out what he needs.

"You were right," I confess through a sniffle. "About Ashton. He was just using me."

His mouth tightens as he dabs disinfectant on the throbbing cut. "You know I didn't want to be right, Summer. I'm so sorry I was."

"But I should have... I don't know. I should have seen it coming."

"He told you what you wanted to hear. It's not your fault."

I shake my head, the air cold on my wet cheeks. "It is. I let myself fall into it when I knew how manipulative he could be. It's my fault for thinking he was actually capable of being a stand-up guy."

Mr. Villa presses a band-aid in place, then moves to squeeze my hand. "You wanted to see the good in someone. He convinced you it was there, that it was real. Grabbing onto something real does not make it your fault when it turns out to be a work of fiction."

Before I think about what I'm doing, I fall into his chest, craving the physical comfort only he can give me in this moment. His body is rigid at first, but his muscles relax against my cheek as his hands settle on my back.

"I don't even think it would hurt as much if he had been upfront with me." I cry into his shirt. "If he said it was only one night then I'd deal with it, but he made it seem like he wanted more. He was giving me these expectations and... and..."

"And showing you a part of himself no one had seen before."

"Yes." I breathe. "But it never existed, and I just feel so stupid for thinking it did."

Mr. Villa holds my shoulders and peels me off, securing his eyes on mine. "He's the stupid one, Summer. Anyone who spends a night with you should be breaking down the door for a thousand more. And if they don't, they never deserved one night to begin with."

He moves to cup my cheeks, his thumbs stopping my hot tears in their path.

"These are wasted on him," he murmurs, wiping the drops away. "No one who hurts you is worth crying over, okay? Not one soul."

His small smile holds so much warmth that I feel it transferred right into me, toastiness enclosing my heart. I suddenly feeling silly for pouring all of this personal emotion onto him. But he took it with no hesitancy or reluctance. No 'I told you so' or 'you learned your lesson'. Only compassion.

His hands are still on me, and just like on the yacht, they feel welcome. We stay like that for longer than we should, and I'm pulled from the depths of the ocean in his eyes when rattling fills the room. I rush to turn down the stove burner, stopping the pot of boiling water before it overflows.

An awkward air has trickled. Mr. Villa gives a gruff cough, offering me a box of tissues he must have brought with the first-aid kit. I gladly take one and clean myself up.

"So, spaghetti bolognese? How can I help?"

"You don't have to."

"Come on, the head chef's sporting an injury," he says, rolling up his sleeves. "Let me tag in."

I laugh and direct him to the onions. "Well you can start by washing my blood off that knife. Then you can wash your hands and get chopping."

"Being a chef isn't for the faint-hearted, is it?"

"You can still tag out if you're scared of cooking-related injuries."

"Scared?" He loosens the knot of his tie. "How can I be scared when I'm working under Clocul's finest?"

"Flattery doesn't make you immune."

"No, but it might make you smile. Is it working?"

I give him what he wants and put on a big, cheesy smile.

He laughs, clutching his heart. "Worth all the cooking-related injuries in the world."

Although I initially wanted to be alone, I'm grateful Mr. Villa stepped in to distract me. If only for a little while. We talk about nothing important while we cook, and he tries to make me laugh as much as he can, and by the time Mrs. Villa gets home I feel lighter than ever.

But when the night has ended and I'm lying alone in bed, relentless thoughts of Ashton coil around my mind. I sink again.

I've changed the sheets, but they still smell like him. I haven't touched the hungry bruises he left, but I still feel his hands creating them. Those tender marks will be reminders until they fade. And even then, I know the reminders won't truly fade.

It was a mistake bringing him back to my room. It's tainted now.

I call my mom and tell her I'm homesick. True enough. I can't sleep, and all I want is a mom-hug and mom-hair-stroking to dull the pain. She talks to me until I drift off with her soft voice in my ear, and it almost feels like she's lying right next to me.

❖❖❖

When Aaron dumped me in high school, I cried. Duh, yes, obvious. Most people cry when they're dumped. But when I say I cried, I mean I c-r-i-e-d. 

So much that I thought my eyeballs would pop out of my skull. I thought my chest would cave in. I thought I'd be devastated forever. My mom and Ella curled up with me on the couch, armed with honeycomb ice cream and peanut brittle, and we watched sappy 2000s chick flicks all night.

And by morning, I was fine.

I've never been one to wallow in sadness. I let myself feel it. Really feel it. And then I release it. After, I can't stop the sudden waves that hit me now and then. But when they do, I let them wash over me for a moment, and then they pass.

The next morning, a wave hits and leaves anger in its wake this time. Mr. Villa was right. Tears are wasted on those who hurt you. Anger, on the other hand, is never wasted on those who wrong you.

I walk into class with my head held high, bypassing my usual spot in the front row. I feel Ashton's eyes trained on me when I take a seat as far away from him as possible.

Grant gives me a confused but welcome smile, blinking like he's just woken up. "Are you meant to be sitting here?"

"Where else would I mean to sit?" I ask, fishing my notebook from my bag.

"At the front? The view of the board is really lousy from here."

I click my pen. "Then I'll listen extra hard."

He chuckles and goes back to paging through his textbook. Chef Kent soon walks in with a stack of papers tucked under her arm.

"Morning everyone. I'm handing back your tests before we start today. I'll give you a few minutes to go through them now, but if anyone has questions about your result then stay after class and we'll chat."

I clean forgot about the test. She makes her way along the rows, and when my paper is placed in front of me, I mentally crumble.

"B minus. Nice," Grant says, giving my arm a nudge. He takes in my melted frown. "Or, not nice?"

"I should have done better," I mumble.

"You still passed, though."

I catch a glimpse of the A circled on his page before I flip through my answers. "Well I sort of have to do better."

He stares at me blankly.

"It's a long story," I mutter. "But basically, my dad's a jerk and he's gonna force me into law school if I don't do better than this."

"For real?"

I nod, finding the culprit to my downfall on the test. "French and accounting. Knew it."

My lip pulls between my teeth, and I bury the test in my bag as if I've sent it to its grave. Grant's pen taps on the table for a while before he speaks again.

"I used to be an accountant."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Super boring, though."

"I believe you," I say, and his quiet laugh rumbles through me. I think back to his introduction on the first day. "You said you were changing career paths, didn't you? So that's what you changed from?"

The corners of his mouth lift. "Surprised you remembered that, but yes. Best decision I ever made."

"What made you switch?"

He resumes his pen-tapping, shifting his coffee eyes away. "Life. Woke up on my thirtieth birthday and realized how miserable I was. Quit my job, used my savings, and here I am."

I watch his smile lines deepen. He has a gentle face. A gentle air.

"Pretty big leap to take," I say.

"The only leap I've ever taken. Wish I had done it years ago." He studies me, his pen coming to a stop. "I'm in the library most days at lunch. French isn't my strong suit, but I can help you with accounting if you want. Prep you before the next test."

I shift. "Like, tutoring?"

"Yeah, like tutoring."

"Why would you do that?"

His round lips curl in bemusement. "Why wouldn't I do that?"

"Because... most people are only out for themselves here."

I'm not even sure if that's true, but I think being in such a competitive zone with Ashton from the get-go has conditioned me to believe that, simply because he believes it.

Grant sits up. "I'm not out for myself, Summer. I went into accounting because my parents forged that life for me, and I hated it. But I was good at it. And I wish I had the chance to be here first, like you do. If I can help you avoid being in a career you hate for years before you get another chance to be here again, then I want to help. If you'll let me."

I read his seriousness, and I know he isn't one to offer help lightly. Grant has been reserved since we got here. He barely speaks to anyone except for Steven, and that's only because they're workstation partners. I feel like he's unhooked a golden rope to save my trial year.

"Okay." I smile. "I'll let you help me."

❖❖❖

Our workstation is a dead zone in the kitchen. White hot anger flows through my veins when I look at Ashton. I don't see a beautiful boy anymore; I see a fuckboy. I don't see honey in his eyes; I see tar.

That night may as well be wrapped in metal and crushed into a cube like they do to old cars. And what the hell—crush his balls into cubes too.

When a fresh shipment of vegetables arrives, I don't hesitate to volunteer storing them in the fridge. Anything to get me out of Ashton's vicinity. I bump into Nick as I go, coldly holding his gaze before I pass.

I thought he was a good one. That he wasn't like them, but Nick might be even worse. Kind on the outside, calculating on the inside. Was anything he said actually true? Was he only working me that night so I'd be more willing to give Ashton a chance?

A wolf in sheep's clothing, trying to get his best friend laid.

I drag out the task of unpacking vegetables, my snail's pace enough to keep me here longer than I need to be. Like a mantra, I tell myself this will pass. I tell myself I can stand across from him every day. I can be in this stupid fridge and not associate it with him anymore. I can patch the leaks of pain with cement and I can move on.

The fridge door opens. "Got another crate."

Charlie sets the wooden crate next to me, crouching down with it to my level. I mumble a thanks, expecting her to leave, but she begins unpacking the red peppers.

"You don't have to do that."

"Chef Kent says it'll be quicker with two of us," she says, sickeningly upbeat.

I roll my eyes and continue at a faster pace, feeling her cool gaze on my neck.

"So, did you have fun at my party?" she asks in an overly casual tone.

I grunt out a yes.

"Yeah? More fun than the afterparty?"

My hand pauses on the shelf, squeezing the pepper hard.

"I mean, Ashton's been on that waiting list for weeks. He must've had a blast when you finally let him come inside."

Sigh. What ever happened to the art of subtlety?

"Don't beat around the bush, Charlie. Say what you wanna say."

Her mechanical laugh matches her impassive face. "I don't know what you're—"

"Yes, I had sex with Ashton. Happy?" I'm as blunt as she usually is, and it makes a flicker of emotion cross her. "Oh wait, but why would you care? He's overcompensating, right? Not gifted."

She blinks, quickly looking away.

I put the last pepper on the shelf and pick up the crate. "Well no worries, you can have him. Date him, fuck him, I honestly couldn't care less. He's yours."

She moves from the shelf. "Wait, what?"

"That's what you want, isn't it?" I shrug, locking myself on her with bitterness. "And god knows why. Because really, you should raise your standards, Charlie. You deserve better. Every single girl on the face of the earth deserves better than Ashton Banks. And I'll die on that hill."

I leave the fridge and let the door slam behind me. 

a/n:  I swear Summer being in the dark about everything is just as frustrating for me to write as it is for you to read!

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