Summer's Crucible- Chapter One: Things a Spa Day Cannot Smooth Out

“What’s the special occasion?” Nikki asked, sweeping the salon’s logo-embroidered cape around Summer’s shoulders as she settled into the stylist’s chair.

It was the middle of the month, well between Summer’s usual highlight appointments, but today she was treating herself to a complete makeover. Faux-mink eyelash extensions, a fresh spray tan, and ultraviolet teeth whitening at the dentist had all been checked off her list the day before. She had even arranged to meet her mother, Mimsy, at another salon later that afternoon, despite knowing the woman would find something to complain about.

Summer studied herself in the mirror.

“My boyfriend, Landon, is coming home tonight. He’s been away with his dad, scouting rental properties to buy. I want to look nice when I pick him up at the airport.”

Nikki smiled. “He’s one lucky guy. I don't think I have another client who goes to quite this much trouble.”

Summer knew it was meant as a compliment, yet something about the observation stung.

She couldn't quite explain why.

“Well, I've got to keep on top of things,” she said with a little laugh. “Men like Landon don't want to be seen with some dumpy chick.”

The remark was intended to sound playful, but neither woman laughed.

For a moment, Summer caught Nikki's expression in the mirror. It was a peculiar mixture of sympathy and discomfort, and Summer wished she hadn't said anything.

“Anyway,” Nikki said, mercifully changing the subject, “didn't you have a picture of the hairstyle you wanted?”

“Oh! Yes, here.”

Summer retrieved her phone and brought up a saved photograph.

“I thought I'd try this loose mermaid braid.”

Nikki studied the image. “That's beautiful. It'll suit you. What made you decide on this?”

Summer shrugged.

“I don't know. Just came to me, I guess.”

There was no particular reason for the choice. She had seen the hairstyle on a woman who looked effortlessly beautiful, and for a fleeting moment, Summer had imagined herself looking the same way.

That was reason enough.

The appointment ran longer than expected, leaving Summer rushing through the afternoon traffic on the long drive to meet Mimsy.

By the time she arrived, her mother was already holding court in a pedicure chair, directing a visibly weary spa employee through the waxing of her liver-spotted legs.

Mimsy looked up the moment Summer entered.

“You're very late. And no coffee, either? Does my time mean anything to you, Summer?”

Summer had been twenty minutes late. She knew her mother had probably spent every one of those minutes preparing an accusation.

She intended to apologize. She truly did.

Unfortunately, some stubborn little remnant of rebellion that Mimsy had never managed to prune out of her got there first.

“Was I supposed to bring some?”

Summer delivered the question with a pleasant smile, hoping it would pass for a harmless joke.

It did not.

Mimsy pressed the button on her chair's controller, bringing herself into a more upright position.

“It's called being considerate. After all, I'm your guest today. This was your idea.”

Summer swallowed her irritation.

The invitation had been hers, certainly, but Mimsy had already begun charging services to Summer's account without so much as asking. The practice had become increasingly common. Her mother would make a show of being offended, and Summer would inevitably find herself paying for something in the interest of keeping the peace.

Mimsy had perfected the arrangement over the years.

In truth, the woman had exhausted the patience of nearly every establishment she frequented. Several salons had developed the remarkable habit of being completely booked whenever she called. Summer suspected the same would eventually happen here.

Still, Mimsy was one of the few family members Summer had.

That fact had excused more unpleasantness than Summer cared to contemplate.

“I'll go next door to the café,” she conceded. “What would you like?”

Mimsy immediately relaxed.

“I'll text you my order.”

Of course she would.

When Summer returned carrying an eighteen-dollar, extra-large iced blonde toddy loaded with triple white-chocolate sauce, whipped cream, and shaved java chips, Mimsy was finishing a paraffin treatment before her manicure.

“I've been sitting here alone all this time,” Mimsy complained, accepting the drink without thanking her. “Are you even getting anything done? Or are you sticking with that granola look? Only that dirty hippie Cecilia would think that's presentable.”

Cecilia was the former wife of one of Mimsy's romantic interests, a woman against whom Mimsy had maintained an apparently inexhaustible grudge.

Summer had long since stopped trying to understand the particulars.

She took the chair beside her mother.

An attendant handed her a glossy pamphlet detailing the salon's services. Summer considered her options while trying to ignore the increasingly uncomfortable weight of her hair. Achieving the mermaid braid had required several packages of sew-in extensions, and she was beginning to wonder whether the result justified the trouble.

She settled on a bejeweled pedicure and a subtly elegant silk-wrap manicure.

If everything went according to schedule, she would finish just in time to collect Landon.

She wanted him to be pleased when he saw her.

More than that, she wanted him to be proud.

The distinction was one Summer understood better than she liked to admit.

Landon enjoyed making other people jealous. It wasn't simply that he appreciated having an attractive girlfriend. He appreciated knowing that other men envied him for having one, and that other women might feel inadequate by comparison.

Everything in his life served a similar purpose.

His car, his clothes, his golf clubs, his social memberships, even his friendships were chosen with an eye toward how they reflected upon him.

He thrived on ceremony and public image. Without them, Summer sometimes wondered whether he would know who he was.

Landon was a remarkably simple man in that respect. He wanted to be the most envied person in any room, and anything that failed to contribute to that ambition was of little consequence.

Summer had made her peace with it, or at least convinced herself that she had.

Thinking about it too carefully led to unpleasant conclusions.

This was, after all, a man who had once thrown away a perfectly good Cobra four-iron because of a tiny scratch on its finish.

She could hardly imagine what he would do when she discovered her first gray hair.

The thought was enough to make her glance at her reflection again.

Beside her, Mimsy noisily slurped her drink.

Summer returned her attention to the pamphlet, mentally calculating the afternoon's expenses. Between her own appointments and her mother's growing list of indulgences, the bill was approaching eight hundred dollars at this salon alone.

Eight hundred dollars.

For a day that was supposed to make her happy.

Rather than dwell on the expense, Summer pictured Landon's face when he saw her at the airport. She imagined his delighted expression, the appreciative embrace, perhaps even a compliment offered without prompting.

The fantasy was interrupted by another prolonged slurp.

“So,” Mimsy began, “how's work?”

Summer recognized the opening. It was the first step toward an interrogation about her salary.

“Fine. I'm working toward a promotion.”

Mimsy's aggressively dyed eyebrows rose.

“A promotion? I thought you were a consultant, not an employee.”

“I am. But I work on commission, and they're considering giving me some larger accounts.”

It was a lie, though not an especially ambitious one.

The financial firm rarely entrusted major accounts to third-party contractors. Summer remained confined to personal and small-business clients, the kind of work permanent employees with serious career ambitions generally tried to avoid.

Her days were spent managing modest portfolios for fixed-income retirees, many of whom were supporting financially dependent adult children, and advising struggling local businesses determined to prolong their inevitable bankruptcies.

The work was tedious, the commissions disappointing, and the prospects for advancement almost nonexistent.

It was hardly the glamorous financial career she had once imagined.

For the second time that day, an ordinary conversation had left her feeling vaguely ashamed of her life.

She looked down at her phone.

“Oh, goodness. I really have to leave as soon as we're finished.”

The manicurist, perhaps sensing Summer's discomfort, offered a welcome interruption.

“The design you've chosen is very elegant. Are you attending a wedding?”

Summer brightened.

“Oh, no. But in two weeks, I'm going to my boyfriend's parents' thirtieth anniversary party. It's supposed to be this glamorous event with a Midsummer Night's Dream theme.”

She smiled at the thought. The party was something she had been looking forward to for months.

“Maybe he'll finally propose while you're there,” Mimsy remarked.

Summer's smile faltered.

The manicurist continued working, though her expression tightened.

“I'm just saying,” Mimsy went on, “it's been six years. What's he waiting for? You to grow antlers?”

Summer stared at her mother.

Six years.

She knew perfectly well how long it had been. She didn't need a reminder, least of all from a woman who treated marriage as both a social achievement and a competitive sport.

“Mother, please.”

“What? I'm only being practical.”

Summer glanced at the clock.

She had suddenly had enough.

Before Mimsy could order another treatment, Summer settled the bill and excused herself, abandoning her pedicure altogether.

She considered herself fortunate that the charges hadn't reached a thousand dollars.

“Don't forget to call and tell me you made it home safely!” Mimsy called after her.

Summer turned, produced a dutiful smile, and said goodbye.

She didn't look back.

Walking toward her car, she made herself a quiet promise.

She was going to stop arranging these afternoons with Mimsy.

She had made similar promises before, of course.

This time, she hoped she meant it.

The drive to the airport was unexpectedly pleasant.

Traffic was backed up for miles on the opposite side of the highway, but Summer's route remained clear. She listened to a news station, occasionally glancing at the clock, and arrived with time to spare.

She found an open space in the terminal's free short-term parking area and made her way inside.

Landon had texted that morning to remind her of his flight details. She had checked them twice before leaving the house.

She was excited to see him.

More than anything, she wanted to hear about his trip. Which properties had he toured?

Had his father found anything worth purchasing? Had they gone anywhere interesting for dinner?

She would have been happy to listen to almost anything.

The week without him had been surprisingly lonely.

At one point, Summer had nearly attended an alumni dinner despite knowing the invitation was little more than an elaborate attempt to solicit donations. The prospect of spending an evening talking with people her own age had almost been worth the inevitable sales pitch.

Landon, for all his faults, was someone to talk to.

Whenever Summer raised a concern, he had an answer ready. It might be shallow, dismissive, or entirely impractical, but at least there was an answer.

His presence filled the house. His opinions filled the silences.

And sometimes, Summer suspected, she valued those things more than she valued the man himself.

She pushed the thought aside.

With time to spare, she checked the arrivals monitor, then occupied herself reading weather reports on her phone.

Clear skies seemed to stretch across the entire country.

Landon's flight arrived exactly on schedule.

Summer positioned herself near the baggage claim, standing as straight as she could to see over the passengers filtering into the terminal.

She watched the first travelers emerge.

Then the next group.

Families embraced. Children ran toward waiting grandparents. A young couple kissed so enthusiastically that Summer smiled despite herself.

Still no Landon.

She sent him a text.

I'm here! Where are you?

The message changed to Read.

No reply followed.

Summer waited.

The baggage carousel began turning. Suitcases appeared, were collected, and disappeared into the crowd.

She checked her phone again.

Nothing.

Eventually, the carousel stopped.

The passengers were gone.

Summer stood alone near the empty baggage claim, feeling increasingly foolish.

When her hour of free parking expired, she returned to move her car, then called the airline.

The customer-service representative politely explained that she could not disclose information about individual passengers to someone who wasn't an immediate family member.

She could, however, confirm that Landon's flight and its scheduled connections had arrived on time.

Summer thanked her and ended the call.

Something was wrong.

She knew it.

Perhaps Landon had become ill. Perhaps there had been an accident somewhere in the terminal. Perhaps his phone had been stolen.

Her imagination supplied increasingly dreadful possibilities.

She left him a voicemail, trying to keep the panic out of her voice, then started toward airport security to ask whether anyone could help her locate him.

Her phone rang.

Landon.

“Landon! Are you okay? I've been so worried!”

“Oh, yeah, babe. I'm fine.”

His voice was casual. Almost distracted.

“My flight got delayed, so I missed my connection. I'm stuck here until tomorrow.”

Summer stopped walking.

“But—”

“I'm going to try to get a room at the hotel next door so I don't have to take a cab in the morning. Listen, my phone's dying, and I lost my charger. I've got to go.”

“Landon, I called the—”

“I'll call you when I get in. Love you. Bye, babe.”

The call ended.

Summer stood in the terminal with her phone pressed to her ear for several seconds after the line went silent.

She lowered it slowly.

His flight hadn't been delayed.

She knew that much.

The airline had confirmed it.

And he had just lied to her as casually as someone might lie about the weather.

During the long drive home, Summer considered calling him again.

She didn't.

She had no desire to become one of those girlfriends, the sort who sent fifty messages a day and demanded an accounting of every hour spent apart.

She valued independence. She wanted Landon to value hers, too.

Still, independence was not the same as dishonesty.

She knew that.

What she didn't know was why he had lied.

The obvious explanation was another woman, but Summer found the idea almost embarrassingly ordinary.

Surely Landon, with his money and his obsession with appearances, wouldn't resort to something so tacky.

Or perhaps she simply couldn't bear the thought of discovering that he would.

She decided to wait.

He deserved an opportunity to explain himself, and she deserved to hear it before drawing conclusions.

At least, that was how she chose to frame the decision.

Mimsy called that evening.

For once, her mother had followed through on a promise, though Summer wished she hadn't.

Summer had already taken a sleeping pill, hoping to escape the disappointment of the day.

She was lying in bed, feeling sorry for herself, when the phone rang.

She considered ignoring it.

Instead, craving some measure of comfort, she answered.

“Hello, my dear! How's that handsome Landon of yours?”

Summer closed her eyes.

“He stood me up at the airport.”

A pause.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“He told me his flight was delayed, but I called the airline. It wasn't. He lied about missing his connection.”

Mimsy's interest sharpened immediately.

“Oh, that's too bad. I had a feeling he'd cheat again. Once a cheater, always a cheater.”

Summer sighed.

Mimsy was referring to the beginning of Summer's relationship with Landon, when he and his previous girlfriend had been involved in an exhausting cycle of breaking up and reconciling.

The circumstances had been complicated, but Mimsy preferred the simpler, more scandalous interpretation.

She had never let Summer forget it.

“There's probably an explanation,” Summer said. “Maybe he's just being independent and doesn't feel the need to report every movement to me like I'm his parole officer. I'm not going to make a scene over something I don't understand.”

She hesitated.

“Still, it is weird.”

“Sweetie, it's not weird. It's a red flag, and you're being stupid. Leave him. You know he's with another woman right now.”

Summer rubbed her forehead.

There it was.

Mimsy had never been especially useful in a crisis. She enjoyed drama far too much to resist making a bad situation worse.

Even when she happened to be right, she had a talent for delivering the truth in the cruelest possible way.

“We don't know what's happening,” Summer replied. “I'm going to give him a chance to explain himself. Good night, Mother.”

“You can fool yourself all you want,” Mimsy snapped, sensing that the conversation was ending, “but you're not the girl you used to be. Men have needs.”

Summer pressed the end-call button.

It was the most satisfying thing she had done all day.

She set her phone facedown on the nightstand.

For a while, she lay staring into the darkness.

What bothered her most wasn't that Mimsy might be right.

It was that Summer couldn't entirely dismiss the possibility.

By morning, Summer's carefully constructed mermaid braid had become an elaborate disaster.

Her hair had escaped its satin wrap during the night, and the extensions were now tangled into something resembling a bird's nest.

Apparently, she hadn't slept nearly as peacefully as she'd hoped.

She was standing before her vanity, attempting to work a brush through the mess, when Landon called.

“Hey, babe. I'm at the airport. Where are you?”

Summer blinked.

“At the airport?”

“Yeah. I just got in.”

“You didn't tell me what time you were arriving.”

“Well, I'm telling you now. Can you come get me?”

There was a note of impatience in his voice.

Summer knew that tone. If she questioned him, the inconvenience of his failure to communicate would somehow become her fault.

“I'll be there as soon as I can.”

She hung up and surveyed her reflection.

There was no time to repair the hairstyle properly.

She pulled a crocheted bucket hat over the tangled extensions, grabbed her purse, and hurried out the door.

At every red light, she attempted to improve her makeup using whatever she could find in her handbag.

With each delay, she imagined Landon growing more annoyed.

The absurdity of the situation briefly occurred to her.

He had left her waiting for hours the previous day, yet she was rushing through traffic, worried about keeping him waiting for twenty minutes.

Still, she drove faster whenever the road allowed.

Landon climbed into her SUV at the airport pickup lane and leaned over to kiss her cheek.

It was a brief, distracted gesture, more like a greeting between acquaintances than a reunion between lovers.

“Hey, babe.”

“Hi.”

He fastened his seat belt.

No explanation followed.

Summer waited for one as she pulled away from the curb.

Instead, Landon began talking about his parents.

“So, Mom and Dad are calling off the anniversary party.”

Summer glanced at him.

“What?”

“Yeah. They're not doing it anymore.”

“But why?”

He shrugged.

“Plans changed.”

Summer felt a sharp little pang of disappointment.

She had been looking forward to the celebration for months, not merely because of its extravagance, but because it offered an opportunity to meet more of Landon's family.

After six years together, she still knew remarkably few of them.

There was his slightly older half-brother, Henri, the product of Fausto's long-ago affair. Henri had a habit of referring to himself and Landon as “Irish twins,” despite their different mothers, as though the circumstances of their births were a charming family anecdote.

Summer had never liked him much.

He seemed to take particular pleasure in reminding her that she was adopted, usually in ways that suggested her background somehow made her less legitimate than the rest of the family.

The irony was apparently lost on him.

Landon's father, Fausto, was outwardly cordial, though Summer always felt he was looking through her rather than at her. He answered her questions, acknowledged her presence, and maintained the necessary social courtesies, but rarely showed any genuine interest in what she had to say.

His wife, Eliza, made even less effort.

Eliza considered Summer an unsuitable match for her son and had never troubled herself to conceal it.

As far as Summer could tell, the ideal woman for Landon would have to be younger, richer, prettier, and more socially accomplished than anyone Eliza had ever actually met.

Summer sometimes wondered whether such a woman existed outside Eliza's imagination.

Nevertheless, she had held on to the hope that meeting more relatives might change something.

Surely, among an entire extended family, there would be someone who liked her.

Someone who might make her feel welcome.

Now even that possibility had been taken away.

She turned her attention back to the road.

“That's disappointing,” she said quietly.

Landon didn't seem to notice.

Back at the house, Landon unpacked his carry-on while Summer stood nearby.

“Hey, can you drop my dry cleaning off on your way to work Monday?” he asked, tossing a few garments aside.

“Sure.”

“Thanks, babe.”

Summer watched him move around the bedroom.

He appeared perfectly at ease.

Whatever had happened the previous day, it certainly wasn't troubling him now.

She considered asking him about the missed flight.

The question was simple enough.

Why did you tell me your plane was delayed when it wasn't?

Yet somehow, she couldn't bring herself to say it.

Perhaps she didn't want to give Mimsy the satisfaction of being right.

Perhaps she was afraid of the answer.

Or perhaps she had simply grown so accustomed to smoothing over Landon's behavior that silence had become easier than confrontation.

Whatever the reason, she said nothing.

Landon seemed to appreciate it.

“Hey,” he said, looking up from his suitcase, “how about we go to the club for dinner tonight? Just the two of us.”

Summer brightened despite herself.

“The club?”

“Sure. I'll make a reservation.”

She accepted.

The club was one of Landon's favorite places, an exclusive establishment whose membership fees were well beyond Summer's means.

She could only enjoy it as his guest.

For all her reservations about Landon, she loved the elegance of the place. The beautiful dining rooms, the attentive staff, the sense of belonging to a world that ordinarily remained just out of reach.

Perhaps tonight would be different.

Perhaps they would have a lovely dinner, and he would explain everything without being asked.

Perhaps she could put the entire unpleasant business behind her.

With dinner scheduled for late that evening, Summer had most of the day to herself.

She returned to Nikki's salon, hoping someone could rescue her hair.

Nikki was busy with another client, so she entrusted the appointment to her apprentice,

Emily.

“Would you like the extensions removed completely,” Emily asked, examining the tangled braid, “or would you rather have them restyled?”

“Take them out,” Summer replied. “I think I'd like an offset French twist instead.”

Emily nodded and began working.

A little later, Nikki stopped by while mixing color for another client.

“So,” she asked cheerfully, “how did everything go yesterday?”

Summer looked up.

She had intended to give a polite answer.

Instead, the entire story came spilling out.

“He ghosted me at the airport, and then this morning he told me his parents canceled their anniversary party!”

The words emerged far louder than she intended.

Several nearby conversations seemed to falter.

Nikki's eyes widened.

“Oh. I'm sorry.”

Summer stared at her reflection.

Nikki hesitated, then retreated to her waiting client.

Emily continued working with quiet professionalism, speaking only when necessary.

Summer wanted to disappear into the chair.

She hadn't meant to make a scene. She hadn't even realized how upset she was until the words escaped her.

She blamed Mimsy for putting such ugly possibilities into her head, but that explanation didn't entirely satisfy her.

Her mother hadn't made Landon lie.

Nor had Mimsy canceled the party.

And yet Summer couldn't decide whether her own distress was justified or whether she was allowing herself to become needlessly suspicious.

By the time Emily finished her hair, Summer was more embarrassed than relieved.

She thanked the young woman, paid for the appointment, and left.

Still restless, Summer decided to spend the afternoon shopping.

She wanted something beautiful to wear to dinner, but she also wanted time alone to think.

Wandering through the stores gave her an excuse to be out of the house without having to explain herself to anyone.

Eventually, she found a sophisticated black leather dress.

It was fitted without being vulgar, elegant without looking old-fashioned, and just fashionable enough to suit the club.

Summer tried it on and admired herself in the mirror.

For the first time all day, she smiled without forcing it.

She bought the dress.

By the time she returned home, her spirits had improved considerably.

She carried her purchase inside, feeling almost lighthearted.

The house was empty.

Landon's car wasn't in the garage.

Summer assumed he had gone out on an errand.

She showered, changed into her new dress, and carefully applied her makeup.

Then she checked the time.

Still no Landon.

She sent him a message.

What time are we leaving tonight?

The message changed to Read.

No response.

She waited a few minutes and tried again.

Are you coming home soon?

Again, Read.

Again, silence.

Summer stared at the screen.

It was the airport all over again.

She looked toward the darkening windows.

Perhaps Landon was busy. Perhaps he was at the club already, arranging something special.

Perhaps there was an entirely innocent explanation.

She had become remarkably skilled at producing those.

The thought made her uncomfortable.

For a moment, Mimsy's voice returned to her.

You can fool yourself all you want.

Summer set her phone down.

Then she picked it up again and searched for the club's number.

“Thank you for calling Domaine Le Grand Luxe. How may I assist you this evening?”

Summer hesitated.

She didn't want to sound suspicious. More importantly, she didn't want to embarrass Landon by having the staff announce that his girlfriend was calling to check up on him.

She decided on a harmless approach.

“Hello. I was hoping to confirm a dinner reservation for Mr. Oettinger this evening.”

There was a brief pause.

“I'm sorry, ma'am, but Mr. Oettinger and the rest of his party have already been seated.”

Summer went still.

“The rest of his party?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Oh.”

She looked down at her dress.

“I must have misunderstood. I'm sorry to trouble you.”

“Not at all, ma'am. Have a lovely evening.”

“You too.”

Summer ended the call.

For a long moment, she stood in the quiet bedroom, still holding her phone.

Landon was at the club.

He had made the reservation.

He had gone without her.

And he hadn't even bothered to tell her.

The realization was so simple that there was almost nothing left to consider.

She could drive to the club and demand an explanation. She could call him repeatedly, send angry messages, or confront him when he finally returned home.

She could make a scene.

For a few seconds, she imagined walking into the dining room in her new dress, finding Landon seated with Henri or some other collection of self-important acquaintances, and asking him exactly what he thought he was doing.

She imagined his expression.

Not remorse.

Annoyance.

He would be embarrassed that she had confronted him publicly. He would accuse her of overreacting, of misunderstanding something, of ruining an otherwise pleasant evening.

And somehow, by the time the argument ended, Summer would probably find herself apologizing.

The possibility exhausted her before it had even happened.

She sat on the edge of the bed.

The truth was that she hadn't particularly enjoyed Landon's company for some time.

He had grown pompous and increasingly out of touch with ordinary life. He treated service workers as though their sole purpose was to admire him, spoke of money as if possessing it were evidence of personal virtue, and seemed incapable of recognizing the difference between being respected and being envied.

Summer had once found his confidence attractive.

Now she often found it embarrassing.

She could easily imagine him sitting at the club with Henri, already half-drunk, making some unwelcome attempt to impress a waitress who had no interest in him beyond the tip he might leave.

It wasn't difficult to picture.

That, perhaps, was the saddest part.

None of this surprised her.

Not the missed airport pickup.

Not the lies.

Not the canceled party.

Not even being deliberately excluded from a dinner he had invited her to attend.

She had spent so much time trying to understand Landon's behavior that she had rarely stopped to consider whether she liked the person behaving that way.

And now, sitting alone in an expensive dress purchased for a man who couldn't be bothered to answer her messages, she found herself confronting an uncomfortable possibility.

Perhaps she didn't.

Summer looked around the bedroom.

There was no great revelation, no sudden burst of anger, no overwhelming desire to cry.

Only a quiet, unpleasant understanding that something she had worked very hard to preserve had been deteriorating for years.

She thought of the money she'd spent preparing for his return. The appointments, the extensions, the spray tan, the careful selection of her clothes.

She thought of the way she had rushed to the airport that morning, afraid he might be irritated with her.

And she thought of the relief she'd felt when he offered to take her to dinner, as though a reservation at an exclusive club could make up for being treated carelessly.

It was an astonishing amount of effort to devote to someone who seemed to appreciate so little of it.

Summer stood and returned to her vanity.

She began removing her makeup.

Not angrily. Not dramatically.

She simply had no reason to wear it anymore.

When she finished, she carefully took off the leather dress, hung it in her closet, and changed into something comfortable.

She didn't call Landon.

She didn't send another message.

If he wanted to explain himself, he knew where to find her.

For the moment, she had no interest in hearing whatever explanation he might invent.

She chose a movie, settled into bed, and allowed the evening to pass without further ceremony.

It occurred to her that Landon had been checking out of their relationship for quite some time.

She had simply been too busy trying to keep his attention to recognize it.

Now she understood.

What she intended to do about it was another matter entirely.

For tonight, she was content to let him wonder why she hadn't called.

And for the first time in a very long while, Summer found that she wasn't especially interested in what Landon thought of her at all.