Cure for the Common Breakup (4 page)

Before the nurse could start arguing, the door swung wide again and a firm, feminine voice rang through the room: “Simmer down, crazycakes. No one's going anywhere.”

This time, Summer couldn't hold back her tears. “Emily?”

“I
'm kind of insulted that you're surprised to see me.” Emily shooed the nurse away, handed Summer a box of tissues, and pulled up a chair to the bedside. “You crash and burn—literally—and just expect me to go about my business? I don't think so.” Even after a long flight and zero sleep, Summer's former stepsister maintained her deceptively ladylike poise. “Besides, I had a feeling you'd try a jailbreak.”

Summer clawed at the back of her hospital gown. “You're not supposed to be here. You're supposed to be on some fancy film set, telling everyone what to do.”

“Well, aren't you lucky that I decided to take the red-eye and direct all my bossiness at you?”

“Where's Ryan?” Emily's husband could always be counted on to support a jailbreak.

“Back in Vancouver, telling everyone what to do in my absence.” Emily grabbed Summer's hands and pried them off the fabric. “Stop thrashing around. You're going to rip the rest of your spleen in half, and then you'll never get out of here.”

“Oh, please. When have a few gushing head wounds ever stopped us from having a good time?” Summer squeezed a wad of blankets in her fists. “Speaking of which, we've never been to New York together. Let's freshen up, grab the train to Manhattan, and find someplace fabulous to catch up over a cocktail.”

Emily stared at her. “What's going on with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Something.”

“Nothing! I'm just tired of wasting away in bed like an invalid. Let's go do something fun!” Summer couldn't hold still.

“You've been through a lot.” Emily adopted the soothing, condescending tone the medical staff had been using. “Let's check in with your doctors and see if we can get something to help with the agitation.” She reached for the call button.

“I'm not agitated!”
Summer grabbed the plastic water pitcher and hurled it at the vase full of roses, which toppled off the table and shattered on the tile floor in a spray of water and glass shards.

There ensued a long silence. The only sound was the muted clicking of the IV monitor.

Emily rose, strode over to the bathroom, and came back with a stack of industrial paper towels. “Clearly, you're not agitated in the least.”

“Get me out of here.” Summer closed her eyes while Emily mopped up wet rose petals. “Please. I'm begging you, Em.”

Emily tweezed a hunk of glass between her thumb and index fingers and dropped it into the wastebasket. “I will consider it. But you need to stop throwing stuff. If I wanted drugged-up divas hurling vases at me, I would have stayed in Hollywood.”

“Fair enough.” Summer paused. “But technically, I didn't even throw it in your direction.”

“Keep it up.” Emily pushed the rose petals into a pile. “I've got a 5150 with your name all over it.” She glanced up. “Where is everyone? Where's your dad?”

“Poetry conference in Ireland.”

Emily opened her mouth, then obviously thought better of what she'd been about to say.

“He's giving the keynote speech, Em. You know the rules. Keynote speech trumps daughter.” As did NPR interviews, Pulitzer Prizes, nights at the bar with his writer buddies, and fawning literary groupies.

Not that she was keeping track.

“He brought some new girlfriend with him,” Summer continued. “Sweet. Young. Thinks my dad's bullshit is ‘an artistic temperament.' The usual.”

Emily laughed, and for the first time since the plane crash, Summer felt normal. “Bless her heart.”

“I've never even met her, but she's already sending me journals and telling me I should write poetry like my father.”

“Just like all your English professors,” Emily said. “The Benson name didn't hurt your GPA.”

Summer nodded. “That and a made-up dead grandmother will get you a C in comp lit.”

Emily shook her head. “Shameless.”

“You're the one who whipped up the fake death certificate on Photoshop.”

Emily grinned at the memory. “Masterful work, if I do say so myself.” She cleaned up the last of the puddle and settled back into her chair with an expectant look. “Well, where's Captain Hunky?”

Summer hesitated.

“I saw him on
Good Morning America
. Well, I didn't see him, but my mother did.” Emily rolled her eyes. “She sent me the video clip, and she wants me to give you the following message: ‘He gives my ladybits turbulence.'”

Summer burst out laughing. “I love your mom.”

“And she loves you.” Even though Georgia, Emily's mother, had divorced Summer's father years ago, they still considered themselves family. “So, where is he? I assumed he'd be here, dabbing your fevered brow.”

“I believe you have Captain Hunky confused with a Brontë book hero,” Summer said.

“Don't play coy with me.” Emily braced her elbows on the armrests and leaned forward. “Did he propose yet? I need all the juicy details.”

“Well . . .”

“The TV anchors asked him if he had a girlfriend, but he was very discreet.”

“I bet he was.” It took Summer a few seconds to work up the nerve to say the words. “He didn't propose. He . . . left.”

Emily frowned. “Like to go make more media appearances?”

“Like to go find someone else. Someone he actually loves. Someone who's, quote-unquote, ‘marriage material.'”

She summarized the breakup to Emily, whose expression cycled from scandalized disbelief to murderous rage and back again.

“Just so we're clear.” Emily rummaged through her handbag. “He actually said the words, ‘I love you but I don't love you enough'?”

Summer flinched. “Sounds worse every time I hear it.”

“When did all this happen?”

“Approximately two minutes before you got here.”

“I will kill him.” Emily redoubled her search efforts in her bag. “
Kill him.
Damn it, TSA took away my nail file.” She reached over and squeezed Summer's hand, her eyes brimming with sympathy. “Oh, honey, I—”

“Do not.” Summer snatched her hand away. “Do not look at me; do not touch me; do not speak to me in that tone of voice.”

“But you—”

“I'm fine. I'm the strongest woman he knows. I'm easy to walk away from because I'm all scrappy and shit.”

Emily's jaw dropped. “Is that what he said?”

“I'm paraphrasing. But it's okay because, you know, he's right. I'm not marriage material. I have strict rules against it, in fact.” Summer straightened the sheets. “This was bound to happen sooner or later. The poor man realized I was out of his league and decided to go back to playing JV. It's fine.”

“It's
not
fine.” Emily was practically frothing at the mouth. “He can't break up with you while you're in the hospital recovering from all kinds of internal injuries! This will not stand. I am going to hunt him down—”

“No one's hunting anyone down. Like I said, it's fine.” Summer willed herself to believe this. “I refuse to be the woman some guy settled for.”

Emily sprang to her feet. “He can't—”

“He can, he did, and you know what?” Summer waited until Emily stopped fuming. “I had it coming.”

Emily's eyebrows shot up. “What does that mean?”

“You know exactly what it means.” Summer stared out the window. “He didn't love me enough because I made myself impossible to love. Next topic?”

Emily sat back down. “Have you considered talking to a counselor?”

“I don't need a counselor! What I need is a bottle of vodka and a full night's sleep without someone barging in to check my vitals every twenty minutes.” Summer pulled the IV needle out of her arm, gasping at the pain. “And then I need to hole up somewhere quiet. Somewhere I don't have to worry about seeing Aaron's face all over the television.”

Emily gave up her role as the designated voice of reason. “You're right—we need to break you out of here and go find some vodka.”

“This is what I'm saying.”

“But then I want you to come back to Vancouver with me.”

Summer shook her head. “Don't worry your pretty little head about me. Go back to bossing the rest of the world around. I'll be fine.”

Emily was already dialing her cell phone. “I'm booking you a room at the hotel where the crew is staying.”

Summer confiscated the phone and turned it off. “That's sweet of you, but really, I just want to be by myself for a while.”

Emily's look of concern deepened. “For how long?”

“I don't know.”
Until every single molecule of my being isn't in pain.

“Don't let him do this, Summer.” Emily's brown eyes flashed. “Don't let him make you doubt yourself.”

“Please. No man can make me do anything.” Summer flopped back against the pillows. “I'm just tired. I'm
exhausted
. I need to pick a time zone and stick with it for a while.”

“Where will you go? Home?”

“Home” was a tiny apartment shared with two other flight attendants, and nothing had ever sounded less appealing. “I can go wherever I want. I have like a million frequent-flier miles at my disposal.” Even as she said the words, she knew she wouldn't be flying anywhere. Not while her burns and bruises still ached. Not while the mental image of the airport made her heart race and her stomach churn.

“I will help you however I can,” Emily vowed. “Whatever you need to heal.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Can you go get Scarlett from the long-term parking lot and drive her down here?”

Emily smiled. “You still have Scarlett?”

“But of course. That car has outlasted every relationship I've ever had.”

“And where will you be driving off to?”

For a moment, Summer's mind went completely blank. Then she remembered the cover of the travel magazine. The magazine she'd laughed at minutes before her entire life went down in flames. The mecca for people who hadn't been loved enough. “Black Dog Bay.”

“Where's that?”

“Delaware.”

“Delaware?”

Summer nodded.

“What's in Black Dog Bay, Delaware?”

“Ben & Jerry's and
Steel Magnolias
.”

TURTLES CROSSING—NEXT 5 MILES

Summer had seen a lot of road signs in a lot of cities all over the world, but this was a new one. The yellow diamond featured the black silhouettes of one big turtle followed by two smaller turtles.

She snapped out of the daze she'd fallen into, took a sip of warm, watery diet soda, and tried to get her bearings.

Last night, she'd waited until Emily had fallen asleep in the vinyl recliner, then watched a clip of Aaron's TV interview a dozen times. The man gave good sound bite. He managed to appear serious but approachable, responsible but easygoing.

A few days of public relations training had rendered him almost unrecognizable—how was this the same guy with whom she'd planned to share a naughty corsets-and-croissants weekend? With whom she'd considered, even in the most abstract terms, spending the rest of her life?

She knew she should be grateful that he'd been honest and left before they'd made a huge mistake. She'd seen what happened when people stayed in a relationship because they
had
to; the deceit of “mature adults” bound by obligation.

Countless married men propositioning her on flights.

Hungover honeymooners who wouldn't even speak to each other on the way home from Tahiti.

Her own parents.

Yes, she should have felt relieved. But she didn't.

So she'd stuffed a trash bag full of personal belongings into the trunk of her 1982 red Mercedes convertible and pulled out of the hospital parking lot at dawn, despite the protests and warnings of a dozen medical experts.

If you're going to be self-destructive, might as well go all the way.

She'd crossed the state line into Delaware two hours ago, and spent the morning navigating stop-and-go beach traffic on a highway lined by marshes and lush green trees. Every few minutes, she had to give herself a little shake to stay focused, but she should be approaching the turnoff for Black Dog Bay any minute now. The muted rattle of ice from her soda cup reminded her that she hadn't eaten since . . . um . . . a long time. She didn't want to eat, or talk, or think. She just wanted to drive until she could see the ocean.

She turned on the car radio and scanned through the static until she found a local station, which was playing an old Pet Shop Boys song she remembered from middle school. She turned up the music and forced herself to sing along.

The car rounded a curve and she saw a weathered white wooden sign embellished with the outline of a black Labrador:
WELCOME TO BLACK DOG BAY
. Summer followed the arrows and turned off the highway onto a narrow asphalt road.

She rolled down the windows of the car to let in the damp, tangy ocean breeze. She couldn't see the water yet, but she could literally taste sea salt in the air.

Now what?

She hadn't actually planned out this trip past the drive to the shore. After years of last-minute schedule changes and twelve-hour layovers, she didn't worry about researching tourist attractions or making hotel reservations in advance. She just charged ahead, armed with bravado and a few spare pairs of underpants, and so far, it'd always worked out. This morning, she'd been so desperate to get on the road, to physically distance herself from all her injuries. To escape.

And now she'd arrived at her destination, and her entire being still hurt. Her head still ached. Her ribs protested with every breath.

At least her heart had stopped breaking. Now she felt numb, which was a decided improvement.

The foliage thinned as the bay came into view. The ocean looked dark and cold, in stark contrast to the pristine, pale sand dunes. One side of the road was lined with quaint little brick shops, the other with stately, gray shingled houses. Across the white-capped waves, she could see the yellow triangle of a sailboat and a tiny seaplane towing a banner.

Traffic was light, but the sidewalks were crowded with vacationers who had clearly come straight from the beach. Lots of flip-flops, khaki shorts, and straw hats.

Her grip on the steering wheel loosened and the muscles in her shoulders relaxed as she rolled past a shop window painted with a black dog eating an ice-cream cone. She hadn't realized how much tension she'd been holding on to until she let some of it go.

This was why she'd come. To recharge. To heal. To figure out what the hell she was supposed to do next.

She reminded herself of the cardinal rule of travel: When in need of a mood adjustment, try snacking, showering, and sleeping.

Hoping to find an inn, she turned left at the next stoplight and continued on a newly paved road that narrowed as the houses on either side grew ever bigger and grander. This was not hotel territory. This was million-dollar summer home territory. She sped up a bit as she drove around the bend, looking for a driveway she could use to turn around.

That's when the Taylor Swift song came on.

The mournful lyrics and dulcet vocals hit her like a sack of oranges to the stomach. The clouds dissipated, and as the afternoon sun blazed down, all the tears she hadn't been able to shed in the hospital gushed out, blurring her vision and shocking her with their force.

She raised her arm to wipe her eyes on the sleeve of her short-sleeve shirt. Then Taylor launched into the chorus, and Summer started sobbing, gasping for breath. Her whole face was soaked. Her entire body shook.

And when she glanced back at the road, a tiny green turtle had meandered in front of her car.

She slammed on the brakes and spun the steering wheel, missing the turtle by inches.

She did not, however, miss the white trellis bordering the lawn of one of the beach houses. Even though she was driving slowly, the Mercedes was built like a tank, and the wood gave way with a splintering crunch as the convertible plowed through the rosebushes and onto a white gravel driveway.

“Shit.” She stomped on the gas and backed up, launching chunks of dirt and a spray of gravel across the road. Once the car's tires were back on the asphalt, she cut the engine and jumped out to assess the damage.

A screen door slammed and a male voice called: “Are you all right?”

Summer shaded her eyes and peered up at the porch of the house. Although situated on prime beachfront property, this home was relatively modest compared with the multistory architectural behemoths on either side. Two stories of weathered brown cedar siding and white-trimmed windows, surrounded by a low-slung porch. The yard left room for a larger garage or a guest cottage, but instead, the owner had devoted the space to rows and rows of what appeared to be rosebushes.

Rosebushes upon which she had perpetrated vehicular manslaughter. “I'm fine. I just . . . Sorry! I'm sorry.”

She heard the thud of footfalls on wooden steps as the homeowner approached her. Despite the humidity, he wore faded jeans, mud-spattered work boots, and a long-sleeved navy T-shirt that set off gray eyes and a chiseled jawline. The combination of rugged and sensual features was startling—Captain America at a Milan photo shoot. He was tall and lean, with a hint of windburn on his cheeks and thick brown hair sun streaked with bronze.

Rustic outdoorsmen weren't Summer's type, but something about him . . . He looked like he could ravish you so right and then stride off to chop a cord of wood.

“You ran over my roses.” His tone was both accusatory and incredulous.

“It was an accident. There was a turtle.” She swiped at her eyes and struggled to regain her composure. “Came out of nowhere.”

He stared at her for a moment, his eyes narrowing.

“I've never been to Delaware before.” Summer drew in a ragged breath. “I didn't realize. About the turtles.”

He crossed his arms, his gaze intensifying. “Are you drunk?”

“No!”

He stepped closer. “Yes, you are.”

“I am not. I'm completely sober.” To prove her point, she got right in his face and blew out a huge lungful of air. “See? Diet Coke. No rum!”

He didn't back down. “I don't see a turtle.”

“It's right here!” She jabbed her index finger at the patch of asphalt where she'd seen the tiny green desperado, but realized the road was empty. “It was moving surprisingly fast.”

“Uh-huh.” The guy pulled a cell phone out of his back pocket. She noticed half-moons of fresh dirt under his fingernails. “I'm calling the cops.”

She put her hand on the sleeve of his cotton shirt. “I swear to you, I'm stone-cold sober.”

He looked down at her fingers, then back up to her face. “Your eyes are red and bloodshot and you're babbling about a turtle that doesn't exist.”

“It exists! I'm just a bad driver, okay? Why is that so hard to believe?”

He paused mid-dial. She took her hand off his forearm.

“You're just a bad driver?” he repeated. “Running over fences and ripping out rosebushes is your standard operating procedure?”

“No. There were extenuating circumstances.”

“I'm waiting.”

She clenched her fists and stared down at the muddy tire tracks. “I was lost and I was crying at a Taylor Swift song on the radio, okay? Are you happy now?”

“No.” His voice was so flat that she couldn't gauge any emotion, so she glanced back at his face. His expression remained impassive, but she thought she caught a little flicker of amusement in those gray eyes.

“Did you, uh, did you plant all these roses yourself?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Sorry again. Look, this place is breakup central, right?” The wind picked up, blowing her hair across her face, and she pushed it back with one hand. “You must have Taylor Swift–induced car wrecks all the time. Am I right?”

He shifted his weight. “You're sure you're not drunk?”

“Believe me, I'd
love
to be able to blame this on alcohol. But no. Anyway, I'll fix your lawn. And your roses. And this . . . fence thing . . . whatever you call it. I'll fix that, too.”

“Don't worry about it. I'll handle it.”

“Give me twenty-four hours,” Summer said. “It'll be like this whole thing never happened. Trust me; I'm very efficient.”

He shook his head. “All I ask is that you turn off the radio. The roads will be safer for turtles and trellises everywhere.” He dusted off his hands, clearly dismissing her. “Drive carefully.”

Over his shoulder, beyond the porch railings, she could glimpse the blue of the ocean. “The view from the front of your house must be amazing.”

“It is.”

She waited for him to elaborate, and when he didn't, she tried, “Do you live here year-round?”

She wasn't sure why she was trying to keep this conversation going. The guy was covered in dirt and Irish Spring–scented sweat, he was annoyed about his yard, and he no doubt wanted to perform triage on the half-dead roses and grieve in his manly, wood-chopping way for the all-dead ones. He was telling her, not so subtly, to get gone.

And yet she held her ground, surrounded by plant carnage and listening to the ocean and watching his gray eyes darken in the sunlight.

He watched her watching him. “What exactly are you looking for?”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You said you were lost. What are you trying to find?”

She had to force herself to break eye contact. “Somewhere to stay. A decent hotel.”

“Go to the Better Off Bed-and-Breakfast.” He pointed in the direction she'd come from. “Back to that main road, turn left at the intersection, then take your second right.”

Summer laughed. “Shut up. It's not really called the Better Off Bed-and-Breakfast.”

His eyebrows rose just a fraction of an inch. “Business name is registered with the town.”

“Really? That's awesome. Do you think they'll have any rooms available?”

“They'll work something out.” He started back toward the house.

“I promise you, I'm coming back to fix your landscaping situation.”

“Please don't.”

“I'm trying to be nice.” She called after him as he started up the porch steps. “I'm Summer, by the way. And you are . . . ?”

He lifted his hand in a wave and didn't look back.