“So this is true.”

The words are clipped, crisp.

I pinch my nose, nodding as I slump down on my couch. “Yes.”

I tell Geneva the truth. There’s no point in lying now. “It’s all true that it was all fake.”

She sighs. “I’m soooo⁠—”

I take the liberty of filling in the blank. “Disappointed. Yeah, I’m disappointed in myself too.”

“Yes. I thought I could trust you as my attorney.”

“Of course you did. That’s why you hired me.” A weight sinks onto my shoulders, dragging me down. There is no point backpedaling now. No purpose in covering it up. The proof’s there on social media, where all truths and lies are exposed.

The ring, the comments, the offhand joke between Summer and me post-paddleboat hump. Those people who took a picture of us on the street last night were probably sent by our crazy exes. More proof that exes are crazy.

But even so, I deserve this.

I tricked a client.

“And I suppose that’s what is most surprising. I would expect you, of all people, to know the value of trust,” she says.

I hang my head, dragging my hand through my hair. “You’re not wrong. It was a mistake. It seemed like a way to save face at the time, but I should have told you the truth when you first called me. I wanted to help you with your deal. I want to take care of my employees and my aunt and everyone else. So I said we were engaged because it seemed easier.”

She sighs heavily. “I suppose what’s so strange about it is that . . .” She takes a beat to think, or maybe to mull over what to say. “It seemed so real. Last night, the things you said to Summer, the way you looked at her. I suppose it made me believe in love again. Like it was possible to get hurt and then get back up and try again. When you said⁠—”

“‘I realized after all these years that it’d always been her.’” I repeat my words from last night. Words that make my chest feel lighter. Words that fall from my lips so easily.

“Yes.” There’s a smile in her voice. I can hear it. “When you said that, Oliver, I was so sure you meant it.”

I sit up straighter, recalling last night, remembering how my heart thundered when I looked at Summer at the party. How it ached when I put her in the car. How it sped up when we were in the paddleboat, then the shower, then the bed, only an hour ago.

“I did mean it.” I’m speaking the whole truth now.

“What?”

“I did. It was all fake, and it was all true too.”

She’s quiet, humming softly then asking carefully, “What do you mean?”

“It started as a ruse. It started because you didn’t trust me. So I thought it’d be safer if I was involved with the woman who wrote the letter, so it wouldn’t be a character indictment. And Summer’s my best friend. I’ve known her for seventeen years. She’s been by my side through everything. I know how to make her laugh, I know how to comfort her when she cries, I know what makes her happy—the park and exercise and her grandmother and trying new things—and I know her dreams. And I want to help her achieve them.”

There goes my heart again, pounding mercilessly against my rib cage, trying to find her, to see her. “And I suppose I didn’t truly realize all of this until we faked it. But I also think maybe a part of me knew I had feelings for her and just didn’t see what was in front of me. After all, I never wanted to invite Emily to prom. I only wanted to go with Summer.”

Geneva sighs happily. “Oh my God, that’s so sweet.”

Then I freeze, remembering something else I said, not last night, but just an hour ago.

I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.

Those words could easily have been misinterpreted.

Shit.

I picture Summer’s face, the hurt in her pretty brown eyes, and I’m sure they were.

There’s a voice in my head, loud and clear, and it’s not my sister’s voice, though I suspect she’d tell me exactly what I need to do right now.

And I know she’d be right, because my own voice is telling me the same thing.

“Excuse me, Geneva. You’re not the one I should be saying this to. Summer is.”

I hang up, grab my keys, and leave.

38SUMMER

I am a stubborn girl.

I know this about myself.

But when I walk into my apartment and find not just my roommate but my mother, my niece, and my twin brother, I let all the tears rain down.

I head for the couch, nosedive into it, and cry in my mother’s lap. Amelia crawls up next to me, crouching by my side. “Don’t cry, Aunt Summer. Everything’s going to be fine. I swear.”

And that makes me cry a little harder—her sweet six-year-old faith in the world.

“Tell me why you’re so sad, honey,” Mags says.

“Yes, tell us. What can we do?”

Amelia snuggles on my lap. “I’m all ears. That’s what my daddy says to me when I want to talk to him. He says, What can I do?”

Logan ruffles his daughter’s hair, then plops down on the couch next to all of us—four women and a guy.

“I’m in love with Oliver Harris.” I choke out the words past the prickly, complicated emotions that clog my throat.

Logan snorts.

I shoot him a sharp stare. “What was that for?”

“Tell me something I don’t know. I came here to see if you were okay, and this is what you confess? Something we’ve all known for years?”

“Thanks a lot,” I mutter.

My grandmother smiles, petting my hair. “Ignore him, honey.”

“Yes. We all do,” my mother says.