A deep sadness cloaks me as I walk across the stone floor of the bank toward the ominous exit.
Maybe I didn’t present a compelling enough pitch. Maybe I asked for too much. Maybe I asked for too little. But I need that extra money. Need it to get me over the hump. Need it to show I can do this on my own.
All I’ve ever wanted is to do this on my own.
And now I don’t have enough to open the doors.
Now I’ll have to table my dreams for months while I save up the rest.
As I trudge to the street, my phone rings—my mom is calling. I answer it half-heartedly, wishing I could muster my normal pep.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, trying to sound cheery, trying to focus on her. “How’s everything going with you? Is it Book Club Monday? Do you have everyone hooked on the newest Nora Roberts?”
“Of course I do. I’m a master at picking books. I should be running book clubs all over town. But that’s not why I’m calling. How did it go?” She sounds like she’s been holding her breath with anticipation.
“Oh, you know. It went . . .” But I can’t even spin a tale. “They turned me down.” My throat catches.
“Sweetie, let us help you.”
I shake my head. “Nope. I’ll make this work.”
“Summer, I want to help. We want to help,” she says, her tone upbeat. “I’m very good at helping, as you know. I’ve done it for years.”
And that, right there, is why I don’t entirely want it.
What if I take it and feel indebted? Annoyed? Resentful? She says she likes helping, but why does she always bring it up? Because she wishes she were still running her bookstore, I suspect.
“I know, Mom. But this is just a little speed bump. I’ll figure it out.” I check my watch. I need to go to Sunshine Living in two hours, so I’ve got one-hundred-and-twenty minutes to process my disappointment. I refuse to bring it to work with me. “I have to go to work in a little bit. I’m going to go for a walk. But I’ll text you later.”
“Do that. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I hang up, walking toward the park, trying to work through these obstacles before I clock in with Travis.
The moment I hit Fifth Avenue, my phone trills again—my brother this time. I’m tempted, so damn tempted to ask him for a loan. The words are on the tip of my tongue. He has the money.
He also has a six-year-old and the scars from a painful and expensive divorce.
And if I won’t take it from anyone else, I won’t take it from him.
I sigh so heavily it’ll send the Dow Jones plummeting. I’ll just wait a little longer, save a little more. It’s all I can do.
“Hey, Logan, what’s going on?”
My brother is cackling. “Sexy. Ex. Boyfriend. Dude, that is the funniest thing you’ve ever written.”
My brow pinches. “What are you talking about?”
But when I click on Twitter, I see I’ve made so much more than a grammatical error.
12SUMMER
I. Am. Trending.
Or rather, “America’s Worst Boyfriend” is.
It’s all over Twitter. The letter I wrote. The dissection of it. The whodunit. And there is little social media loves more than a good outing. How was it even published? But I don’t have time to figure that out because right now, I need to rubberneck at my own ten-car pileup.
I scroll through a river of comments hashtagged #AmericasWorstBoyfriend as I walk, head bent, face buried in a mess of my own making.
@NYer14: I bet he’s a celebrity.
@GossipLover1andOnly: A reality show star.
@SportsFan: An athlete.
@Anglophile2200: Hello? You twits. He sounds British. English breakfast tea and all.
@GossipLover1andOnly: No, she said he hated tea.
@Anglophile2200: No, she said it would be cliché if he loved it. Learn to read, dimwit.
@RoyalWatcher: Could it be one of the royals?
@BTSLover: I bet he’s in a boy band.
@HatesBoyBands: Yes, that has to be it. Guys in boy bands are royal douches.
