Seasmoke Friends

Chapter 4

Ian Memmer

I knew what was coming before Summer even opened her perfect, pouty mouth.

"Date didn't go so well, huh?" She tossed me a beer.

From her window seat, I caught the bottle with one hand and struggled to maintain a deadpan expression. "Actually, Susie's right where I left her-in her bed, counting her blessings."

I chuckled as her eyebrows shot up, as they always did when she was annoyed with me. I made my way to the bed, setting the beer on the nightstand and sat down, paging through one of her female magazines with little interest.

She walked over to the corner of the room and pulled clothes out of her top dresser drawer for the morning, her movements stiff. Ah, my girl was irked by my response. If there was one thing in this world I appreciated most, it was to annoy her. Most of the time, it was the only way to get a rise out of her. She'd been raising those eyebrows at me since as far back as my memory allowed her there.

"Counting her blessings," she repeated, turning away from the dresser, waving a satin red bra at me. I narrowed my eyes to mask the images that invoked. Summer Quinn, best friend of mine, had a body that could make a dead man breathe anew. "High opinion of your s****l expertise, eh?"

"I didn't hear Susie complaining." I grinned, gaze on the magazine, and stuck my tongue in my cheek, knowing without looking her lips were twisted in a wry pout. That damn mouth of hers needed to be kissed by someone who knew how.

"Pervert."

"Prude."

"I'm kicking you out in five minutes." She stared at the ceiling, then me. "I have class in the morning."

"Summer school is a travesty to this nation." I rubbed my hand over the handmade quilt my mother had fondly stitched for her ten years ago.

"You know it's my art therapy class." She rubbed her forehead in frustration.

Tiny wisps of caramel-colored blonde hair at her nape and by her left ear had freed themselves from her ponytail. I looked away before I crossed the room to touch them. "I don't understand how you get paid to play with paint and bratty kids all day. And it's a waste of your talent."

Except, I did understand, but her reason for teaching was absurd. Normally, I didn't bother bringing up the class with her. A futile argument, one among many. I had been worried about her all damn day. And that class couldn't be helping her mindset.

Being the giver she was, she rarely worried about herself. She'd gotten me a passing grade in more than one class in high school. If not for her, I'd be stuck behind a desk somewhere instead of building them, using my business degree instead of my hands. She was the first person to ask about my projects, encouraging and praising my work. She'd taken care of me when I'd been sick, every time, and cleaned my house when I'd been too engrossed in a project to bother.

It wasn't just me, either. Rick and Dee's elder neighbor had taken a fall down her basement stairs two years back. Summer had watered the woman's plants and taken care of her cat while she'd been in rehab. Summer was allergic to cats. Had that stopped her? No. And her students? She'd visited every one of them in the hospital, held their tiny hands during treatments. She'd attended funerals when they hadn't beaten the odds. She wore herself thin and then gave more.

I lay back on her pillows, upset with the fact she poured her heart every Saturday into a group of children that may not be there the next week. Because those "special kids," as she referred to them, could die at any given moment. She didn't care. No, I amended. She did care, too much. She just pretended not to. She forged on every week like the little trooper she was, brushing off the obvious.

She tilted her head and looked at me. "I'm tired of this conversation. Besides, you play with wood all day."

She meant that in the literal sense, not metaphorical. I build custom furniture, cozy office or library pieces mostly. I even have a little reading corner in the shop where I sell books.

I mumbled to myself as I got up and walked to the door. Owning my own store, something that had been her idea, and dealing with suppliers or customers was entirely different than surrounding myself with dying kids who broke my heart. I liked wood. Wood couldn't talk back. Wood couldn't break my heart.

She stretched, raising her arms over her head. "How's that rocking chair coming along for the Andersons? You were worried about getting the carving just right."

Case and point. It was the anniversary of her father's death and she asked how my day had gone. "Good. I'm nearly done. They wanted a distressed mission-style. I think it came out all right."

Grinning, she shook her head. "It came out more than all right. The detail is amazing."

My heart tugged and twisted. "Someone snuck into my workshop again."

"I admit nothing. Except that I may or may not have seen you putting the finishing touches on it. You were engrossed. I didn't want to disturb you." She pulled something from her pocket, a scrap of paper, and tossed it into a desk drawer next to the dresser, then proceeded to stare at the drawer as if it might jump out at her and do a trick.

My heart bumped against my ribs in worry. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," she said, rubbing her upper arms to warm herself. The sound of skin brushing skin in the quiet of her room was thunderous. She had such perfect skin. Like warm milk.

She wasn't fine, though. I could tell. I was beginning to despise the word. Perhaps she had herself convinced fine was the truth. I knew better, because those beautiful eyes of hers had a vacant expression and her hand trailed down to rub her right arm where it had been broken from a fall out of a river birch twenty years ago. A habit she used unknowingly when nervous or thinking of something that bothered her.

Today was the anniversary of her father's death. She'd come a long way since then, but I knew just how hard it still was on her. Her father had been her only family, and if that hadn't been tough enough on her growing up, it had devastated her after Tom died. Summer still had a hard time grasping I was right here in front of her. That I would never leave her. And our friends, Rick and Dee, who were right across town, would never walk either.

While standing in the doorway, I leaned against the jamb with my arms folded over my bare chest. After two plus decades of friendship, she hardly ever seemed aware of my body. Every woman in Wylie took notice, except the one I wanted to. I watched her put away the magazine I'd left on the bed, then stop to stare at me from across the room. So poised. So controlled. So beautifully broken, my best friend.

And damn those blue eyes of hers. They looked like the edge of twilight.

"How's Matt?" I asked, not giving an actual s**t to the answer.

Matt. I used to like him a lot more when he was just her summer romance down at Seasmoke. Since last year's trip to the coast, Matt and Summer had been dating somewhat seriously. I figured as long as Matt was still living a couple of hours away in Greensboro, that's all it would be.

"He's fine. I drove out there today." Grabbing the beer from her nightstand, she handed it to me and walked back to sit on the edge of the bed. "He said he loved me." She looked at me, stopping my heart mid-beat. "He's coming over on Sunday."

Crap. Matt was taking it to the next level. "You sleep with him yet?"

She sighed and whipped me one of those none-of-your-business looks. I grinned and shrugged. That meant no. No meant there was still hope for- "You know, you could be counting your blessings one day, too."

She picked up her shoe from the side of the bed and threw it in my general direction in response to my s****l innuendo. I laughed, barely dodging it, and disappeared from her doorway to leave her sitting on the bed, contemplating.

And she would do just that, I thought, think about it.