“Sounds brilliant.” He heads to my room, grabs his clothes and shoes, then walks to the door.
I follow him, and as I open it, my grandmother walks back in.
“Oh, I didn’t know you had company,” she says. “Hi, Oliver.”
“Good to see you, Mags. I’m just taking off. Summer, I’ll see you tonight.”
When he leaves, it feels like he takes a piece of my heart with him. My grandmother tilts her head, shooting me a curious look.
“There’s something you need to tell me. I see it in your eyes.”
A lump rises in my throat. She knows me so well.
My shoulders sag as she shuts the door, and then I sit at the table and tell her everything.
Well, I leave out the three orgasms, but I tell her that I think I’m falling for him.
“What do I do?”
She pats my hand. “Sweetheart, I honestly don’t know.”
29SUMMER
Time to focus on the gym.
On the goal that I’ve been working toward for years.
I am this close to nabbing the financing I need to make this happen, and all I have to do is nail this feature piece for The Dating Pool.
I power walk around the park with Mags, where we discuss the follow-up email from The Dating Pool, with its short list of possible dates. We debate the merits of each, and settle on a few fab ones. Ones that will make the piece sing, and hopefully guarantee the magazine pays me the full amount for the article I’ll write.
Then we catch up on her triathlon training and her friend Octavia’s Tinder woes—she did not swipe right on a dog, but she is suffering from a severe lack of interest in men her age.
“She finds them dull. She likes a captivating young mind,” Mags says.
“And what about you? Anyone new on the horizon?”
“Me? I like ’em thirty-five or younger,” she says with a wink, and I’m pretty sure she’s taking this walk with me to keep my mind off Oliver. News flash—it’s not entirely working. I’m faking it, pretending I’m not thinking about him.
But I do always love chatting with my grandmother.
“Cradle robber,” I say with an exaggerated cringe.
“But I do prefer to meet men the old-fashioned way. IRL.”
“You can just say ‘in real life,’” I tell her as we power walk along the Bethesda Terrace.
“If I don’t use the lingo, you’ll never learn it,” she says sweetly.
“Hey! I know the lingo.”
“Sure you do,” she says with a wink, then she squeezes my shoulders when we reach Fifth Avenue. “Good luck with your meeting.”
She spins around and breaks into a jog. I smile as I watch her go, loving her spirit, her get-up-and-go-no-matter-what-ness. I’m glad she’s so fit at her age—seeing her energy reminds me why I do what I do.
Or what I’m trying to do, at least.
I head to a café and meet with some of my instructors for the classes I want to add at the gym, crossing my fingers that this dating piece will do the trick and make my dream come true.
When I’m done, I say goodbye, grab a coffee, and google my favorite options from the short list The Dating Pool sent over. Checking the time, I pick the best one for tonight, then open my text app and tap out a message to Oliver.
Summer: I know you hate classes, but . . .
Oliver: Please tell me we’re not going to learn to knit hats or make booties. Or candles. I draw the line at candle making.
Summer: Candles? That’s the line in the sand?
Oliver: A man has to have some lines.
Summer: Then you’ll love where I’ve drawn this one.
Oliver: Can’t wait.
Summer: You do know I can hear the sarcasm even through text messages?
Oliver: I wasn’t trying to hide it.
Summer: See you at five on Perry and Hudson, then we’ll go to your client’s dinner, and we’ll have a hostess gift that’ll be perfectly unique.
