The Summer of Us (Mission Cove 1)

At ten, my hand began to shake. By five, I was sweating. Adrenaline pumped through my body, making my head hum. Ed nodded in encouragement, and when the count hit one, I didn’t hesitate. I pressed down.

For a second or two, nothing happened. I stared dumbfounded, then it started. Explosions, one after another. The house shook, groaned, fought back, and then with a long, low scream, gave a lengthy shudder and crumbled inward.

Sunny jumped back, startled. I held her tight, watching as plumes of dust shot up as the building settled into the earth. It was exactly as I pictured. Looming one moment, gone the next.

The skies opened, torrents of rain falling, dissipating the dust. It was as if the heavens had decided they, too, wanted no reminder of the house drifting up their way.

That house that had caused me nothing but pain, held a lifetime of tears and sorrow within its walls, was gone.

“Good riddance, old man,” I hissed.

I looked down at Sunny. She gazed up at me with love. “Are you okay?” she mouthed.

I bent down and kissed her. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

“Good.”

I pulled off the ear protectors. “Let’s go home, Sunny. I need a biscuit.”

She pulled my arm close.

“Okay.”25SunnyI looked in the mirror, eyeing my reflection critically. I had bought a new sundress, hoping Linc would like it. It was a soft yellow with bursts of gold, rust, pink, and white scattered around the fabric. It hung from my shoulders with two pretty bows and had a long lace flounce around my knees. I hadn’t bought a dress like this in a very long time, but tonight was a special occasion.

Linc was taking me out on a date. A real, honest-to-goodness date. He was even getting ready next door at Abby’s so he could “pick me up properly.” He had called me yesterday, his voice unusually serious.

“Sunny.”

I grinned into the phone, peeking through the door to make sure he was still sitting in the corner of the bakery where I had left him. “Linc,” I replied, biting back my amusement—he must need more biscuits. “How lovely of you to call.”

“I wanted to hear your voice.”

My heart melted. I loved how he talked to me. “Well, now you have.”

“I have a question, though. Do you have plans for tomorrow evening?”

Other than getting naked with him as soon as possible, my schedule was pretty clear. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other.

“No.”

“Excellent. I would like to take you out on a date.”

“A date?” I repeated.

“Yes, a date. A real date. If you’re willing.” I heard his swift intake of air. “I am asking you, Sunny, to go out with me—tomorrow night.”

Suddenly I understood. We’d never been able to date openly. Linc was trying to make up for it, and once again, my heart constricted at his sweet gesture.

“I would love to go out with you, Linc.”

“Excellent. I will pick you up at six.”

“All right. I’ll, ah, see you then?”

“Yes.” Then he paused. “Wait, Sunny?”

“Yes?”

“I’m out of biscuits.”

I burst out laughing. “I’ll make sure you get some.”

“Great. Love you.”

He hung up.

He’d been gone all day, and I heard his steps on the stairwell about an hour ago. His toiletry bag was gone from my tiny bathroom and Abby told me his suit was at her place, so I knew he meant what he said about picking me up.

Linc was different these days. In the month since his father’s house was demolished, he had changed. Gone were the shadows that constantly lurked in his eyes. The suspicious glint whenever anyone would approach him. It was as if he’d let his hate implode with the house, dispersing it into the air. He smiled more. Laughed loudly. I had forgotten how loud his laugh was. It boomed out and filled whatever room he was in. It happened frequently now. He no longer spoke of his father. It was as if he had never existed. As memories—good ones—surfaced of his mother, he talked to me about them. People in town talked to him about her, sharing their memories and he loved it, soaking up their words like a sponge. I hung his mother’s artwork in the apartment, and I often saw him staring at the pictures with a tender look. We visited the library, and he stood in front of the large framed watercolor.

“I remember this now,” he said softly. “She hung it in the den. One day after a fight, it was gone.”

I squeezed his arm. “It was here and safe.”

“And here it stays,” he said firmly, tracing the small plaque under the painting. “I like knowing people see her talent.”

He slept peacefully as long as he was beside me. We had tried to find a balance between Toronto and here, but the third night he was gone, he strode into my apartment in the early hours of dawn. I was sitting at the table, sipping water, unable to sleep. I heard him coming up the stairs, and our eyes met as he opened the door, dropping two large bags beside him.