Page 12 of The Crush

“I’m positive,” I say firmly, then flip my hair off my shoulder. “So, what do we want to do first when we hit East Hampton on our final weekend?”

Layla’s blue eyes say she knows what I’m doing but her mouth says, “The beach, of course.”

Ethan shakes his head. “No,the pool. Your pool is unfairly obscene,” he says, emphatically.

“But is something obscene truly unfair?” she counters, like they’re having a philosophical argument.

Thoughtfully, Ethan taps his regal chin, the perfect match to his classical nose. He’s a looker all right, all blue-blood, Upper East Side, matinee-idol pretty. He’s attracted all the guys and gals in college.

As they debate the semantics of obscenity, I hide a smile rising inside me.

Maybe this text isjustthe start of something.

* * *

On Sunday night, we cruise home from the Hamptons in Layla’s sweet sports car, exhausted from the sun, the water, and our last time together for a while.

“I’ll miss you all,” I say after she pulls up in front of my brownstone and gets out.

“I’ll miss you more,” she chimes in, throwing her arms around me.

“I’ll miss you the most,” Ethan says, not to be outdone.

“Group hug,” I declare, and we smoosh each other until tears are rolling, since the end of summer is always sweet and bittersweet.

Finally, I tear myself away from my friends and say goodbye.

Later that week, I’m in my room packing my suitcase for my semester abroad—clothing, a few books, a couple keepsakes. My father ordered his limo driver to take me to the airport tomorrow. Dad’s so extra, but I can’t complain.

I FaceTime Hunter, even though it’s late in London. “You better come see me,” he says. Hunter has an English mom and mostly grew up in London. But his accent is less posh than Dad’s.

“Same to you,” I say. “You’ll only be a Chunnel train ride away.”

We chat some more then I say goodbye, and after I zip my last bag, I flop back on my bed, checking the time on my phone. Eleven.

My phone blinks with a text from my dad. He’s downstairs, but he always texts me goodnight.

I’m off to bed. Sleep well. Joan will be back in the morning. Xoxo

I smile faintly, a vague sense of appreciation for his note floating past me as I drift into sleep.

But in the middle of the night, I’m dreaming of takeout cartons of Thai, and Vietnamese, and tacos. My stomach growls, and I wake with a hungry start.

I blink my eyes open.

I wish my mother were here to send me off.Even though I remember her less and less, I still wish she were here, especially since Paris wasourdream. She loved the city she lived in when she attended college. We’d visit as often as we could, traipsing around museums, lingering in chocolate shops, playing in the Tuileries Garden. Even after so many years without her, there are moments when the missing coils inside me. But then it unwinds seconds later. It’s weird, grief. Weird the way it lingers sometimes, like a trailing scent of faint perfume long after the wearer has left the room. Sometimes you notice the scent. Mostly you don’t.

My stomach growls again. I focus on the practical matters rather than faded memories. I didn’t eat dinner, so I go downstairs.

The brownstone is eerie and still, as it should be after hours. I pad quietly to the kitchen. In the fridge, I snag hummus and carrots. As I dip a carrot, I hear footsteps and turn my head.

Seriously?

I learn two things in the next few seconds.

My father has a new lover.

And she sleeps topless. She wears only boy shorts. Her magnificent tits fly free as she walks past the dining room table, toward the kitchen before she stops short, startled.