Summer (Four Seasons #2) (15 page)

“You gonna call her?” Cole asks quietly.

I hit the home button instead, clearing away the messages. “No. It wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“We’re guys. We act on terrible ideas all the time, man.”

I just grunt. Twenty minutes later the nurse comes back for me. She seems surprised when she finds me sitting upright on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor, while Cole snores softly in his chair.
 

“You ready to get plastered up, then?” she asks.
 

I nod, grinding my teeth. “Sure. Let’s get this over with.”

M. J. Rafferty
 
MD, PHD,
 

Suite 8, 2365 Wellbeck

Beachwood Canyons

CA 90068

Patient: Lucas Andrew Reid

D.O.B: 10/06/1989

Past treatment files: XXSEALEDXX

Permissions: Granted

Current Medications: Triazolam

Session Record

Lucas was highly agitated today. He spent most of the night and morning in the hospital having sustained a hairline fracture of his right wrist. When I first questioned him about this, Lucas was reluctant to explain how the injury happened, however later during our session he admitted that he was drunk and punched a wall.
 

He grew angry, on the verge of engaging in sexual intercourse with a woman he had just met, and lashed out. We discussed whether Lucas thought his spike in anger was due to the alcohol or the potential sexual contact, and Mr. Reid was adamant that it was due to his intoxication.
 

He repeated many times that he didn’t have sex with the woman he had taken home. When informed that I wouldn’t judge him if he had, Lucas grew distraught. After several minutes, Lucas explained that he was angry with himself because he felt as though he had broken a trust between himself and his ex partner.
 

Following a brief assessment of his mental state, I chose to move away from discussions of the incident. When our session drew to a close, I advised Lucas to avoid his sleeping pills next few weeks, as they will interact with Codeine prescribed to him for his wrist.
 

Michael Rafferty.

FIFTEEN

AVERY
 

I spend my morning pottering around my new apartment, trying to figure out where all of my things belong. Where I belong. My guitar lesson earlier with Sam was pretty much a write off. My fingers are still blistered and sore, so touching the strings was painful to say the least. Applying pressure was almost out of the question. Sam rode me hard, calling me a pussy, trying to tease me into pushing myself harder, which worked wonderfully until my fingers then started bleeding. At that point he conceded that it was probably a bad idea to continue. He told me to let my blisters heal before we start up our lessons again. Said even though he’s been playing a long time, he still remembers how shitty it was to get started.
 

I was going to leave immediately after we’d called it quits, but he told me stay. His band mates arrived, and I sat quietly in the back of the studio and listened while they ran through a few tracks they’re planning on recording. They were good.
Really
good. But it’s not Encore’s music that’s running on a loop inside my head as I make my way to meet Noah later on. It’s D.M.F’s. Luke’s voice singing softly in my ear, not Sam’s.
 

I wanted to call and cancel my coffee with Noah, but I couldn’t sit in that apartment one second longer. And besides, I made a decision when I wrote that text message back to him. I decided to give him a shot…as a
friend
. Nothing more. He seems much mellower now than he did before Christmas. Maybe that’s because he has his daughter here now. Neve’s presence would surely calm even the angriest of people. I want to give him a chance to prove he was just going through a crazy patch before. That he
can
be a good friend. The only reason I want to cancel is because I’m slightly worried. What if he thinks this is something more? What if he
wants
more? I can’t give him that. I can barely hold myself together right now.
 

I park up, grabbing my jacket from the backseat of the car, and then I head toward the café, a gentle breeze lifting strands of my hair as I jog across the road.

The smell of maple syrup and buttery toast hits me as soon as I enter the building. Hunger stirs in my stomach for the first time in days. I just seem to have no appetite at the moment—being hungry now can only be a good thing.
 

Pancakes are undoubtedly terrible for me, but it’s what I’m craving as I scan the café, searching out the tall Irish man I’ve come to meet. I find him sitting in the far corner, both hands already firmly wrapped around a coffee cup. His infamous beanie is missing, and his hair is short, cropped close to his head. He must have had it cut. For a second, I barely recognize him.
 

He gives me a small wave as he sees me making my way across the café toward him. “So you came,” he says, smiling.
 

“I came.”

“Didn’t think you would.”

“Then why did
you
show up?” I slide into the booth opposite him, doing my best to tamp down the need to get up and walk—no,
run
—back out again.
 

“I like to balance out my Catholic pessimism with the odd dose of optimism every once in a while,” he tells me. “Keeps things interesting.” When he smiles this time, it reaches his eyes. He has lovely eyes. I always liked them before. The clear, pale shade of gray-blue was always quite stark and haunting. Made him look eternally sad. Made me want to make him smile like he’s smiling now.

A pair of brown eyes flash through my head, reminding me that no matter how pretty or sad Noah’s eyes might be, they’ll never be the eyes I was staring into when I realized I was in love for the first time.
 

God damn you, Luke Reid.
 

“Catholic pessimism, huh?” I laugh under my breath, sliding the salt and pepper shakers toward me, wanting something to do with my hands already. Nerves.

“Yes, ma’am. You know many
glass-is-half-full
Catholics? Traditionally we’re more the fire and brimstone type.”

“So I hear.”

Noah scratches his fingertips at his clean-shaven jaw, grinning at me and shaking his head, like he can’t really believe I’m sitting across from him. “Let me go grab you a coffee,” he says. “I’m almost out, anyway.”

“No, it’s fine.” I hold up one hand, stopping him. “The waitress won’t be long. Besides. Friends don’t get friends coffee.”

His eyebrows hike up, almost hitting his hairline. “They don’t?”

“No.”

“Oh. Wow. I’ve been doing this friend thing all wrong, then. I’ve been buying my buddies drinks left, right and center. I should probably send out some invoices, recoup my losses.”

I want to stick my tongue out at him, but that feels too playful. Too familiar. He’s right, though. I’m being ridiculous. Folks buy each other a cup of coffee all the time without there being any hidden meaning behind the action. I’m apparently being hyper sensitive, but I can’t help it.
 

Noah gives me a knowing look, as though he can read the thoughts running through my mind as they happen. “You don’t need to worry, Ave. I’m not gonna hit on you or anything. I know what this is.”

“And what’s that?”

“A second chance,” he says softly. “A second chance I don’t deserve. I know you don’t trust me. That this is hard for you. I get it, I really do. I know we’re not going to be together. I know how lucky I am you’re even here right now. I just want to be in your life. I won’t mess this up, I swear.”

I should respond to him, tell him that I hope he’s telling the truth, but a waitress rushes up to the table, flustered, tennis shoes squeaking against the tiled floor, pen poised over her notepad, eyes wide in question, and I’m relieved of that particular obligation. “What can I get for you, hun?” she asks.
 

“A latte, please. And a chocolate chip muffin, if you have them?” Pancakes take too long. If this gets weird, I can cram a muffin down my throat and bail pretty damn quickly.

“Sure do.” She doesn’t bother writing the order down after all. She hurries off, dodging behind the counter, shouting through the small hatchway for someone to warm up a muffin. Noah grins at me, tapping his fingers against the side of his coffee mug.
 

“Well, this is awkward,” he says.
 

“Only a little.”

“How about you ask me your questions?”

“I have questions?”

“Sure you do. I kind of sprung a four-year-old on you in the street the other night.”

“You want to talk about Neve?”

“Not particularly right now. But I know you probably do.”

I shake my head. “We don’t have to.” There has to be a highly complicated story there, but I won’t push. It’s none of my business, plus he looks like he’s about to squirm out of his chair right now.
 

“Cool.” A bolt of pain flashes across Noah’s face. “Then…maybe we could start off by talking about Tate?” The name surprises me. Bad though it may be, I haven’t thought about Tate in a while now. And I keep forgetting that he and Tate were good friends.
 

“Sure. If that’s what you want.”

Noah purses his lips, nodding slowly, like he’s gathering his thoughts. “When we met last year, it wasn’t my first trip to New York. I’d already studied out here for a semester in my last year of high school, too. Tate and I were part of an exchange program. He went to stay in London, and I came through here. I stayed with him and his family for the summer first, though. We grew pretty tight by the time he left for the UK.”

“You knew Tate a few years ago? Why didn't you mention that?”

He looks incredibly uncomfortable. “I guess it’s down to Neve. She was a product of that first stint over here. I don’t know why I wanted to keep it quiet. It was dumb in hindsight, but there you go. I guess it just seemed…easy. To be childless. Free from responsibility, as far as anyone else was concerned. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve never been anything but there for my daughter. When I could be, anyway.”
 

“You should have told me,” I tell him.

He looks straight at me, his eyes boring into me, and I immediately know what he’s going to say. “Like you told me about your Da?”

Touché.
 

I tear my gaze away, staring down at my hands. “Yeah. I guess some things just aren’t easy to talk about. Sorry.”

“We were both stupid, Avery. But that’s in the past. Neither of us can go back and change what happened before Christmas. Don’t think that I didn’t wish I could every fucking day, for a long time, though, okay?”

Wow. More awkward. Noah must notice me bristling—hardly a fêat acomplis, since both my hands curl into fists between us. He clears his throat, and I sense that he’s not looking at me anymore. Sure enough, when I look up, he’s staring blankly out of the window, his face in profile. “Not because I wanted you, Avery,” he whispers. He laughs, his shoulders moving up and down briefly. “Though, of course I did. But because of everything that happened afterwards. You…you went back to Breakwater with Luke. You got shot. Nearly died. I don’t know. I guess I figured at the time that if
I’d
gone back there with you as your moral support, maybe somehow the timeline would have been different. You wouldn’t have gone back to that house. Something. Something might have changed and you wouldn’t have had to go through that hell.”

I can feel bile burning at the back of my throat. It feels like my cheeks are on fire. Perhaps he’s right. If I had gone back to Break with Noah instead of Luke, we’d have stayed at Brandon’s place. We wouldn’t have fought. I’d never have been separated and alone, and Chloe Mathers would never have had the opportunity to do what she did.
 

And then I realize how untrue that thought is. “I would still have been attacked, regardless of who I was with, Noah,” I say softly. “The woman that shot me…Chloe…she’s
insane
. She would have found a way to get to me no matter what. She implicated Brandon in those murders just so she could get me back to Breakwater. She felt robbed that she didn’t get to kill me back when I was a kid. I was unfinished business to her. She would have found a way.”

I don’t say the rest of it—the other outcome that might have happened if I had gone with Noah back to Break instead of Luke: Chloe might have cornered me when I was alone, and Noah wouldn’t have known where I’d gone. He wouldn’t have been able to react quickly and defensively like Luke did. He might not have been able to keep my heart pumping while
he
slowly bled out and almost died himself. Things could have been much,
much
worse.
 

When Noah finally turns to face me again, I can see the hollow look in his eyes. “I barely knew you, Ave, but I really fucking let you down. And I’m really fucking sorry.”

“You don’t need to be.”
 

“All the same.”

In the next split second that follows, I decide to forgive Noah. Forgive him properly, and not just say that I have. I don’t do it for him. Not for him. I do it for
me
, because carrying around this anger toward him is pointless. It’s exhausting and unnecessary, and it serves no purpose at all. I can see how sorry he is. I
know
it. And having him as a friend right now might be just what I need in my life. I smile sadly, tipping my head to one side.
 

He gives me a quizzical look. “Uh-oh. In my experience, that facial expression’s never meant anything great.”

I laugh, and for the first time I don’t feel uncomfortable, like I’m waiting with baited breath for something terrible to happen. “Do you have anywhere you need to be right now?” I ask.

“No. Why?”

“Well. We could look up that Chili Con Carne recipe like we’re meant to. And maybe I could cancel my muffin and grab some pancakes instead. I’m absolutely starving.”