Page 11 of Cruel Summer

He did not give cul-de-sac vibes.

He was too rugged for that.

If he said he lived above his garage and existed only on cigarettes and whiskey to keep his stomach hard and flat and his attitude mean, you’d believe it.

That he lived in quite a nice house—though not on a cul-de-sac, on a little ranchette down at the end of town, with about three acres—and had raised his daughter in a perfectly stable environment, all things considered, didn’t really mesh with his appearance.

When he’d pulled up, maybe it hadn’t even really been the car she’d admired.

Maybe.

She was done with Logan’s looks now.

The music wasn’t that bad.

Then suddenly the music was Fall Out Boy.

She had two thoughts: Was she so old the music of her youth was in this random AM radio station? And also, well, yay.

Because at least she knew it.

He was merged onto the freeway as the song started to pick up, and she looked out the window at the view, which was a familiar enough view but felt wholly different now because of where they were headed. Also, who she was with.

Without thinking she started to sing along. Badly.

“I can’t do it,” he said. “Reach behind the seat. There’s a portable charger and a Bluetooth speaker.”

“You are a liar!” she said, turning and reaching over the back of the seat and finding everything he’d claimed she would.

“Yes, I’m a liar. I thought it was funny. But it was only funny until you started singing.”

“How long were you going to let that go on?”

He shrugged. “An hour or so.”

“Why?”

He didn’t say anything. He just smiled and looked at the road ahead while she fussed around with the cord, the battery, her phone and the speaker, but once she got it going she was able to pull up one of her playlists.

“It’s still Fall Out Boy.”

“Lord save me.”

She grinned. “I can put some good old-fashioned worship music on there, if that’s a request.”

“It’s not.”

He let her have control of the music, though. So his irritation seemed a little bit for show.

“What would you choose?” she asked.

“Disturbed. Fuel.”

“Naturally.” Because of course he would be a fan of the hard rock of the early 2000s.

“I also like Chappell Roan.”

“Oh, you do not.”

“I have a nineteen-year-old daughter. Chloe gets to choose the music when she rides with me.”

She laughed. “I do not let my boys choose the music.”

“Why not?”

“Because, it might be perfectly fine for me to listen to music about women’s anatomy being juicy or otherwise, and quite enjoy it, thank you, but I don’t want to listen to it with them. So best we both pretend that’s not the kind of thing we’re listening to at all.”

He chuckled. “You like denial.”

She was going to just laugh and move through the moment, but something stopped her. “I… What?”

“Was the statement unclear?”

“I don’t like denial.”

“You just told me denial works best for you when it comes to your kids’ taste in music.”

“That’s normal parental levels of denial,” she said.

“Is it?”

“Do you want to know everything about Chloe?”

He cleared his throat. “I believe in boundaries. That’s different than denial. I need to keep Chloe safe, but much in the same way she doesn’t need to know everything about me, I don’t need to know everything about her.”

“Boundaries. That’s your superior way of saying denial?”

“I don’t care if it’s denial, actually. You’re the one acting triggered by the word.”

She knew why. Because it felt like he wasn’t talking about music, or her kids. It felt like he was talking about Will.

She put her elbow on the window ledge and her chin on her hand. “It’s just a normal amount of coping,” she said. “Not a high level of denial.”

She watched the scenery change from hills to trees. Then as they wound down the mountain into California, the view opened up again, and California Welcomed Them with a blue sign with a cheerful poppy on it.

Then they stopped at the check station, where the person working asked if they had fruit and waved them through before they even had a chance to answer.

She couldn’t let go of what he’d said. “You can’t say things like that and not explain,” she said.

“I think I can.”

“No. You can’t. It sounded like you meant something deeper, and now I want to know.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Did you mean me and Will?”

He let out a hard sigh. “No, Sam. I didn’t. I meant exactly what I said.”

Her cheeks felt hot. So maybe she was now obsessively digging for the truth behind everything because she must not have done it when she should have with Will.

Maybe his comment felt weighted because it was.

To her.

Even if he hadn’t meant it to be.

“It’s just…he’s your friend, Logan. I have a hard time believing he didn’t say anything to you, or give hints about what he was feeling.”

“I don’t know more about your marriage than you do. Even if he had said something, I would never assume that what he said to me was more true than what he said to you.”

“Why is that?”

“Because some guys like to talk shit. It doesn’t mean anything. Don’t you complain about him to your friends?”

“Sometimes, but…”

“Do you mean all of it or are you venting?”

“I mean, sometimes both. I believe all of it, and I love him, and I need to say it them because it might not help to say it to him.”

“So that’s exactly what I mean. But no, he never told me he had a burning desire to have an open marriage.” He laughed when he said it.

“You think that’s funny?”

“I don’t get it as a concept. What the fuck is the point of marriage, then?”

“Some people find it very…”

“Fine,” he said. “But it’s not the deal you had.”

“No. It’s not. But don’t make me feel like I have to defend him. Please.”

“You don’t have to. There’s no one here. I’m his best friend, remember? You’re his wife. If there was a nicer take to be had on him, one of us would have it.”

Logan had taken her side here. Unequivocally.

“He said he envied me?” Logan asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Not the reason you’re single, but that you have freedom.”

“He knows me well enough not to say that bullshit.”

For a minute there was nothing but the sound of the engine, other cars, their tires on the road, and the pop punk she still had playing.

She was tired.

She was tired of thinking about Will. Worrying about Will. Wondering about Will.

For twenty-four years she had thought about that man. Every decision, every desire, every need, had been wrapped around him.

She had left because she didn’t want to know what he was doing.

But it also meant she was free to just not think about him at all.

“I’m done talking about him,” she said. She sat up straight and took her wedding rings off. “This isn’t about him. It can’t be.”

She stuffed the ring and the band into a zipper pocket in her purse, her hand feeling weird, the ratio of her ring finger just wrong.

This wasn’t forever. It was for the summer.

“He’s in Oregon,” she said, leaning her head back against the seat. “I’m going on my road trip. He doesn’t get to come with me.”