Cure for the Common Breakup Page 5

  “One text.” Celeste grabbed Marla’s hand. “That’s all I’m asking for. One last little text. For closure.”

  “Consider your dignity.”

  “Fuck my dignity!”

  Marla didn’t bat an eye. “Now, now. You don’t mean that.”

  “I do, too!”

  “Texting him’s not going to make you feel better.” Marla adopted the tone of voice you’d use to soothe a spooked horse. “This is just your brain chemistry resetting itself back to normal. That’s what Hollis says. You’re not in your right mind—you’re a junkie in withdrawal.”

  The willowy brunette glanced down at her trembling hands, her expression mutinous. “I know exactly what I want, and it’s to text that miserable, selfish SOB and tell him that . . . that . . .”

  “What?” Marla planted her hands on her ample hips. “That you still need him? That you can’t live without him? That you know you two still love each other deep down?”

  At this, Celeste burst into tears. “You don’t know him! You don’t know me!”

  Marla engulfed the distraught guest in a motherly hug and handed over a box of tissues—but no phone. “There, there. Let it all out. The first three days of detox are the hardest. I promise it gets easier.”

  Summer marveled at the innkeeper’s maternal warmth and “tough love.” Marla hugged you when you needed a hug and confiscated your cell phone when you were jonesing for the rat bastard who broke your heart. How did some women step so effortlessly into the Mom role? And what would it have been like to have been born to one of them?

  What would it have been like to have a mother who stayed instead of left?

  “When?” Celeste sobbed into Marla’s collar. The dry-cleaning bills around here must be astronomical. “When will it get easier?”

  “Tomorrow,” Marla promised. “And the day after that and the day after that. You’re bottoming out and it’s miserable. I know. But you’re going to get through this. If you text him right now, you’re restarting the clock and undoing all our hard work.”

  “But I—”

  “Here.” Marla wriggled out of Celeste’s bear hug, reached into her dress pocket, and pulled out a hammer. “You’ll feel better.”

  “But you—”

  “Run along.” Marla made little shooing motions with her hands. She didn’t even glance at the smears of lipstick and mascara on her dress. “Give it all you’ve got for fifteen minutes and if you still want your phone after that, we’ll talk.”

  Celeste accepted the hammer, still scowling. “Don’t lie. You’re not giving me my phone back in fifteen minutes.”

  Marla waved her fingers. “Toodle-oo.”

  Celeste stomped off, hammer in hand, and left her sun hat abandoned on the rug.

  Summer stared after her. “What was that all about?”

  Marla picked up the hat, dusted it off, and placed it on a hook next to the front door. “What was what, dear?”

  “Where’s she going with that hammer? Why are you holding her cell phone hostage?”

  Marla shrugged. “Hotel policy. I make all the guests surrender their phone when they check in. It prevents backsliding.”

  “Backsliding,” Summer echoed.

  “Begging, pleading, threatening.” Marla ticked these off on her fingers. “Regrettable calls and texts at three a.m.” She smiled up at Summer and held out her palm. “Speaking of which, dear, if you’d be so kind . . .”

  Summer clutched her purse strap protectively. “You want my cell phone?”

  “Just for a few days.”

  “You can’t have it. I’m very important. And busy. I’m getting calls from my employer, the media—people need to be able to reach me.”

  Marla didn’t argue. She just stood there, smiling, with her palm outstretched.

  “Look, I get that you don’t know me, but I don’t backslide. When I’m done with a man, I’m done with him.” She swallowed hard. “And I definitely don’t beg.”

  Marla’s smile softened. “What’s his name, dear?”

  Summer swallowed again. “He, uh . . . You’ve probably seen him on TV over the last few days. He’s the . . .” She couldn’t force the word “pilot” out, let alone “Aaron.” “Can I have some water, please?”

  Marla bustled off to the kitchen and returned with a glass of pink lemonade. “I’ll take that cell phone now.”

  Summer sighed and surrendered the lifeline that kept her tethered to the hope that, any minute now, Aaron would come to his senses and reach out to her. Apologize. Repent. Beg her to take him back.

  Decide that she was worth loving.

  “Take good care of her,” Summer said as Marla locked the phone in the drawer.

  “I’ll love it like it was my own,” Marla promised. “And if you need to make calls, you’re welcome to do so. In the common areas. Under supervision.”

  Summer took one tiny sip of the cold, delicious lemonade and almost gagged. Her body wanted nothing to do with food or drink right now. “So this is like breakup boot camp?”

  “Mm-hmm. With homemade blueberry muffins for breakfast.”

  Summer suppressed another gag. “And what’s with the hammer?”

  “We have a storage room in the basement. A few years ago, I asked Theo to put some hammers and nails down there for the guests. There’s something about swinging a hammer that really helps you start to heal from a bad breakup. Local contractors drop off old bricks and tile. The smashing can be very therapeutic.”

  “I bet.” She would have to give it a try, right after she took a four-day nap.

  “Would you like to take a whack at it, so to speak?”

  “No, I’m okay.” Summer hadn’t realized how exhausted she was, but now that she’d settled into the sofa cushions, she couldn’t seem to get up.

  “Maybe you’d like to try the yoga and meditation class later,” Marla suggested. “Or kickboxing. We’ve got something for everyone.”

  “Mmm.” Summer’s eyelids drooped.

  “Maybe after a little rest.”

  Summer let her cheek rest against the embroidered fabric of a pillow. “Mmm-kay.”

  “Tell you what.” Marla’s voice sounded very far away. “I’ll just have Theo take your suitcase up to your room and you can set a spell right here. Where are your bags, pumpkin?”

  “Car.” Summer used her last remaining stores of energy to fish her keys out of her pocket. “Red convertible. New York plates.”

  “All righty.” Marla eased Summer’s ankles up onto a footstool. “We’ll get you properly checked in later. You just stay right here and take care of yourself.”

  “Always have, always will.”

  —

  Summer knew that life must have continued on around her—guests coming and going, attempting cell phone coups and borrowing hammers—but she remained oblivious to it all. For hours, she napped in a patch of light like a cat. At sundown, she mustered just enough energy to walk from the lobby to the back porch, where she collapsed into an Adirondack chair.

  Marla appeared with a glass of water and an invitation to a game of Trivial Pursuit starting in the lobby.

  “No, thank you,” Summer replied. She touched a drop of condensation on the glass, then drew her fingers away as if burned. “I’m good right here.”

  This was a lie. She was not good. She was, in fact, the opposite of good. As the shock of the last few days wore off and her physical injuries started to heal, she was wrecked, ravaged, bleeding out from wounds no one could see.

  Walk it off.

  But she’d finally reached her breaking point, here at the water’s edge. She couldn’t take one more step.

  “I’ll leave your room key right here.” Marla regarded Summer, her gaze warm and perceptive. “We call it room number fourteen, but it’s really the attic. Can I get you anythi
ng else, honey?”

  “No, thank you,” Summer said. “Nothing.”

  She stretched out her legs and watched the sunset fade into dusk. She didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She barely breathed.

  She just sat, listening to the waves and feeling the weight of her body. After years of racing through airport terminals and cramming carry-ons into overhead bins and traipsing through crowded bars and cafés and hotels, she craved stillness and solitude. She wanted to feel the support offered by the sturdy wooden chair. She wanted to watch the world passing her by.

  chapter 6

  I feel like I’m getting a CAT scan.

  The next morning, Summer woke up to the sound of the tide coming in. She stared at the ceiling, which was only about three feet above the top of the bedposts. Because of the steep slope of the roof, the bed had been positioned in the center of the narrow attic, and the walls, floor, and beams had all been painted pale blue. The space didn’t allow for a dresser or table, so her trash bag (or her “luggage,” as Marla insisted on calling it) rested on a spindly wooden chair wedged between the footboard and the wall. Bright morning sunlight filtered in through the white wooden shutters, bouncing off the blue walls and giving the impression that the whole room was submerged in seawater.

  “Sorry about the close quarters,” Marla had said last night as she led Summer up to the inn’s fourth floor. “I hope you’re not claustrophobic.”

  After years of squeezing herself into tiny airplane galleys and lavatories and economy-class middle seats, Summer was not claustrophobic. She hadn’t realized how many people were until she’d undergone multiple tests and scans in the hospital after the accident. “You okay?” the medical techs kept asking. “No issues with anxiety?”

  She could fit herself into the tiniest pocket of space, as long as she knew the situation was temporary. As long as she was en route to another destination.

  She turned over on her side, adjusted the white cotton sheets, and realized she was still wearing the same clothes she’d worn yesterday: a casual black shift dress and lightweight cardigan she’d borrowed from Emily.

  This couldn’t go on any longer. She had to shower—a real shower with shampoo and conditioner, not just a cursory rinse in a tiled hospital stall with no water pressure. She had to comb her hair and do something about her nails. The polish had chipped to the point that she looked like she’d drawn red amoebas on the end of each finger.

  Okay, so a shower and a manicure. She felt overwhelmed just thinking about it.

  She glanced at the lopsided black trash bag, which contained her burned and bloodstained polyester uniform, the ridiculous lingerie she’d planned to bring to Paris, and the flimsy blue gown she’d swiped from the hospital. Obtaining new clothes would mean going back into town, finding a boutique, talking to people, trying things on. . . .

  So much easier to just lie here all day than deal with these impossible logistics. She yawned and snuggled into the pillows. Just a few more minutes of sleep, and then she’d face reality.

  “Wakey wakey,” Marla practically sang. “Breakfast is served. Warm blueberry muffins are on the table.”

  Summer closed her eyes and ignored the innkeeper.

  A succession of knocks. “Summer. Let’s go.”

  Summer scowled and yelled in the general direction of the door. “I’m sleeping. Come back later.”

  Marla sighed audibly. “You leave me no choice. But just remember, honey. You made me do this.”

  Summer yanked the covers over her head. “Do what?”

  —

  “Haul your carcass out of bed.” Even on speakerphone, even from three thousand miles away, Emily Lassiter meant business. “Pronto.”

  Summer turned to Marla, who held up Summer’s cell phone like an avenging angel. “How did you . . . ?”

  “I dialed the ‘In case of emergency’ on your contact list.”

  Summer finally sat up. “This isn’t an emergency.”

  “It is an emergency,” Emily countered. “You’re not eating; you’re not hydrating; you’re jailbreaking out of hospitals against medical advice.”

  “I’m sleeping!” Summer leaped up on the mattress, banged her head against the low ceiling, and clutched the back of her skull. “And let’s not forget who helped me jailbreak!”

  “She’s up,” Marla reported to Emily. She smiled sweetly and handed the phone to Summer. “I’ll leave you two girls to chat. Oh, and your muffin is right outside on the hall table.”

  “You just lost a paying customer!” Summer yelled as Marla closed the door. To Emily, she said, “And you! Traitor. You should be happy I’m resting. The doctors told me to rest, remember?”

  “They didn’t tell you to go to bed and never get up again.”

  “Well, I’m tired.”

  Emily didn’t say anything.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Emily went from bossy to worried. “But I’ve known you since we were what? Twelve?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And I don’t think I’ve ever once heard you say you’re tired. You’re always dragging me to some party or after-party or after-after-party.”

  “Well, there you go. I’ve got fifteen years of sleep to catch up on.” Summer sat back down on the bed. “And I have nothing to wear besides my charred uniform, scandalous lingerie, and the hospital gown. So, you know. Facing the world’s kind of a hassle right now.”

  “This problem has a solution.” She could hear Emily clicking away on a keyboard. “It’s called shopping online.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be busy making a movie?” Summer asked.

  “Camera crew’s setting up a shot.” More clicking from the keyboard. “I’ll overnight everything. You’ll have it by tomorrow afternoon. Shall I order your usual? Leather pants? Stilettos that could double as murder weapons? Sequined everything?”

  Summer yawned. “Maybe just a few shorts and tank tops.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oh, and flip-flops. Nothing fancy.”

  “Would you put Summer on the phone, please?”

  “The Delaware shore isn’t really the place for sequins and stilettos.”

  “Well, at the very least, I’m sending you a bikini. Do you want halter top or bandeau top?”

  “Emily . . .”

  “Halter top or bandeau top?” The bossiness had returned in full force. “And if you say no bikini, I’m sending in the National Guard.” There was a series of muffled thumps on Emily’s end of the line. “Hang on. Ryan’s wrestling me for the phone.”

  “Summer?” Ryan said. Summer had to smile at how manly and authoritative he sounded. Quite a change from the hyperactive college kid Emily had married on a reckless whim all those years ago.

  “Yes?” Summer said.

  “That jackass is a jackass.”

  Summer slid down to the oval rug next to the bed. “Uh-huh.”

  “Repeat after me,” Ryan commanded. “I want to hear you say the words.”

  Summer picked at a strand of blue yarn and mumbled, “That jackass is a jackass.”

  “Again,” Ryan ordered. “Say it like you mean it.”

  She closed her eyes. “Save the drama coaching for your actors.”

  “I’m a producer, not a director.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Tell her I’m flying to Delaware,” Emily said in the background.

  “No airport in Delaware,” Summer informed them.

  “I will fix this,” Ryan said. “What do you need to feel better? Name it—it’s yours.”

  Summer didn’t realize she had spaced out of the conversation until Ryan prompted her with, “Hello? Benson? Name your price.”

  “That’s sweet of you, but I swear I’m fine. I don’t need anything.”

  Summer could hear Emily
’s muffled voice; then Ryan returned with, “Do you want to go out with Ryan Gosling? I can’t promise anything, but I can make a few calls.”

  “I don’t want to go out with anyone.”

  “It’s worse than we thought,” Ryan reported to Emily, who reclaimed the phone.

  “Listen, missy. I’m going to check my text messages in one hour, and I better see a picture of you on the beach. With a margarita and a trashy celebrity gossip rag. Or else.”

  Summer stared at her feet and noticed that the tips of her toes were bruised. Kim had been right about those shoes. “Or else what?”

  “Or else we’re sending Ryan Gosling over to personally break down your door and read Us Weekly to you in bed.”

  “I guess I should wash my hair, then.” Summer ran her fingers through the lank, tangled mess. “I don’t know what the hell my deal is. I’m kind of freaked out, to tell you the truth.”

  “So am I,” Emily said.

  “I’m not some delicate flower who goes into mourning. Guys dump me. I dump them. So what? You know my rules. There’s no reason for me to be boarding myself up in an attic and hibernating like this.”

  “Maybe you have post-traumatic stress disorder,” Emily suggested. “Or maybe the whole thing with Aaron . . .”

  “Oh no.” Summer cringed. “I know that voice. That’s your therapist voice.”

  “Is it possible that all this is dredging up—”

  “No,” Summer snapped. “I am in Black Dog Bay, Delaware. Know what this town is for? Getting over your breakup. Know what’s it’s not for? Overanalyzing a hot mess of a family history. Don’t read too much into it. Don’t feel sorry for me. Just mind your business and send over Ryan Gosling.”

  “Will do. In the meantime, promise me you’ll eat something—anything—and walk around the block. I checked the weather online and it’s supposed to be sunny and breezy there.”

  Summer could see slices of clear sky between the shutter slats. “It’s gorgeous.”

  “Once around the block,” Emily repeated. “Bonus points if you can bring yourself to buy a T-shirt.”