Chapter 5

I never figured out whether I followed him because I was worried about Summer, or because some self-destructive part of me wanted to see, one last time, what Ethan looked like when he was terrified for another woman.

Either way, I went to the hospital.

The antiseptic smell hit me as soon as I entered the hallway.

Summer's room wasn't hard to find.

The door had been left slightly open.

Wide enough for me to see everything.

Summer lay in the hospital bed with a cast on her right leg.

She looked pale and exhausted.

Still beautiful.

Ethan stood beside her.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Summer looked away.

"Why would I? You're my best friend's boyfriend. You—"

"Summer."

His voice broke.

"Why are you still saying that? We already admitted what we feel. You know that."

"Enough."

Summer closed her eyes.

"That night was a mistake. Don't hold on to it. I've thought everything through. Mia is the most important friend I've ever had. I won't hurt her, and I won't let you hurt her either."

Her voice trembled.

"So everything needs to go back to normal. Fix your head. Go back to Mia. We'll pretend none of this happened."

The catch in her voice exposed the lie.

Ethan's eyes filled immediately.

"Summer, don't. Please don't say that."

She turned her face away.

"I've decided. Go home."

His shoulders shook.

Then he drew a long breath.

"Fine. You just had an accident. We won't talk about this now."

He sat beside her.

"But I'm staying until you're better. I need to see that you're okay."

He lifted a spoonful of broth, blew on it patiently, and held it toward her mouth.

Summer ignored him.

He moved the spoon to the other side.

She turned away again.

After several attempts, Summer snapped.

She knocked the bowl from his hand.

"Ethan, what is wrong with you? I told you to stop following me around. Leave."

His hand stayed suspended for a moment.

When he spoke, his voice was gentle but immovable.

"You don't have to eat."

He set the spoon down.

"But I should tell you that I dismissed the private caregiver you hired. If you hire another one, I'll stay here and send them away too."

Summer stared at him.

"Your hand is still hooked to an IV. Your leg's broken. If you won't let me help you and there's no one else here, you'll end up going hungry."

He touched the back of his hand to her forehead.

Then he adjusted her blanket.

After that, he sat down calmly and picked up an apple.

He peeled it with slow, careful strokes.

I stood in the shadow outside the room.

Still as stone.

So Ethan could love like this too. Softly, stubbornly, with the kind of devotion that refused to take no for an answer.

He really loved her.

Summer's eyes grew wet.

Her voice softened.

"Ethan, you don't have to do this."

"I know."

He cut the peeled apple into small pieces and placed them on a plate.

Then he looked at her.

"I know I don't have to. I want to."

Their eyes met.

For one impossible second, the room stopped being a hospital at all.

Whatever passed between them was so tender it hurt to watch.

And I finally knew for certain.

The boy who used to sing love songs until his voice went hoarse for me, the boy who knew I was insecure and told me he would always love me and I could ask him as many times as I needed to hear it — that boy was gone.

I couldn't watch anymore.

I turned and walked away quietly.

Love changes.

You can't order it to stay where it was.

I understood that.

Two days later, I went to the airport alone.

I didn't cry again.

Evening air poured through the half-open car window while my past moved through my mind like an old film.

One year old: my mother died.

My stepfather had inherited her money and, for the sake of appearances, allowed an aunt to take care of me.

Three years old: the aunt disappeared without warning.

After that, there were long stretches when I didn't get enough food and winters when I had no proper coat.

Five years old: my stepfather hit me for the first time because I hadn't brought him alcohol quickly enough.

I remember crying until I had no voice left.

I spent that night outside in the snow.

Eight years old: after intervention from community workers, I finally started school.

The other children still excluded me. Some bullied me. I moved through those years like a ghost.

Ten years old: a stray dog attacked me.

No one came to help.

I dragged myself home alone.

Fifteen years old: I met Summer.

For the first time, color entered my life.

She said she had wanted to be kind to me the moment she saw me.

No reason.

Sixteen years old: Ethan pulled me away from a group of street punks.

Running behind him with my hand in his, I thought he looked like a knight protecting a princess.

Seventeen years old: I received the first bouquet of roses of my life and my first confession.

He was visibly nervous.

But his eyes were full of love and certainty.

Twenty-three years old: I was leaving for Antarctica.

Everything had changed, and there was nothing left worth saying.

But Summer and Ethan had once given me an entire spring.

And now all I wanted was for them to remain bright.

To be happy.

So I was willing to leave.

I was even grateful there was still something I could do for them.

Goodbye, Summer.

Goodbye, Ethan.

Goodbye for good.