Free Summer's Road by Kelly Moran Page A

getting married. The girl who never cried in all the time I’d known her had a mist in her eyes. She’d always had a softness for Rivers. There was never anything romantic about it. Not in all the years Rick lived across the shallow waters had he ever laid a hand on Summer.
    But I wanted to.
    The night Rick and Dee wed was permanently hung on my mind’s memory wall. Summer had looked beautiful that night. Her eyes sparkled watching our two best friends say their vows. The long red bridesmaids dress had been a little too big, her hair pulled up in some sort of twist. She’d been all mine that night. Walking down the aisle, on the dance floor.
    I should have married Kasey Mae Fillmore in the third grade when she’d asked. Maybe things would be different now. Maybe I wouldn’t be pining for the girl next door like a hopeless poet.
    I sat up and finished off my beer, glancing at her window again and hoping to God she still dreamed. I didn’t care what about, just so long as she did. Matt was closing in on sealing the deal. That was one of her dreams, starting a family. It was obvious to everyone but Summer he loved her. According to her, Matt had finally told her so. What had started out as teenage hormones one summer vacation on the beach had morphed into a quasi-relationship. But now they weren’t just a fling, they were dating.
    I didn’t like it. Not one iota. When push came to shove, Matt was the only man Summer would think to get serious with. Because he was safe. He didn’t make her feel anything but warm cozies. There was no punch of lust on her end, no bearing her soul and shredding her heart. She could live without him. And that’s why she’d stick with him. No risk. Safety.
    Which meant there would never be any hope for us. Hope was all I held onto.
    Frustrated, I lay down, listening to the faint sound of her chimes and trying to ignore the scent of lilac from her yard. Fruitless. I picked up my copy of To Kill a Mockingbird from the nightstand , an old favorite, and was comforted by the smell of aged paper and binding as I dove in to escape.
    I looked up a short while later at the sound of footsteps. Summer’s, to be exact. She walked like a mouse. She emerged in my doorway, holding a large canvas.
    “What’s that?” Rising from bed, I reached out to help her, but she pulled back.
    “It’s still a bit tacky.” She turned the canvas around and set it on the floor against a bookshelf. She stepped out of the way, brushing her paint-splattered hands together.
    All the air left my lungs. I was unsure whether to laugh or cry, as I was damn tempted to do both. She’d captured me in her room, where I always waited for her. Holding a hammer, I was immersed in thought. I was probably thinking about my latest woodworking idea, which only she could know the depth of my devotion. Funny she’d painted herself on the beach watching me from a distance. As a protector or a potential lover? There was an odd romanticism to this piece she hadn’t used in others of me.
    Heart hammering, I turned to her. “It’s amazing.” Christ, she had such a knack for bold color and soft strokes. The contrast just ensnared me every time.
    She exhaled a yawn and plopped on my bed, laying down. “So, you like it?”
    I didn’t know which was harder to look at, her or the way she’d painted me. “No. I love it.”
    “Good.” She stretched, making her shirt rise and exposing a thin strip of her midriff. “Stven451 on Twitter wants to date me.”
    “Yeah?” I glanced down at her. She would drift off to sleep soon. Her blue eyes were heavy and a sleepy smile curved her lips. And in the morning, when I woke, she’d be gone. “Is that the thirteen-year-old in Wyoming?”
    She laughed. “No, the fifty-year-old in Romania.”
    Summer could remember just about every face and detail about her online friends, but she couldn’t see me right here in front of her. Couldn’t, or didn’t want to see, the one who wanted her most.