Page 15 of Summer’s Echo

Summer

Five thousand, four hundred seventy-five days.

One hundred thirty-one thousand, four hundred hours.

That’s how long it had been. That’s how long I had tried to forget him, to bury the weight of what we were beneath time and distance.

It wasn’t meant to be, I’d tell myself over and over, as if repetition could make it true.

As if I could will myself to believe that whatever we had was child’s play, a moment in time that had passed.

And yet here I was, still caught in the pull of Echo Abara, powerless to resist. No matter how much I wanted to walk away, I found myself here—standing on the patio just outside the ballroom, drifting back into his orbit once again.

If someone asked me to define what Echo and I had, I’d borrow one of my favorite words from Shakespeare: labyrinthine —intricate, complex, impossible to navigate.

A complicated word for a complicated situation.

The perfect way to captured the maze of emotions, history, and unspoken truths lingering between us.

Or maybe it was just confusion. Either way, it was a tangle I couldn’t seem to unravel.

Not then. Not now. And God help me, I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

My eyes flickered between the St. Louis Arch glowing faintly in the distance and the string lights draped along the patio’s edge, both casting a soft, golden glow over the night.

The scene was set for something intimate.

But we didn’t need ambience. This wasn’t a romantic moment between me and Echo.

“You dragged me out here, so talk,” I snapped, my voice carrying more attitude than was necessary.

He exhaled, unfazed. “I don’t recall you kicking and screaming,” Echo shot back. “Not much has changed, I see.”

I stiffened, crossing my arms, leaning on my feistiness as a protective shield. “Actually, a lot has changed. I’m not the same Summer you once knew.”

“I can see that,” he said quickly, the words slipping out before he could stop them. For a split second, regret flashed across his face, his gaze dragging over me like a reflex. It was clearly unintentional, but undeniable. I bit my bottom lip, trying to suppress the blush crawling up my cheeks.

“Real talk…it’s really good to see you, Summer,” he admitted, relaxing against the brick pillar. “What are the odds that my boy would end up with your best friend?”

I nodded, letting a bit of my defensiveness melt away. “That is kinda crazy,” I said. “Brooke kept Seth a secret for a while. We’re just now getting to know him—and the company he keeps.”

“Seth’s good people. Brooke’s in good hands,” Echo said with certainty.

I nodded again, glancing back into the ballroom. Earlier, I had been searching for Deshawn, but this time, I was simply admiring Brooke, glowing with happiness as she danced with Seth. “She deserves every bit of happiness,” I said quietly.

Echo tilted his head slightly. “What about you, Sunshine?”

“What about me?” I asked, though I already knew what he was getting at.

“Are you getting all the happiness your heart can hold?” he asked, his voice softer now as he took a sip from his glass, his brow lifting in question.

His words hit deeper than I expected, and I fell silent, lost in a swirl of thoughts I wasn’t prepared to confront.

No one had ever asked me that before. But of course, Echo saw me—he always had.

Even after all these years, he still saw me.

“I’m engaged,” I said flatly, the words settling heavily between us.

“Congratulations,” Echo replied, his tone laced with a hint of sarcasm that didn’t escape me.

“Thank you,” I muttered, watching him warily. “You don’t seem surprised. I guess I should’ve known Seth told you.”

He shook his head. “I don’t speak with Seth about you,” he said. “But I was aware. Again, congratulations, Sunshine.”

“Thanks,” I whimpered, my voice faltering under the weight of his presence. Or maybe it was the way he called me Sunshine —smooth and easy, like the years between us never existed. Like we were still the same kids who once believed forever was ours.

Echo tilted his head slightly, studying me, as if searching for the girl he once knew. “So, does the excitement grow over time, or is this…it?” he said, punctuating the words with a nonchalant shrug.

His voice was casual, but the question sat heavier than it should have. The eye roll of old returned involuntary—a reflex I thought I’d outgrown. I hated how easily he could read me, how he still peeled back my layers like no time had passed.

“Stop acting like you know me. I’m excited.Elated, even,” I added, pushing the words out too forcefully. But even as they left my lips, they felt hollow.

A quiet scoff slipped from him as he shook his head, his focus drifting upward toward the steel arch towering above us. “This was the scene of your happy day, right?” He gestured to the monument, its soft glow casting shadows against the St. Louis skyline.

I nodded, ready to ask how he knew Deshawn had proposed there, but Echo continued before I could speak. “Maybe things have changed because I don’t remember the pomp and circumstance of it all being your style.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, my voice softer now, drawn in, clinging to every syllable. Somehow, I felt both affirmed and exposed.

“The Summer I used to know hated attention,” he said, turning to me, his stare composed and unflinching.

“I always imagined your dream engagement would be something simple—a quiet dinner at home, cuddled up by the fireplace with your sketchbook, the ring tucked away somewhere in the folds, waiting for you to find it. That’s the Summer I used to know. ”

I swallowed hard, but the lump in my throat refused to budge. He was right. That was me. I didn’t like attention, and the memory of the day I got engaged played back with startling clarity.

When Deshawn told me he had plans for Valentine’s Day, I’d groaned internally.

I was drained from a business trip, and the icy February wind cut through me as I stepped out of the car.

My cheeks ached from forcing a smile as I saw the crowd—family, friends, and a few folks I didn’t know gathered under the Arch.

Deshawn stood holding a bouquet of roses in front of oversized, illuminated letters spelling out Marry Me .

I remembered the freezing cold biting at my skin and the exhaustion tugging at my limbs.

But what stuck out most wasn’t the cold or the crowd, it was the disconnect between the spectacle around me and the quiet simplicity I’d always dreamed of.

“I…” I began, but the words caught in my throat as I felt someone else’s presence on the patio.

Echo and I turned in unison, pulled from our moment by the sight of Deshawn and who I assumed was Kourtni standing in the doorway.

Brooke told me that Echo had a plus-one for the reception.

Deshawn’s expression curious; hers accusatory.

“Summer, babe, what are you doing? I’ve been looking for you,” Deshawn said, his tone matter of fact.

“Echo, where’ve you been?” Kourtni chimed in, her eyes darting between us, but pausing to slowly examine me as she waited for him to answer.

Echo leaned casually against the patio railing, his hands clasped in front of him.

His calm demeanor contrasted sharply with my racing pulse.

I felt like a guilty party, though I had done nothing wrong—well, maybe except walk down the dangerous road called memory lane.

Clearing my throat, I forced myself to speak. “Shawn. Hey. I just needed some air,” I said, my voice thin.

Kourtni’s stare was unwavering, silently demanding Echo explain himself. He stayed quiet, briefly turning to me before shifting to our visitors. Desperate to diffuse the tension, I spoke again. “Oh, um, Deshawn, this is Echo.”

Echo stepped forward, extending a hand toward Deshawn. “What’s up, man? Echo Abara.” His tone was smooth, practiced, like nothing about this moment was uncomfortable. “And this is Kourtni Lang,” he added, finally acknowledging her presence.

“Deshawn Towns, Summer’s fiancé,” Deshawn announced, his chest puffing slightly. Then his brow furrowed, and he snapped his fingers as though he’d just pieced something together. “Wait. Didn’t you two go to the same camp with Brooke one summer?”

Echo’s lips curled into something that could hardly pass as a smile, his sneer barely concealed. If his dark eyes were fire, we would’ve all been incinerated. “Yeah,” he said, his voice clipped. “Something like that.”

Straightening from the railing,Echo strode past me, his movements unhurried and deliberate, like he had already decided this conversation was over.

I turned just in time to watch his back as he moved toward Kourtni, the woman who, despite standing only a few feet away, her connection to him remained a mystery to me.

He hadn’t introduced her as a friend. Not as a girlfriend.

Not as anything. Just there, existing in his space with no clear title.

Her expression was caught somewhere between frustration and uncertainty, as if she couldn’t decide whether to be mad at him or to ask him what the hell was going on.

But Echo didn’t stop. He barely even acknowledged her.

Instead, just before disappearing back into the party, he tossed one last glance over his shoulder, his voice casual,his words anything but.

“Oh, and congratulations, man. On the engagement.” A beat of silence followed. The kind that stretched just a little too long.

Deshawn nodded, his thanks clipped, maybe even cautious.

Then, without hesitation, he stepped closer, his arm snaking around my waist, pulling me into him like a quiet claim.

His lips pressed to my forehead, a soft, lingering kiss, but the warmth of it did nothing to ease the sudden chill settling in my bones.

Theunspoken tension buzzedbetween Echo and me the rest of the night—electric andundeniable, fueled by thecharged history we shared.

No matter how crowded the room, Deshawn and Kourtni’s awareness never strayed far.

Their curiosity was palpable, relentless, yet silent scrutiny and muted accusations hung heavy in the air, teetering on jealousy.

Maybe they were justified because they became glue, clinging to us all night.

I thought about how Deshawn described my connection to Echo.

Camp one summer. For anyone else,it might have sounded harmless, just words spoken without substance, but forme and Echo?

Thatone summerwasn’t just a fleeting moment.

It waseverything—friendship that blurred into something deeper, love thatsimmered quietly beneath the surface, and a thousandwhat-ifsthat still lingered between us…

unexpressed and unexplored. And no one—not Deshawn, not Kourtni, not anyone—could ever fully understandwhat it meant.