Page 11 of If the Summer Lasted Forever

CHAPTER TEN

I’m in the middle of cutting up chicken for dinner when my phone rings.

Though I’m unable to answer, I glance at the screen to see who it is.

For a moment, my stomach flutters with the hope that it might be Landon.

Which is ridiculous because we haven’t exchanged numbers and we’re not actually dating—something it seems I must remind myself continually.

Seeing that it’s Paige, I go back to the cutting board to finish before I call her back. I’m slicing the last piece when she calls again.

It must be important because she’s not usually this needy. I dump the chicken cubes into the hot skillet and hurry to wash my hands.

Quickly, I answer her call, only to realize I was a moment too late. I dial her number, starting to worry there’s some kind of emergency.

“You’re dating Landon?” she demands the moment she answers the phone. “And what the heck, Lacey? I found out from Gia .”

I almost laugh with relief that she’s not sick or dying in a hole somewhere, and then I step onto the back porch where I hope my mom won’t hear me. “We’re not actually dating. We’re just making people think we’re together so our mothers will quit playing Team Matchmaker.”

She’s quiet for a second as she processes it. Then, apparently confused, she asks, “Why don’t you just date him for real? Even if you won’t admit it, I know you like him.”

Sighing, I sit on the swinging bench. “He just broke up with his girlfriend a few months ago, and he’s not over her. And I don’t date summer guys anymore—you know that.”

“Yeah, but it’s a stupid rule. You can’t assume every guy is like Thomas.”

I know she’s right, but it’s not that easy.

“I saw him yesterday,” she says, her tone too casual.

“Who?” I ask, but I already know.

“Thomas.”

“His family’s back then? At Upper Ridge?”

“Yep.” She pauses. “There’s a girl with him. Gia thinks she’s the girlfriend.”

Surely it’s not the same one.

Guilt cloaks me. I really didn’t know Thomas had a girlfriend when I was dating him. For obvious reasons, he didn’t inform me. But I still feel like a cow.

“What were you doing at Upper Ridge?” I ask, changing the subject. “Traitor.”

She laughs, and it’s a tinkling, happy sound. “Tanner asked me out.”

Poor Jarrett , I think.

“So, you went out with him last night?” I ask, going inside to stir the chicken before it burns.

“Yes, and it was amazing,” she gushes.

Properly distracted, she goes on about her date for the next fifteen minutes. Every time it seems like she’s going to return to the subject of Landon and me, I steer her away. I don’t want her dissecting my feelings for him.

“Are you going to Misty’s thing next Friday?” I ask when dinner is just about finished.

“She’s planned one already?” Paige groans. “Summer just started.”

“Yep, and thanks to Gia, Landon and I are going.”

“I’ll bring Tanner,” she says. “We’ll make it fun.”

Then she suddenly laughs like she’s just thought of something.

“What?” I ask, nervous.

“You’re going to have to take Landon into the barn, or no one will believe you’re actually dating.”

My chest tightens, and my stomach grows warm. “The only one I have to convince is my mom.”

“You know how gossip spreads in this town. But if you don’t want to make it believable…”

“You are such a brat.”

I can practically hear her grin. “I know, but you love me anyway.”

I growl, reluctantly agreeing, and then we end the call.

“Who was that?” Mom asks, startling me as she walks into the kitchen.

“Paige.” I flash her a guilty look, hoping she didn’t overhear that last part.

Oblivious, she fills glasses with ice and puts the silverware on the table. “What do you need to convince me of?”

Crud.

I dish the chicken pasta onto three plates and set them on the table. “To let me go to Misty’s for her teen night next Friday.”

“Why couldn’t you go?”

Suddenly, I realize my out. “Because of our s’mores bonfire! That’s my evening to host it.”

She waves her hand like it’s no big deal. “I’ll take care of it. Go ahead.”

Well, drat.

“I’ll do tomorrow’s bonfire,” I offer, feeling guilty for pawning off my night on her.

“If you want.”

Uncle Mark comes in, thankfully announcing there’s an electrical post that needs replacing, and he and Mom begin a conversation about updating all the electrical in A Loop.

I’m quiet through dinner, but neither of them notices. Though I don’t want it to, my mind wanders to Landon, next Friday night, and Misty’s hayloft.

“Don’t feed that to Candy,” Hunter tells his sister in the snottiest voice imaginable.

McKenna glares at him as she takes a bite of her ooey, gooey, I-can’t-believe-she-used-two-roasted-marshmallows-on-that-thing s’more. Chocolate and marshmallow squish out from between the graham crackers, threatening to make a sticky mess.

“Hunter,” Mrs. Tillman says in the universal mom voice that basically means stop talking immediately or you’re grounded.

The sun only set about fifteen minutes ago, and it’s the most pleasant time of the day—still warm, but just starting too cool off for the evening. Since I traded with Mom, it’s my night to host the Friday night bonfire, and my fire is puny. The small crowd doesn’t seem to mind though.

We’re gathered near the gazebo, in the area Uncle Mark built years ago just for this. He crafted long seats from four massive logs, and they make a square around the huge, brick fire ring.

Tonight, we don’t just have families with kids. Mr. and Mrs. Murray are here with Todd, the fancy-pedigreed golden retriever. Greg and Hallie Hendrick, the couple I initially mistook Landon’s parents for, brought their Greyhound, Bark, with them as well.

And of course, McKenna brought Candy. Tonight, the cotton ball is stuffed into a red and black checkered vest, the kind that screams iconic camper.

To top off the outfit, Candy wears her usual diamond-rhinestone-studded collar.

It’s a Barbie-goes-camping, canine fashionista kind of style, and it’s obvious Candy thinks she’s pretty hot stuff.

She won’t even give the other dogs the time of day, and they want to play with her so badly.

“He’s really well-behaved,” I say to Greg and Hallie when Bark noses my leg, wanting attention.

“He’s the best dog,” Greg answers. “Even if he has terrible separation anxiety.”

“What do you do when you have to go grocery shopping?” I ask. “Or sight-seeing where dogs aren’t allowed?”

Greg scratches the dog’s shoulder. “He has a crate that he feels safe in, and we give him toys. He does all right as long as we’re not gone too long.”

Mrs. Murray ends up continuing the conversation, asking about Bark’s lineage. Apparently, he’s a retired racer. He’s about nine now, so he can’t move like he used to, but back when he was young, before the Hendricks adopted him, he was a champion.

“Where’s George?” I ask Landon as he plays the part of my doting boyfriend and offers to roast a marshmallow for me. It’s too early—we should really wait until the fire dies down and the coals are glowing, but the kids hate waiting, and so do I.

Landon kneels by the fire. “He’s scared of the dark—we leave him in the camper at night because otherwise, he’ll refuse to move, and you have to drag him.”

“But he’s huge,” I say with a laugh. “What’s out there that he could possibly be afraid of?”

Flashing me a smile over his shoulder, Landon shrugs. A few minutes later, he stands, offering me the perfectly browned marshmallow.

“Impressive,” I say.

He gives me a crooked grin and leans a smidgen closer. “I’ve had some practice.”

I realize he’s playing it up for his family, but for some reason, my breath catches. I glance toward Mrs. Tillman, self-conscious. A part of me, a teeny-tiny part, feels kind of guilty. She just wants Landon to be happy, and we’re lying to them.

What’s she going to think about me when she finds out we were never together?

“Make me one next!” Caleb begs Landon.

“You’re already roasting one,” I point out.

Landon’s little brother gives me a look. “I’m burning this one.”

“Don’t waste other people’s marshmallows,” Mrs. Tillman says.

Caleb’s face falls. And why wouldn’t it? What kid doesn’t love watching a white, fluffy marshmallow turn into a torch? It’s the only time you’re actually allowed to play with fire.

“We don’t care,” I assure Landon’s mom.

She purses her lips and then shrugs, giving him permission. A few moments later, Caleb’s wielding an impressive flaming marshmallow.

“Look!” he exclaims, so excited he ends up whirling around, taking the mass of burning sugar goo with him.

“Keep it over the fire!” Mr. Tillman commands. “And don’t shake it.”

For some reason, Landon’s mom looks a touch nervous. Even Bark moves away from the boy.

“Can I have another s’more?” McKenna asks through the final bite of her first one.

“No,” Mr. and Mrs. Tillman say at the same time.

McKenna pouts for several seconds, and then she turns to Hallie Hendrick. “Did you know Irish Wolfhounds are the tallest dogs? They’re even bigger than Great Danes, though there was a Great Dane that was taller than any other dog ever .”

Hallie’s about five years older than I am—maybe twenty-two, twenty-three—and kind of quiet.

But she has a kind smile, so I think she’s nice enough—just shy.

She brushes her chin-length, light brunette hair behind her ear and says, “I did know that. Did you know English commoners were forbidden from owning Greyhounds in medieval times?”

Finding a kindred spirit, McKenna moves next to Hallie and starts an in-depth conversation about dogs.

The girl pets Bark, making Candy jealous.

Not about to be ignored, the tiny dog makes friends with the Greyhound.

Soon the two are playing—well, Candy plays.

Bark lies on the ground and paws at her as she jumps around him.

Caleb’s burning marshmallow finally turns black and falls into the fire to join the coals, and Landon roasts him a proper one. A few more families join us, and the sky darkens to velvety indigo.

It gets cold as the light fades. I forgot to grab a jacket before I left the house, so I hug myself, rubbing my arms to keep warm.

“Are you cold?” Landon asks, already shrugging off his sweatshirt.

“I’m fine,” I say, and then I shiver.

“Take it,” he coaxes and holds the sweatshirt out.

He’s playing the part. Or maybe he’s just genuinely nice and cares that I’m frozen. It’s not because he necessarily wants me to wear his sweatshirt.

“Thanks.” I take it and pull it over my head, realizing my mistake immediately. Soapy, wonderful, Landon-ness surrounds me, making me want to melt, just like one of his perfectly toasted marshmallows. The fabric is still warm, too.

Then, just to top it off, Landon wraps his arms around my middle and pulls my back to his chest, blocking the chill. I feel like a sparking live wire, but Landon’s all loose and relaxed.

He should go into acting—he really should.

I rest my head back because I would be a fool to pass up this kind of opportunity. Landon shifts, tugging me closer, and sets his chin on top of my head. I’ve never dated someone tall enough to do that.

Or not dated…

“Ew,” Hunter mutters, rolling his eyes.

Mr. Tillman tosses a marshmallow at his surly son.

“Don’t waste the marshmallows!” Mrs. Tillman exclaims, exasperated.

I’d assure her again we couldn’t care less, but I’m practically floating above the fire, not capable of simple conversation.

And though I don’t mean to—or even want to—my brain can’t help but compare Landon to Thomas. It’s nothing major, just little things, like the way it feels to be in Landon’s arms, how tall he is, the way his sweatshirt feels and smells.

It hits me that I don’t remember those small things about Thomas as well as I thought I did. He never lent me his sweatshirt or a jacket. I don’t even remember what it’s like to kiss him, not really.

Naturally, that thought leads to an imagined scene in Misty’s hayloft involving Landon—a place that’s marked with metaphorical flashing warning lights and bright yellow tape. We can’t go there. And I’m sure Landon doesn’t want to—not with the breakup still so fresh in his mind.

Do I want to though?

No.

No.

Maybe?

It doesn’t matter.

“Do you care if I film a bit for the vlog?” Mr. Tillman asks.

I freeze, and I’m afraid Landon can tell.

“We don’t have to,” Landon says quietly.

I shake my head. “No, it’s all right.”

Mr. Tillman asks the rest of the guests, and they all agree. From my cozy spot in Landon’s arms, I smile for the camera, feeling like a fraud. All the while I’m wishing, maybe just a little bit, that we weren’t just pretending.