Updated Mar 21, 2026 • ~8 min read
SUMMER – FOUR MONTHS POST-EXPLOSION
Rose corners me at breakfast.
“You need therapy.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. You’re functioning. There’s a difference.”
“I have a job. An apartment—”
“My couch.”
“—A life I’m rebuilding. I’m doing okay.”
“Summer, you wake up crying three times a week. You won’t date. You barely eat. You’re surviving, not living.”
Her words hit.
Because she’s right.
I AM just surviving.
“I can’t afford therapy.”
“There are sliding scale clinics. I’ll help you find one.”
“Rose—”
“Let me help you. Please.”
I nod.
“Okay.”
SUMMER – FIRST THERAPY SESSION
Dr. Patel is in her forties. Kind eyes. No judgment.
“Tell me why you’re here.”
Where do I start?
“I ruined my life. Lied to everyone. Hurt people I loved.”
“Tell me about that.”
So I do.
The arrangement. The pressure. Meeting Jax. The double life. The explosion.
She listens.
Doesn’t interrupt.
When I finish, she says: “You were put in an impossible situation.”
“That doesn’t excuse what I did.”
“No. But it explains it. Your parents used you as a business asset. That’s abuse, Summer.”
I blink. “Abuse?”
“Emotional abuse. Coercive control. They made love conditional on your obedience. That’s not healthy parenting.”
No one’s ever said that before.
Everyone just focused on my lies.
Not on why I felt I had to lie.
“So what do I do now?”
“You learn who you are without their expectations. You forgive yourself. You build authentic relationships.”
“What if no one wants a relationship with the real me?”
“Then they’re not your people.”
It sounds simple.
It’s not.
But it’s a start.
JAX – FOUR MONTHS POST-EXPLOSION
I’m at dinner with Cleo.
She’s talking about her photography exhibit.
I’m nodding. Smiling.
But I’m not really here.
“Jax?” she says.
“Sorry, what?”
“You’re distracted. Again.”
“I’m sorry. Work stuff.”
“Is it work? Or is it her?”
“What?”
“Summer. You’re still thinking about her.”
I want to deny it.
But Cleo deserves honesty.
“Yeah. I am.”
She sets down her fork. “I like you, Jax. But I’m not going to compete with a ghost.”
“You’re not—”
“I am. Every time we’re together, you’re somewhere else. With her. And I get it. She hurt you. That takes time to heal. But I’m not interested in being your rebound.”
“Cleo—”
“It’s okay. Really. But I think we should stop seeing each other.”
She’s right.
It’s not fair to her.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’re a good guy. You’ll figure it out. Just not with me.”
She leaves.
I sit there.
Alone.
Still thinking about Summer.
THEO – FIVE MONTHS POST-EXPLOSION
Harper and I are at her place.
Watching a movie.
She’s curled into me.
It’s comfortable. Easy.
But there’s no passion.
No fire.
“Theo?” she says during a commercial.
“Yeah?”
“Where do you see this going?”
“This?”
“Us.”
I don’t know how to answer.
“I like you,” I say carefully.
“But you don’t love me.”
“It’s only been a few months—”
“I know. But I can tell. You’re here physically. But emotionally, you’re still protecting yourself.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“I know. And I appreciate that. But I think… maybe we should take a break.”
My chest tightens.
Not because I love her.
But because she’s right.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be. You’re still healing. That’s okay. But I can’t be the person you heal with. I need someone all in.”
“You deserve that.”
“So do you.”
She kisses my cheek.
I leave.
In my car, I sit in silence.
Two relationships.
Both ended the same way.
Because I’m not emotionally available.
Because Summer broke something in me I don’t know how to fix.
SUMMER – SIX MONTHS POST-EXPLOSION
Therapy is helping.
Slowly.
Dr. Patel gives me homework.
“Make a list of your values. Not your parents’ values. Yours.”
I spend a week on it.
Finally, I have:
- Honesty
- Art
- Authenticity
- Kindness
- Freedom
“Good,” Dr. Patel says. “Now live by them. Make decisions based on these values, not on fear or obligation.”
“What if that means disappointing people?”
“Then disappoint them. Your job isn’t to make everyone happy. It’s to live authentically.”
It’s terrifying.
And liberating.
SUMMER – THE GALLERY, ONE WEEK LATER
Janet calls me into her office.
“I’m expanding. Opening a second location. I want you to manage it.”
“Me?”
“You’ve proven yourself. You understand art. You connect with people. You’re ready.”
“What’s the catch?”
“Higher salary. More responsibility. Longer hours.”
“I’ll take it.”
She grins. “Good. We open in two months.”
I leave her office floating.
Six months ago, I lost everything.
Now I’m managing my own gallery.
It’s not the life I planned.
It’s better.
JAX – SIX MONTHS POST-EXPLOSION
Marco sits me down.
“We need to talk about Summer.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“You’ve been miserable since Cleo. You won’t date. You just work.”
“So?”
“So you’re stuck. You need closure.”
“I have closure. She lied. It’s over.”
“Do you though? Because it doesn’t seem like it’s over for you.”
“What do you want me to do? Call her? Forgive her?”
“Maybe. Or at least talk to her. Get answers. Figure out if you can move forward.”
“She doesn’t want to hear from me.”
“How do you know?”
I don’t.
I just assumed.
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
But I won’t.
Because I’m terrified.
What if I talk to her and realize I still love her?
What if I can’t forgive her?
Either way, I lose.
SUMMER – THERAPY, WEEK 10
“I saw Jax at my sister’s gallery opening.”
“How did that go?”
“Awkward. Brief. He said I looked good. I apologized. He said I was right—he deserved better.”
“How did that make you feel?”
“Sad. But also… relieved. Like maybe one day, he won’t hate me.”
“Do you want his forgiveness?”
“Yes. But I don’t expect it.”
“What would you do if he reached out?”
I think about this.
“I’d tell him the truth. All of it. And let him decide.”
“Have you considered reaching out first?”
“No. He’s moved on. I don’t want to disrupt his life.”
“Or you’re protecting yourself from rejection.”
Damn.
She’s good.
“Maybe.”
“Summer, you can’t control his response. But you can control your actions. If you want closure, ask for it.”
“What if he says no?”
“Then you have your answer. And you move forward anyway.”
It makes sense.
Terrifying sense.
THEO – THERAPY, SIX MONTHS POST-EXPLOSION
“I keep picking unavailable women.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Because they’re safe? If they’re not fully invested, I can’t get hurt as badly?”
“Possibly. Or you’re choosing women you know won’t work out because you’re not ready for a real relationship.”
“When will I be ready?”
“When you’ve processed the betrayal. Forgiven yourself for not seeing it. And decided you’re worthy of real love.”
“I don’t feel worthy.”
“Why not?”
“Because two women cheated on me. That means something’s wrong with me.”
“Or it means you chose women who were wrong for you. Blake wanted status. Summer was coerced into the engagement. Neither chose you freely. That’s not your fault.”
I want to believe her.
But it’s hard.
SUMMER – SEVEN MONTHS POST-EXPLOSION
I’m walking through Brooklyn.
Past Jax’s shop.
I don’t know why.
Glutton for punishment, maybe.
Through the window, I see him.
Tattooing someone. Focused. Beautiful.
My chest aches.
I miss him.
God, I miss him.
But he’s better off without me.
I turn to leave.
“Summer?”
I freeze.
Turn.
Marco’s standing there.
“Hi.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Walking. I didn’t mean to—”
“You want to see him?”
“No. I just… I was in the neighborhood.”
He doesn’t believe me.
But he nods.
“He asks about you sometimes.”
My heart stops.
“He does?”
“Asks Rose how you’re doing. If you’re okay.”
“What does Rose say?”
“That you’re working. Healing. Moving forward.”
Tears prick my eyes.
“Tell him I’m sorry. Please. Tell him I’m so sorry.”
“Tell him yourself.”
“He doesn’t want to hear from me.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes.”
Marco studies me.
“You’re different. From before.”
“I’m trying to be.”
“He’s different too. Sadder.”
“I did that.”
“Yeah. You did. But maybe… maybe you could undo it too.”
“How?”
“By being honest. For real this time.”
He goes inside.
I stand there.
Frozen.
Then I leave.
Quickly.
Before I do something stupid.
Like knock on the door.
And beg for forgiveness I don’t deserve.
JAX
Marco comes back inside.
“Who were you talking to?”
“No one.”
But he’s smiling.
“Marco.”
“Summer was outside.”
My heart stops.
“What?”
“She was walking by. Saw you through the window. She told me to tell you she’s sorry.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“A little. She looks good. Sad. But good.”
“What did she want?”
“I don’t think she wanted anything. I think she was just… missing you.”
I want to run outside.
Find her.
Talk to her.
But she’s already gone.
And maybe that’s for the best.
Maybe some things are meant to stay broken.
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