The Summer of Him

  The Summer of Him

  Stacy Travis

  THE SUMMER OF HIM

  STACY TRAVIS

  Copyright © 2020 by Stacy Kravetz

  All rights received.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Alyssa Garcia, Uplifting Author Services

  Editing: Red Adept Editing

  Publicity: Social Butterfly PR

  Contents

  Untitled

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  About the Author

  Coming in August, 2020

  THE SUMMER OF HIM

  Summer is hotter with the perfect guy

  Chapter One

  Los Angeles International Airport

  July

  There was still time. The plane hadn’t taken off yet. And that made me nervous.

  He could still show up. Maybe he would.

  I looked at my phone again. I’d already checked it too many times to remember, sneaking a look while dodging questions from my Lyft driver, going through security, and boarding the plane. Not to mention glancing behind me constantly like a fugitive who was being tailed.

  I wasn’t ready to give up on him yet. He could still get his act together. He could decide to apologize and admit that all the things he’d done and said were a blip in the larger, more important constellation of our love.

  I hoped to God he wouldn’t do that.

  That’s right. I hoped against hope that Johnny Royce, my now-ex-boyfriend, wouldn’t call me or come to the airport or try to get on the plane. Yes, it was supposed to be our vacation together. And no, there wasn’t a law against him traveling.

  Except there was. It was the universal law of bad breakups: don’t try to follow your ex-girlfriend to France, especially when the relationship ended badly. Especially when it was all your fault.

  I’d been clear on that point, but logic didn’t always mean anything to Johnny Royce. He was guided by different laws and principles than most people. He liked to do anything that seemed dangerous and fun. And while coming anywhere near me would definitely accomplish the dangerous part, I hoped—for once—that logic would pay him a visit and he’d see there was no fun to be had.

  But I knew him.

  He would think it was fine to travel together even after what had happened between us, which was a total shit show that I’d tried my best to block from memory.

  Tried and failed.

  So I didn’t want him calling the airline and trying to reinstate the ticket I’d bought for him and later canceled. I didn’t want to fight with Johnny in Paris or try to force the romance of an incredible city on the sad remains of what had sort of passed for barely-friends with mediocre benefits.

  I looked down the aisle of the plane once more and exhaled an audible sigh of relief. He wasn’t coming. Thinking about our yearlong relationship, I felt a mixture of ‘we had our sweet moments’ and ‘wow, I should have seen that train wreck coming.’

  If our breakup was as inevitable, so was our initial hookup. I’d walked into the bar where he worked and flirted with him. I’d planned it because I was a planner, and Johnny went along with it because, well… fun and sex. He wanted one thing from life—a party. He made a pretty decent effort to find a party on a daily basis, looking for a cliff to dive from or a door to sneak through if it seemed like something interesting lay on the other side. Johnny made everyone around him have a better time, no matter where he went.

  What he didn’t want was commitment. Or rules. Or sobriety, apparently. I told myself I was fine with that.

  I was lying.

  Johnny Royce worked as a bartender at Moby’s, a tiny craft-beer and fancy burger place a dozen blocks from my apartment. He always looked like he’d just come in from playing beach volleyball—suntanned with streaks of blond in his sandy-brown hair and sunglasses on top of his head, even at night. He was always in motion, swinging out from behind the bar to wipe down three tables, scooping up empty pint glasses and dumping them in a grey kitchen bin, and wiping his hands on a long white apron without letting a single customer wait more than a couple of minutes at the bar.

  He’d fill a glass, holding the tap open with the same hand so he could use the other to wipe off the bar or pop a napkin down for a newly arrived customer. Moby’s had a steady flow of people, and Johnny kept up. It made me think he had to be smart if he was able to stay on top of everything without letting a task go unfulfilled.

  The reality was he just didn’t like people do go too long without a fresh beer.

  His friends were bartenders or surfers or bartenders who surfed. After a few months of persuading, he even managed to get me on a surfboard. He guided me patiently and held onto the board until the waves came up and under me. “Okay, stand up now. Just hop into a squat, and when you’re balanced, rise up and ride the wave.” It took a half dozen attempts and more than a little water up my nose each time I fell, but I did get up on that board. I was having more fun than I’d had in ages, and it felt like the wave would keep on building.

  That just showed how little I understood about relationships. Or surfing.

  So I sat in my aisle seat on the plane—so far with no fellow travelers in my row—and thought back on the year that had led me to this moment: promising start, moments of irresponsible fun, differing life goals, and a crash and burn ending so bad it made me question my judgment for hooking up with him in the first place.

  Final score: Judgment 0, Inevitable Realities of the Universe 1.

  The plane was starting to fill up. Flight attendants were closing some of the overhead bins and I was telling my irrational self not to worry. He wasn’t coming.

  But I feared the grand gesture.

  It was just the kind of thing that would appeal to Johnny’s adventuring spirit, trying to ignite a dashed relationship—forever, this time—at the airport in the moments before the plane was due to take off. He’d buy a ticket he couldn’t afford just so he could get past the gate. He’d push his way through the line of passengers, who would all turn to see his grand romantic gesture.

  “Hold on. Don’t close the door. I have to get on and tell this woman I love her… that I was meant to be with her… that I was wrong… that I was an idiot… that I want to spend the rest of my life with her… Nikki, it’s you. It’s always been you.”

  He’d bend his forehead to touch mine and look into my eyes, searching to make sure I felt t
he same way. I’d nod and he’d give me the best kiss of my life. People on the plane would applaud.

  Then I’d have to deal with him again and look like the jerk who was turning away a guy with a cute smile making a grand gesture.

  “Excuse me,” said a voice to my left. My heart dropped to my feet because the voice was deep and sounded like Johnny trying to do a comedy bit: “Excuse me, Miss. Is this seat taken?”

  I looked up at the tired, balding man staring at me and almost hugged him. His laptop case dangled awkwardly from his wrist while he waited for me to get up and let him into the window seat. He had a hipster beard and serious eyes, the kind that were focused on getting settled in and buckling his seatbelt.

  “Sorry,” I said, quickly unbuckling, standing, and moving into the aisle to let him get to his seat.

  Then, because I was newly single, I checked him out. Above the beard, he wore nerdy glasses, maybe just for effect or maybe for reading, since he was leafing through a copy of Sports Illustrated. He’d already put his eye mask on his forehead in preparation for sleep. He’d already stuffed earbuds into his ears to block me—and anyone else—out of his life for the duration of the flight.

  I turned back to the seat pocket in front of me and tucked in my iPad and the bottle of water I’d bought at the airport.

  My thoughts drifted back to Johnny. Ten hours on a plane begs for topics to think about. I intentionally only remembered the best times—the sun-kissed afternoons sitting on the roof of his 1930s apartment building, where we’d have to climb out a window and hoist ourselves over a railing to crawl onto a flat patch that was perfect for watching the last half circle of sun slip into the Pacific Ocean.

  At about six foot one with an athletic body he was lucky enough to have been born with, Johnny was good at pretty much any sport he tried without a lesson. I’d trained for months to get through a century bike ride, and Johnny hopped on a borrowed bike and joined me at the last minute without suffering a sore muscle. He could sink three-pointers easily and surf waves that would frighten most people.

  But it was his smile that I found the most appealing. He had a blond-streaked shock of hair that fell over his green eyes and a guilty-looking teenage-boy ear-to-ear grin. His happiness felt contagious, and I was a born rule follower who was used to having things work out if I dug in and gave it my full effort. Maybe that was why it took me a year to figure out that Johnny and I should’ve only lasted a couple of dates or a couple of months at best. Instead, I convinced myself that if I tried, I could make a relationship work with a fun guy who brought out a playful side of me.

  The rooftop always beckoned with another sunset. He’d stuff a couple of beers in his pockets and swing a leg deftly over the rail before helping me over. My legs were shorter, so I needed the boost. There was a perfectly placed half wall where he could rest while I leaned on him. Johnny would wrap his arms around me, and we’d sip our beers, silently watching the sky change colors, never disturbed by another soul venturing up there.

  “It feels like we should be drinking rosé from tall wineglasses,” I’d said more than once, thinking the chilled pink drink would look pretty set against the setting sun. And I liked the way it tasted.

  He’d tip his pinky finger out like he was holding a teacup, mocking me. “Oh, oui, oui,” he’d say, laughing at himself. “People who drink wine are kinda pretentious, don’t you think?”

  Like a million other things, I let the semi-insult go. Up on the roof, with the warm breeze wafting across my face and Johnny nuzzling my neck, I didn’t think he meant to mock me or my interest in beverages made from grapes.

  I didn’t think he had a mean streak. I didn’t think he’d ever cheat on me.

  Until he did.

  Chapter Two

  Santa Monica, California

  One Month Earlier

  A little over a month before the trip, Johnny had convinced me to go to a high school reunion with him. I tried to convince him to go without me.

  “Trust me, I went to my ten-year reunion a couple years ago, and my friends who brought boyfriends or husbands ended up regretting it. The poor guys ended up huddled together because all the high school friends wanted to hang with each other. There was guilt. There were fights. I’m saving you from that.”

  My offer wasn’t all for him. I honestly didn’t think it would be that fun for either of us.

  “It won’t be that way. I don’t even remember the people I went to high school with. I probably won’t want to stay more than an hour, but I feel like I should make an appearance.”

  “Great. Do that, and we can do something later. Just call me.”

  “No, I want you there. Please? If I do run into someone I know, I’ll want to impress people with you. It’ll be awesome. Someone’ll say, ‘Who’s that pretty brunette?’ and I’ll be able to say, ‘She’s with me.’”

  He gave me the look that always charmed me—the bashful grin of a teenager who wanted to convince his parents he was a perfect angel who wouldn’t think of sneaking beer from their bar fridge. It bugged me, though. After a year of dating, he still planned to refer to me as “with” him.

  I was never his girlfriend. Never would be.

  Against my better judgment, I agreed to go. In my jeans, high-heeled wedge sandals, and an off-the-shoulder top, I tried to look semi-fashionable without trying too hard. I put on mascara—which I hated because I often ended up stabbing myself in the eye—and lip gloss. I left my wavy brown hair down so it looked beachy and casual and tried to look extra put together just in case Johnny did run into someone he wanted to impress because that’s the kind of thing a person did for the guy she was ‘with.’

  When we got there, Johnny fished a can of beer out of a metal tub and put it on the cushion of a lawn chair for me like he was occupying a small child with an iPad. “I’ll be back in a sec,” he said.

  He immediately ran into an old friend named Zeke, clapping him on the back and following him to a corner of the yard where he started hugging other people and whooping it up. He never came back. I didn’t need a babysitter, but I didn’t know anyone at that party, so I sipped my beer and made small talk with strangers for an hour.

  Eventually, I went over to where Johnny was laughing with the friends he hadn’t remembered an hour earlier, and he nodded at me as if I was someone he barely knew. “’Sup?” He immediately turned away from me to talk to a tall, pretty brunette who hand her hand on his arm.

  Wasn’t I was supposed to be the pretty brunette in his scenario?

  So I didn’t walk away. I told myself to cut him some slack because he was excited about seeing old friends. He just wasn’t handling it very well with respect to me. “How’s it going?” I asked, noticing the empty beer cans piled up on the table in front of Johnny.

  “Good. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do,” he said, turning his back on me again and not even trying to hide the fact that he now had an arm around the brunette, whose name I might have learned if he’d acknowledged that I was ‘with’ him.

  Hadn’t I warned him about exactly that type of thing when I’d suggested he go without me?

  Reunions were never fun for the dates or spouses of the people who were reminiscing about a time before we existed in their lives. He seemed too caught up to have a wandering thought about how boring it had to be for me, but since we’d already had the conversation, I figured he’d understand if I didn’t want to stay. Things had gone a different way from how he’d expected. He was having fun. It was fine.

  Fine, I tell you! Give me a night on the couch any day.

  “It’s been three hours. I kind of want to go,” I told him later, feeling tired and not even caring that he was ignoring me. I knew I’d have a better time watching old arthouse movies at home. But Johnny couldn’t tear himself away from his new old friends long enough to talk to me about it. He was drunk and people were laughing and crowding around him. He was right in his sweet spot.

  It wouldn’t have been the worst thing
for him to call time of death on his party before someone had to half carry his slumped-over, staggering ass out of the place. Given how much taller he was than me, it was never easy for me to guide him to my car or get him up the stairs to his apartment when he got that wasted, but I’d persevered because sometimes we did that for people we sort of loved.

  Back when we’d first started dating, it was kind of silly and fun. He was the life of every party, spreading his joy far and wide. Johnny would grow more amorous the more he drank. “You’re adorable. Did I tell you how much I love your sweet rack?” he’d ask in the middle of a crowd of friends. I’d roll my eyes. He was a goof, but he was my goof.

  Then he’d put his arms around me and rock side to side, nuzzling my neck. That would lead to him turning me toward him and dancing in the middle of a crowd, oblivious to whether there was even any music. Or a game of beer pong taking place right next to his slow waltz. He’d lean down to kiss me, channeling all his feelings into a small gesture, like a brush of his hand against my cheek. In those moments, I couldn’t get enough of him.

  Then abruptly, he’d pull away and spin me off to the side like he was completing the final move in his dance. He’d move off in another direction to wherever the supply of beer happened to be. Eventually, he’d return to say something charming like, “From across the room, you’re stunning.”