Surprise, surprise—I stayed. At least until one of my other applications comes through. A combination of events persuaded me to slow down. If anything, today was a gift: Mr. Fabrizi couldn't locate my departure papers, which meant I didn't need to come in. Better news—Summer's in LA, finally!
I pick her up from LAX, tempted to unload about work, but she beats me to it.
"Yes, we eloped! And we're having the official ceremony in Vegas. That's, like, two hours away, right?"
I laugh.
"Summer, it takes me one hour just to get to work in afternoon traffic. If you leave in the morning, it's four, maybe five hours."
"Well, Andre's a speed demon."
"If you say so."
Before home, we swing by Ralph's for groceries, then detour through tourist traps for pictures.
"So," she asks slyly, "anyone you want to bring to the ceremony?"
I laugh again.
"I told you, too busy for dates."
"No one at work?" she presses, smirking like she knows.
Given recent events, her guess is not off. Marriage had been on the table just weeks ago.
"Well, Andre knows this journalist," she says without a second to lose.
"I think you'd hit it off."
Rolling my eyes, I pull into my driveway. "Summer—really not in the mood."
"But look," she squeals, shoving her phone in my face.
I have to admit—he looks… fine. Smooth brown skin, nerdy glasses that somehow work.
"He's even seen your Instagram," she pushes, "and said he's interested. And guess what?"
"What?"
"His dad was the detective on that case you were tied to in 2003—the river incident."
How could I forget? That summer carved itself into me deeper than anything else at that age.
"So he's basically your celebrity," she says, breezy as ever.
"I'll think about it," I mutter, grateful Aunt Milly sweeps her inside before I'm locked into a blind date.
Dinner is rich and comforting—fried chicken, green beans, mashed potatoes with gravy, Aunt Milly's peach pie. With each bite, I drift back to Georgia, to the days when Summer and I scoured neighborhoods for treasures in people's trash. That 2003 incident had been the first time I'd found something that truly mattered. Something that saved a life.
I try to push the memory aside, but thoughts of work creep in, and I know what happens when work settles in my head.
A flood of pings interrupts. Summer glances over like I've gone viral.
"It's work," I sigh.
To my surprise, it's Ms. Fallon.
Fallon: I'm so sorry to bother you, but I need these questions answered for work. Please respond as soon as possible.
Attached: a PDF. Not about tasks—but about preferences. A hundred questions on what I liked and disliked.
I want to question her motives, but with Summer there, it feels easier just to answer them.
Later, I give Summer my bed while I take the couch. She teases me about the place looking like a "poppy boutique hotel," and I tell her to enjoy it. Truthfully, I love this couch—I did save six months for it.
Cuddled up in my velvet pajamas, I queue up movies, half-wishing I'd silenced my phone. Because when it buzzes, I can't ignore the name: Boss.
"What does he want at 11:30 p.m.?" I cry.
I missed the call but a text follows.
Fabrizi: Meet me at this address. Now, thanks.