Chapter Eleven | The Knock
Ready to go?
His text buzzed through.
Where we going? Dropping you off at the mental health clinic? I shot back, sarcasm masking the jolt in my chest.
Come get me.
Simple. Abrupt. Him.
I froze mid-step, hand already on the door handle. A hundred thoughts slammed into each other. He texted. He wanted to see me. He asked. Was this real? What now?
Instead of rushing out like my body begged, I paused. Spritzed perfume again. Brushed my teeth, checked my makeup—even though he always said he didn’t care. Then, with more hesitation than I liked to admit, I packed a small overnight bag: swimsuit, underwear, one casual outfit, and sleepwear… something nice, just in case.
I shoved the bag into the backseat, hoping he wouldn’t notice. I didn’t want him thinking I had this planned. I hadn’t. Not really. I just needed to be ready—if he finally showed up the way I’d always hoped he would.
The drive to the hotel was a slow unraveling of nerves. I told myself not to be too much. Not too eager. Not too hopeful. I reminded myself he leaves in less than twenty-four hours. And if anything was going to happen—really happen—it had to be now. But it couldn’t just be me. Not again.
Pulling into the hotel lot, I hesitated.
Should I text him to come down? Sit in the car, wait like nothing was a big deal? Or walk up to his room, risk feeling like I wanted something?
I stood outside his door. Then walked away. Then came back. I paced halfway down the hallway and back again, wrestling with my own overthinking. Why was this so hard?
Because it’s him.
Because it’s always been him.
Finally, I knocked.
Immediately regretted it.
He opened the door with that same cocky, crooked smirk I’d spent far too long trying to forget. I slipped past him and sat on the farthest bed, trying to look casual. Indifferent.
“Jesus, what took you so long?” he said, grinning.
“Okay, asshole. What took you so long to text this morning?” I shot back.
Too much, I thought. Dial it back. Pretend like you didn't care that he didn't text last night.
“I had a long night,” he muttered—a lie I couldn’t spot but somehow felt. I imagined him out, laughing with friends, not thinking about me at all.
“So… what are we doing?”
“We’re going to your favorite place,” he teased.
“Oh! We’re going to Target?” I laughed.
He rolled his eyes and motioned me toward the door. I stood, casually tossed him my keys. He caught them, surprised, but fell right into step like we’d done this a hundred times.
We headed to the elevator. I walked ahead of him—he didn’t complain. He never did. He liked the view.
Inside the elevator, I laughed again. Too loud, maybe. I couldn’t help it. Nerves buzzed under my skin. I could’ve pushed him against the wall right there, kissed him, gotten it over with. But I didn’t. I never did. Instead, I left space, hoping he would close it.
“So seriously, what are we doing?” I asked again.
He gave me that same grin. “We’re going to Target.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Roll your eyes again,” he warned.
“What are you gonna do about it?” I shot back, smirking.
He didn’t answer with words. Just another look. The kind that always said more than either of us ever dared say out loud.
The heat outside hit hard as we stepped through the lobby doors. South Carolina in the summer—thick, heavy, relentless. I tried to unlock the car, but he played his usual games. Lock. Unlock. Lock again. I darted around to the driver’s side, tried grabbing the keys. He tickled me instead.
Laughter spilled out of me, sharp and uncontrolled. I folded over, stomach aching, and he helped me back up with a smirk.
“That’s what you get for rolling your eyes.”
Still catching my breath, I walked away, turned just enough to roll my eyes again. He saw. Chuckled. We got in the car.
“Okay, for real,” I said, “what are we doing?”
“I guess I should’ve told you to bring a bathing suit,” he said. “We’re going to the beach.”
I blinked. Caught off guard. I hadn’t even noticed he was wearing swim trunks. I’d been too focused on him to register anything else. My cheeks flushed.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said, brushing it off. “I have a swimsuit. Let’s go.”
I wasn’t about to tell him the bag was already packed, stashed away in the back of the car. That I’d been hoping, deep down, for exactly this.
He shifted into drive and headed toward the beach.
And as I watched him take the wheel, it struck me: there was something about him driving my car that I absolutely loved. Quiet control. Familiar comfort. Like, just for a moment, we were something solid. Something real.
Chapter Twelve | Almost Summer
