“How about the Summer Pact?” I suggested.
“Yes. That’s good,” Tyson said, writing the words at the top of the page. He then dated it and drew three lines at the bottom. He signed on the first line, Lainey on the second, and I signed the third.
With our contract now executed, Lainey suggested a walk on the beach. We could build a fire, maybe go for a night swim. Tyson and I agreed, though I knew there was no way I’d be getting in dark, potentially shark-filled waters. We put on our shoes; grabbed a flashlight, a few towels, and some matches; then poured our remaining wine into a thermos before heading out the door.
The night was chilly. Too cold to swim, we decided. Instead, we built a fire in one of the designated pits on the beach. Spreading our blankets around it, we huddled together for warmth, sitting in silence as we passed the thermos of wine.
After a while, we began to reminisce about Summer, laughing one second and crying the next. At one point, when we really started to fall apart, Lainey lightened the mood, gesturing over to a nearby lifeguard stand, informing us that it was where she’d lost her virginity. We’d heard the story before but cracked up as she told it again, right down to the part where she projectile vomited all over the cop who had busted them.
As our laughter faded, Lainey sighed and said, “I can’t believe Summer never got to have sex.”
Tyson looked surprised. “She was still a virgin?”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “She was saving herself.”
“For marriage?” Tyson asked.
“Not for marriage necessarily. But for true love,” I said, looking down, feeling the weight of all that she would miss in her life.
Lainey sighed and said, “She was so freaking pure.”
Tyson nodded. “Yes. Good to the core. She would have made such an amazing doctor.”
“And mother,” I said.
We fell silent again, watching the fire die down, each of us lost in our own thoughts. As I shivered, Lainey suggested we head back to the house.
“Can I say a prayer first?” Tyson asked, looking at Lainey.
She didn’t believe in God, but she nodded. We all held hands as Tyson closed his eyes and bowed his head. I did the same, listening to the sound of waves breaking on the shore.
“Heavenly Father,” Tyson finally began, his voice soft but clear. “While we will never fully understand why Summer chose to leave us, we pray that her memory remains an eternal blessing and a reminder to walk gently through this fragile life…to love…to be loved…and to do our best to ease the pain, despair, and suffering of others. We ask for the strength to both follow this mission and keep the sacred promise we made to one another. Thank you for the blessings of our friendship.” He paused, then whispered, “Amen.”
“Amen,” Lainey echoed.
“Amen,” I said.
—
When I got back from California, I knew I had to find a way to move on with my life. The promise we had made was about being there for one another and never letting tragedy strike again. But it was also about each of us finding our own path forward. I didn’t have Tyson’s brilliant mind or Lainey’s charismatic personality. Nor did I have concrete career goals or any real passion. But I could still have a life of meaning.
For me, that meant marriage and motherhood. Maybe it had something to do with my mother and our complicated relationship, but I yearned for a family of my own. I wanted a husband and life partner with whom I could create a happy home and safe haven for my children. The idea of family was something Summer and I had talked about a lot. As ambitious as she was, she wanted marriage and motherhood as much as I did. She once told me that I would be her maid of honor and the godmother to her firstborn. I told her she would be mine, too. We joked that Lainey would feel relieved to be off the hook from those duties. It broke my heart that I could no longer do those things with Summer. But I knew she would still want me to do them.
So I got on with my life. I made a real effort at work, then got a job I liked more. I went on dates. I managed to have a little fun again. All the while, I could hear Summer encouraging me.
Then, one day out of the blue, Grady Allen called and invited me to dinner. One of my first thoughts was Summer. I distinctly remembered telling her about Grady, the cute older boy who lived down the street. He was my childhood crush—although that hardly made me unique. A lot of girls across town had been infatuated with Grady at one point or another.
I longed to share the news with Summer. Of course, I also wanted to confide my mortified suspicion that my mother had her hand in it, à la Pride and Prejudice, Mrs. Bennet style (a hunch that would later be confirmed). But I knew what Summer would have told me. She would have said something along the lines of, “Who cares how or why he called? Just go out with him!” I told myself that she would have been right, and that for once, my mother’s meddling had paid dividends.
In any event, my first date with Grady was amazing. So were the second and third. As things progressed and we hit various relationship milestones, I continued to imagine my conversations with Summer. How thrilled she would have been for me after our first kiss; our first time having sex; and when Grady finally told me he loved me. I missed her every step of the way, and I missed her the most after Grady got down on one knee and asked me to be his wife.
The most until now, that is. As my heart is broken for the second time.
Chapter 1
Hannah
It started with a small chip in my nail polish. Working in an interior design firm, I spent most of my days either moving furniture or hauling fabric, paint, and rug samples around town, so a chipped nail was hardly a rarity or anything I fussed over. But when a client called last-minute to cancel our four o’clock Friday meeting, I decided I might as well squeeze in a quick manicure before I went home to get ready for the double date Grady and I were going on with another couple.
On my way to the nail salon, I swung by Grady’s house to pick up my favorite bottle of OPI polish—Mimosas for Mr. & Mrs.—which I’d left in his bathroom. Per my mother’s wishes not to “cohabitate,” I was waiting to officially move in with him until after the wedding. It was a waste of money, and a bit inconvenient, but there was something about the decision that felt romantic, too.
As I pulled into the driveway, I took a moment to admire the satisfying symmetry of the small but stately brick Georgian that Grady had just bought with a chunk of his trust fund. He called it our “starter home,” but I couldn’t imagine we would ever outgrow it. I especially loved the huge old magnolia in the front yard. One high, sturdy branch was perfect for a swing.
I parked my car in the driveway, walked up the front path, and used my key to unlock the front door. As I stepped into the foyer, I heard the low thrum of music coming from upstairs. Grady was still at work—I’d just called him—so I assumed he’d left his Alexa on. Midway up the flight of stairs, I could make out Coldplay’s “Yellow.” Then, a couple of steps later, I heard the faint sound of moaning. Female moaning. I stopped in my tracks and held my breath, telling myself there was no way. There must be a benign explanation. Maybe Grady had left the television on this morning, along with his music. Maybe he had blown off work, too, and was indulging in a little Friday afternoon porn. It wasn’t my favorite thought, but with Grady’s sex drive, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. That had to be it, I thought, deciding to abort my nail polish mission and save us both the needless embarrassment.
Yet the smallest kernel of paranoia lingered, propelling me down the hall and toward the bedroom door. It was only open a crack, but it was wide enough for me to peer inside and see a naked woman mounted on my naked fiancé, expertly riding him. They looked like a couple in a movie…. The scene was that airbrushed and golden, right down to the way the late afternoon sun streamed through the window and her long blond hair flowed down her tanned hourglass back. There was even a soundtrack, Chris Martin serenading them. And it was all yellow.
I stared in horror, my mind working overtime, wondering if she was a high-end call girl performing some sort of hazing ceremony—a bachelor-party ritual. But as the two fluidly changed positions, I had a hunch it wasn’t their first time. And then, in another gut punch, I recognized her. Grady was having sex with Berlin Beverly, a young Instagram influencer whom I happened to follow, as did about seventy-five thousand other people.
Berlin’s page was curated pastel perfection filled with artfully arranged images of balloon bouquets and fine china tablescapes and expansive floral arrangements. Mostly, though, Berlin’s feed was full of Berlin, sashaying all over Atlanta—that is, when she wasn’t posing and preening aboard luxury yachts and private jets. To say she was smug is an understatement, but she had always seemed harmless, her clichéd captions punctuated with hearts, butterflies, and clinking champagne flutes.
Several excruciating seconds ticked by as I watched them, wondering how this could be happening. Of course, I knew how in the literal sense. I knew that Grady had lied about being at work. I knew he must have parked his Porsche in the garage rather than in his usual spot in the driveway. I knew that Berlin lived two streets over, close enough to walk, which she must have done, as there was no sign of her Portofino blue Range Rover. I knew they had climbed the stairs, removed their clothes, and gotten in the upholstered bed that I’d bought with my designer discount.
How, though, was this actually happening?
I waited for the rage to kick in, knowing that I was supposed to follow the script of a woman scorned. Pull an Elin Nordegren and smash something. Curse at them. At the very least, interrupt their imminent orgasms. But I couldn’t make myself move, feeling paralyzed with an irrational feeling of shame. It was almost as if I was the one doing something wrong, and I might, at any second, get busted by them. Instead, I made my escape, slowly backing away, then running downstairs and out the front door.
—
