Summer's Crucible- Chapter Seven: New Enemies and Old Friends

By the evening of the country music festival, Summer had almost forgotten she was supposed to have a date.

She had spent the day touring apartments, submitting rental applications, and trying to persuade property managers that her modest part-time income did not make her an unacceptable tenant.

Her savings were respectable, but landlords seemed far more interested in her monthly earnings than the money she had managed to put aside.

She was growing tired of explaining herself.

When Bailey texted to ask where they should meet, Summer suggested Best Bulbs, a flower shop a short walk from her hotel.

She had no desire to explain why she was living in temporary accommodations.

For that matter, she wasn't entirely certain she wanted to see Bailey.

He hadn't contacted her once during the week leading up to their date. Summer found the silence peculiar, particularly from a man who had seemed so eager to ask her out.

Still, she had already agreed to go.

Perhaps he simply wasn't much of a texter.

She arrived at the flower shop shortly before the appointed time.

Several minutes later, she heard the unmistakable roar of a large truck approaching.

Bailey pulled up in a Ford F-250.

Summer smiled when she saw him.

He was certainly handsome, and his broad frame made him look almost comically oversized beside her little red Fiat.

“Hello again,” she said.

“Hey, Summer.”

She gestured toward her car.

“Why don't we take your truck? I don't think you'd fit comfortably in mine.”

Bailey laughed.

“Works for me.”

They climbed into the truck and headed toward the city park.

Summer tried to make conversation during the drive.

She asked about Bailey's family, his work, and how he had come to own a property management business.

His parents had both worked in insurance sales. He had a much older sister who had married a Canadian and moved north to live with him.

Bailey himself had started in construction, renovating apartment complexes before eventually establishing a business handling rental renovations and property management.

He also owned a small portfolio of income-producing properties and hoped to expand.

Summer found his background interesting.

He had built his career through practical experience rather than family connections, something she respected.

Unfortunately, getting him to elaborate required considerable effort.

His answers were direct, occasionally informative, and almost always brief.

He rarely asked questions in return.

After a while, Summer began to feel less like a woman on a date and more like someone conducting a job interview.

She wondered whether he was nervous.

It was possible.

Not everyone was naturally conversational.

Summer decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

The festival was crowded and noisy.

They wandered among the food vendors and merchandise stalls while country music drifted across the park.

Summer enjoyed the atmosphere at first.

But after an hour of walking and standing, her back began to ache.

The familiar burning sensation returned to the soles of her feet.

She tried shifting her weight, then sitting briefly, but the discomfort continued to build.

Eventually, she admitted that she needed to leave.

Bailey seemed disappointed.

“We just got here.”

“I know. I'm sorry. I'm not feeling my best tonight.”

He studied her for a moment.

Then he shrugged.

“All right.”

On the way back, he suggested driving past a house he had recently made an offer on.

Summer agreed.

It seemed like a pleasant way to extend the evening without requiring her to walk.

She was also curious about his work.

The property was located near a heavily traveled road.

It was an aging single-family house with visible structural neglect, an overgrown yard, and several exterior features that appeared to need substantial repair.

Bailey pulled over.

“That's it.”

Summer examined the building.

“You're buying this?”

“Trying to.”

“What are you planning to do with it?”

“Fix it up. Probably rent it out.”

“Are you doing the renovation yourself?”

“Most of it.”

He sounded proud.

Summer nodded.

Then he casually mentioned that he had offered nine hundred twenty-five thousand dollars.

She turned toward him.

“For this property?”

“Yeah.”

Summer looked back at the house.

The figure struck her as unusually high.

She knew enough about real estate and financial projections to recognize that the property's value would depend heavily on the land, its permitted uses, and the local market.

Perhaps the parcel had redevelopment potential.

Perhaps Bailey knew something she didn't.

But if he intended to renovate the house and rent it as an ordinary residence, the numbers seemed difficult to justify.

“Is the land approved for anything besides residential use?” she asked.

Bailey glanced at her.

“Why?”

“Just curious. It's a busy road. I wondered whether you were considering a different use for the property.”

“No. It's a good location.”

Summer nodded.

She wanted to ask about the renovation budget, projected rental income, and expected return.

Instead, she remained quiet.

It was their first date.

She didn't want to turn the evening into an unsolicited assessment of his investment decisions.

Surely a man who made his living in property management had done his homework.

At least, she hoped so.

Bailey returned her to the flower shop.

Summer thanked him for the evening and stepped down from the truck.

He followed her toward the Fiat.

For a moment, they stood awkwardly beside the car.

Then Bailey leaned toward her for a kiss.

Summer hadn't expected him to move so suddenly.

His much larger frame collided with hers, pushing her backward against the window.

Her head and shoulders struck the glass.

“Ow!”

Bailey stepped back.

“Oh. Sorry.”

Summer steadied herself against the car.

A sharp pain spread between her shoulder blades.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I think so.”

He looked embarrassed.

Summer forced a small smile.

“Well, that was enthusiastic.”

Bailey chuckled.

She didn't.

By the time she reached her hotel, she could already feel a bruise forming.

She told herself he had simply misjudged the distance.

Bailey was a large, somewhat awkward man.

Still, she couldn't help thinking that a man in his forties ought to have learned how to kiss someone without knocking her into a parked vehicle.

Bailey called the following evening and invited her to dinner.

Summer hesitated.

The previous date hadn't been especially successful.

But the alternative was another evening alone in her hotel room, worrying about her housing situation and waiting for responses to applications.

She agreed.

Perhaps the first date had simply been awkward.

He took her to a restaurant specializing in traditional German cuisine.

Bailey ordered a substantial sausage platter and settled into his meal with considerable enthusiasm.

Summer tried to tell him a little about herself.

She mentioned her education, her previous work in finance, and some of the businesses she had dealt with over the years.

Bailey seemed most interested when she mentioned wealthy clients and acquaintances.

“You still know those people?” he asked.

“Some of them.”

“How wealthy are we talking?”

Summer smiled politely.

“Some were very successful.”

“Like millionaires?”

“A few.”

He leaned forward.

“What kind of businesses?”

Summer answered vaguely.

She had no desire to discuss anyone else's finances, particularly with someone she barely knew.

She also avoided explaining the full extent of her own difficulties.

Bailey knew she was between permanent residences, but not the circumstances involving Mimsy.

He knew she worked part-time, but not how much her income had declined.

And she had told him only the basics about her health.

She wanted an opportunity to be known as Summer, not as a collection of unfortunate circumstances.

After dinner, Bailey invited her to his house to watch a movie.

Summer considered declining.

Then she thought about returning to her hotel room.

The loneliness surprised her.

She had spent years surrounded by people who exhausted her, yet being entirely on her own was proving more difficult than she had anticipated.

“All right,” she said.

She decided to give Bailey another chance.

Bailey's house was less impressive than she expected.

It was cluttered, poorly maintained, and bore the unmistakable signs of three large dogs that had been left to entertain themselves indoors.

His Rottweilers were friendly enough, but the furniture was badly chewed, and the walls were marked with accumulated grime where the animals had rubbed against them.

Summer looked around.

For a man who renovated properties professionally, Bailey seemed remarkably indifferent to the condition of his own home.

He had a collection of old VHS tapes and suggested they choose a movie.

Summer selected a period drama adapted from a novel she had enjoyed years earlier.

Bailey put the tape into the player.

As the opening credits rolled, he returned to the subject of money.

“What kind of investments do you have?”

Summer glanced at him.

“A few things.”

“Stocks?”

“Some.”

“Real estate?”

“Not currently.”

“Crypto?”

Summer laughed.

“Oh, absolutely. Bitcoin, OnlyFans, the whole portfolio.”

She intended it as a joke.

Bailey frowned.

“You shouldn't be putting money into pump-and-dump schemes.”

Summer looked at him.

“I was kidding.”

“Most people don't understand what they're buying.”

“I know.”

He continued explaining the dangers of speculative investments as though she hadn't spent years working in finance.

Summer listened politely.

At one point, while complaining about the difficulties of online dating, Bailey mentioned that several dating platforms had banned his accounts.

Summer turned toward him.

“Banned?”

“Yeah. A bunch of them.”

“Why?”

He shrugged.

“People complain about everything.”

Summer waited for an explanation.

None came.

She looked back at the television.

That was an interesting detail to leave unexplained.

The movie proved little better.

Whenever a character made a poor financial decision, Bailey would mutter something under his breath.

“Duh.”

Or, “Well, obviously.”

Sometimes he shook his head and glanced at Summer as though expecting her to acknowledge the character's stupidity.

She found the behavior increasingly irritating.

The film was a drama about human relationships and social circumstances, not a seminar on personal finance.

Bailey seemed incapable of engaging with it on any other level.

Worse, his pointed glances made Summer feel as though he were criticizing her through the fictional characters.

She couldn't explain why.

He knew very little about her finances.

Yet he seemed to have decided she was someone who needed instruction.

By the time the movie ended, Summer was tired of the conversation, the house, and Bailey himself.

She thanked him for the evening and left.

On the drive back, she tried to identify exactly what bothered her.

Bailey wasn't openly cruel in the way Landon could be.

He didn't have Henri's vulgarity or Mimsy's theatrical temper.

But there was an underlying hostility to his manner that made Summer uncomfortable.

He seemed perpetually concerned with measuring himself against other people.

Every conversation became an assessment of who had more, who deserved less, and who had made some foolish decision he would never have made himself.

Summer hoped it was simply awkwardness.

Deep down, however, she was beginning to suspect Bailey wasn't particularly good relationship material.

Heather returned from Jamaica a few days later and immediately insisted on visiting

Summer.

She wanted the full account of Mimsy's breakdown.

Summer told her everything.

The argument in the car.

The steering wheel.

The high heel.

The belongings burning in the driveway.

Heather listened in disbelief.

“Mimsy is a complete nut job!”

Summer gave a tired laugh.

“That's one way of putting it.”

“She could've killed you!”

“I know.”

“And then she tried to burn your clothes?”

“Yes.”

Heather reached for Summer's hand and examined the fading scratches.

“You should've pressed charges.”

“The police documented everything. They said there could be consequences even if I didn't want to pursue it.”

“Good.”

Summer sighed.

“I just don't want to spend the next year dealing with her.”

Heather looked at her.

“Summer, she's not going to become reasonable just because you stop arguing with her.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Summer didn't answer immediately.

Heather sat back.

Then her expression softened.

“I'd let you stay with me, but I'm moving into Morgana's place this week. I can't exactly invite someone else to live there without asking her.”

“It's okay.”

“I mean it. I feel bad.”

“Don't. I have savings. It's just that the landlords don't like my income.”

Summer explained that most of the apartments she'd applied for required consistent earnings several times the monthly rent.

Her part-time work for Pat didn't meet their standards, regardless of how much she had saved.

“I'll find something,” she said.

Heather frowned.

“What about that guy you're seeing? Doesn't he own rental properties?”

“Bailey?”

“Yeah.”

“He does.”

“Has he offered to help you find a place?”

“I haven't really asked.”

Heather stared at her.

“Wait. You're dating a landlord, you're looking for an apartment, and he hasn't even offered to ask around?”

Summer shrugged.

“He doesn't know the whole situation.”

Heather looked unconvinced.

“What is it with you and douchebags?”

“He's not like Landon.”

“That's reassuring.”

“He's completely different.”

Summer showed Heather a photograph she'd taken at the country music festival.

Heather studied it.

Then she looked up.

“He looks like Shrek.”

Summer snatched the phone back.

“He does not.”

“He absolutely does.”

“He's just a big guy.”

Heather grinned.

“Summer, I think you found the redneck version of Landon.”

Summer rolled her eyes.

But the remark lingered.

They talked for another hour before Summer's back began to ache badly enough that she needed to lie down.

Heather recognized the signs.

“All right. I'll let you rest.”

“Thanks.”

At the door, Heather paused.

“Hey, if you really like this Bailey guy, we should all go out sometime.”

“All of us?”

“Me, Morgana, you, and Shrek.”

“His name is Bailey.”

“Fine. Bailey.”

Summer laughed despite herself.

“It might be nice.”

“Exactly. You need to spend time with people your own age instead of sitting around with Mimsy and her ancient friends.”

Summer agreed.

Perhaps seeing Bailey in a group would help her understand him better.

She hoped so.

It took another two weeks for everyone to find an evening that worked.

In the meantime, Summer saw Bailey several more times.

Her doubts continued to grow.

He seemed incapable of discussing anything without returning to money.

He wanted to know which of Summer's acquaintances were wealthy, how they had earned their fortunes, and whether they were worth more than he was.

Summer found the questions increasingly bizarre.

In the circles she had once moved through, asking someone to disclose another person's net worth would have been considered extraordinarily rude.

Bailey seemed to regard it as ordinary conversation.

He was equally opinionated about her health.

When Summer mentioned her degenerative disc disease, he suggested that she hadn't exercised properly.

On another occasion, he implied that her diet was probably responsible.

Summer explained that the condition involved structural changes in her spine and nerve compression, not simply a lack of physical fitness.

Bailey responded with a lecture about the importance of staying active.

Eventually, she stopped correcting him.

It was easier to agree vaguely than spend an evening explaining medical information to a man who had already decided he knew better.

Summer began to notice how often she did that.

She had spent years managing Landon's moods.

Now she was managing Bailey's opinions.

The realization was unpleasant.

For their double date, the group agreed to have dinner and see a movie.

Morgana chose the latest public-domain character horror film, Goofy: A Knifey Night.

Bailey insisted on eating at Pie Landia, a restaurant where customers assembled their own pizzas.

Summer didn't object.

The restaurant was casual, reasonably priced, and close to the theater.

After they were seated, the waiter explained the specials and mentioned the house lager.

Morgana ordered two pitchers for the table.

Heather and Morgana were in excellent spirits.

Their trip to Jamaica had clearly been a success.

“Oh, we're definitely going back next year,” Heather said, squeezing Morgana's hand.

Morgana smiled.

“Absolutely.”

They began describing the beaches, restaurants, and excursions they'd enjoyed.

Summer listened happily.

It was good to see Heather so pleased with her life.

Bailey, however, looked increasingly puzzled.

Finally, he interrupted.

“How?”

Heather stopped.

“What?”

“How can you afford all that?”

The table went quiet.

Bailey gestured between the two women.

“What do you do for work again?”

Heather and Morgana exchanged a glance.

Morgana smiled politely.

“I own a yoga studio.”

“And Heather?” Bailey asked.

“She's a freelance model.”

Bailey frowned.

“Freelance model?”

Heather nodded.

“Yeah.”

He looked her over.

“You don't look like a model.”

Summer felt her face grow hot.

“Bailey.”

“What? I'm just asking.”

He turned back to Heather.

“How does that even work? Who pays you?”

Heather looked uncomfortable.

Bailey continued cutting thick pieces of sausage for his pizza, apparently oblivious to the effect he was having.

He had already consumed most of one pitcher of lager himself.

Summer was mortified.

She had invited Heather and Morgana out for a pleasant evening, not an interrogation.

Heather, perhaps hoping to end the awkwardness, decided to explain.

“I make content for OnlyFans.”

Bailey stopped chewing.

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

Heather shrugged.

“It's a production business, really. I do the makeup, costumes, and performances. A lot of the finished content is edited.”

She explained how she sometimes wore wigs, elaborate makeup, or prosthetic pieces to create a particular appearance.

“It's not that different from other kinds of entertainment,” she said. “People pay for a fantasy.”

She showed Bailey a short, nonexplicit example of her edited work.

Summer glanced at the screen.

Yang had done an impressive job.

The lighting, makeup, and editing made Heather look almost unrecognizable.

Bailey stared.

“So you're lying to people?”

Heather frowned.

“What?”

“You're making them think you look like that when you don't.”

“It's a performance.”

“But they're paying you.”

“Yes.”

“For something that isn't real.”

Morgana set down her glass.

“Bailey, that's what entertainment is.”

He ignored her.

“And you don't even like men.”

Heather blinked.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“You're pretending to be attracted to them.”

Heather stared at him.

Summer could scarcely believe the conversation.

Bailey continued.

“It's dishonest. You're taking people's hard-earned money and selling them something fake.”

Morgana had heard enough.

“Oh, for God's sake.”

Bailey turned toward her.

“What?”

“People pay Heather for a fantasy. She creates the fantasy. That's the product.”

“That doesn't make it right.”

Morgana leaned forward.

“Do you think actors actually are the characters they play? Do you think strippers fall in love with their customers?”

Bailey reddened.

“That's not what I said.”

“It's exactly what you're saying. You're offended that a woman can make money pretending to be something for an audience.”

Heather looked down at her drink.

Morgana continued.

“Nobody's forcing anyone to subscribe. If they like what she produces, they pay for it. If they don't, they can spend their money somewhere else.”

Bailey opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

He finished his beer.

“I need a cigarette.”

He pushed back his chair and walked outside.

Summer sat in silence for several seconds.

Then she turned to Heather and Morgana.

“I'm so sorry.”

Heather sighed.

“Don't apologize for him.”

“I shouldn't have let him keep going.”

Morgana shook her head.

“He's an ass.”

Summer couldn't disagree.

They finished dinner with considerably less enthusiasm than before.

Heather and Morgana paid their share and headed toward the theater.

Summer remained behind to wait for Bailey.

Ten minutes passed.

Then twenty.

She texted him.

No response.

After half an hour, she called.

The call went unanswered.

Summer sat at the table, feeling increasingly foolish.

Eventually, she paid the remaining bill and went outside.

Bailey's truck was gone.

She stared at the empty parking space.

He had left.

Without telling her.

Without paying his share.

Without asking whether she had transportation.

Summer looked at her phone.

There was still no message.

She considered calling Heather.

Then she imagined having to explain that Bailey had abandoned her at the restaurant after insulting her friends.

She couldn't bear the embarrassment.

Instead, she texted Heather that she wasn't feeling well and would be heading home.

Then she arranged a ride to the overpriced long-term Airbnb where she had been staying.

During the drive, Summer thought about the evening.

She had spent weeks trying to persuade herself that Bailey's awkwardness concealed a decent man.

Perhaps he was simply shy.

Perhaps he was nervous.

Perhaps he had been hurt in previous relationships.

She had invented one explanation after another.

Now she had to confront a simpler possibility.

Bailey was rude because he was rude.

He was judgmental because he enjoyed judging people.

And he had abandoned her because he was angry that someone had challenged him.

Summer almost laughed.

Heather had been right.

Bailey was a rougher, less socially polished version of Landon.

At least Landon knew how to behave in public when it suited him.

Bailey had all the arrogance without any of the charm.

Socially, he was about as pleasant as a rug burn.

Bailey didn't contact her for several days.

Summer made one attempt to reach him.

When he failed to respond, she stopped.

There was no point pursuing someone who had already demonstrated how little consideration he possessed.

She deleted his number.

The following months were difficult.

Pat's business continued to provide only limited hours, and Summer's savings were dwindling.

She had moved into a long-term rental that was more affordable than the hotel but still expensive for someone with inconsistent income.

Her health was also becoming harder to manage.

Some mornings, her back felt as though it had been crumpled into a ball and never properly straightened.

The weakness in her right foot had grown more pronounced.

She caught her toes on curbs and thresholds. She stumbled on stairs. More than once, she bruised herself because her foot failed to move when she expected it to.

Her ankle-foot brace helped, but it didn't eliminate the problem.

Summer had been advised to seek further neurological evaluation if the weakness progressed.

She kept postponing it.

There was always another expense.

Another application.

Another work obligation.

Then one evening, while driving home, she reached for the brake pedal and realized her right foot wasn't responding properly.

For a terrifying instant, she couldn't position it where she needed it.

She managed to stop the car safely, but the experience left her shaking.

She pulled into a parking lot and sat there for several minutes.

No one had been hurt.

Nothing had happened.

But something easily could have.

Summer understood that she couldn't continue treating the weakness as an inconvenience.

She arranged an urgent medical evaluation.

The neurological assessment revealed significant nerve compression associated with her lumbar spine.

The specialist reviewed her imaging and explained that the worsening weakness was concerning.

Surgery was recommended promptly to relieve pressure on the affected nerve and reduce the risk of further damage.

The surgeon was careful not to promise that every symptom would disappear.

Some nerve deficits improved after decompression.

Others could persist.

Summer listened quietly.

She had known her condition was serious.

Still, hearing that surgery could no longer reasonably be postponed frightened her.

She was also advised not to drive using her right foot until her ability to control the pedals could be assessed.

Summer agreed.

She arranged alternative transportation and began investigating adaptive driving equipment and the evaluations required before she could safely return to driving.

The loss of independence bothered her almost as much as the prospect of surgery.

She had already given up so much.

Now even driving had become something she couldn't take for granted.

The operation was scheduled shortly before Halloween.

Summer entered the hospital with a carefully packed overnight bag and an uneasy sense of resignation.

Heather drove her.

She stayed through the admission process and waited until Summer was taken to the surgical area.

The procedure went as planned, but recovery was unpleasant.

Summer woke with significant discomfort around the incision and the familiar heaviness in her legs.

The medical team monitored her neurological function and pain levels.

She was expected to remain in the hospital at least overnight.

Heather visited later that afternoon, bringing a few personal items Summer had forgotten.

She couldn't stay long.

Morgana needed help at the yoga studio, and Heather had work of her own to complete.

Summer assured her that she would be fine.

After Heather left, the hospital room grew quiet.

Summer spent much of the evening watching reruns of Trading Spaces on the television.

She had seen some of the episodes years earlier.

The cheerful arguments over wallpaper and furniture seemed absurdly inconsequential compared with the things occupying her thoughts.

Yet she kept watching.

There was something comforting about problems that could be solved with paint.

Heather planned to collect her the following morning.

Unfortunately, the surgeon was dissatisfied with the swelling around the operative site and wanted to continue monitoring her.

Summer would need to remain another night.

She was disappointed, but she understood.

She had come too far to take unnecessary chances.

The next morning, Summer was surprised to see Landon standing in the doorway.

For a moment, she thought she was imagining him.

He looked older.

His hair was shorter, and there was gray at his temples that hadn't been there before.

He wore an expensive jacket and carried himself with the familiar confidence of a man accustomed to entering places without being questioned.

Yet something about him seemed diminished.

“Hey, Summer.”

She blinked.

“Landon?”

He gave an awkward smile.

“Mind if I come in?”

“Of course not.”

Summer tried to sit up.

The movement sent a sharp ache through her back.

Landon raised a hand.

“Don't get up.”

He pulled a chair beside the bed.

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Then Landon looked around the room.

“Has it really been years?”

Summer smiled faintly.

“Something like that.”

It was strange seeing him.

For six years, Landon had occupied an enormous portion of her life.

Then he had vanished from it almost completely.

Now he was sitting beside her hospital bed as though they were old acquaintances who had happened to meet by chance.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Good.”

He hesitated.

“Mostly.”

Summer studied him.

“How's Paisley?”

Landon looked down.

“She's good.”

A pause followed.

“She's pregnant.”

Summer hadn't expected that.

“Oh.”

“The baby's due after Christmas.”

She collected herself.

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

Landon rubbed his hands together.

“We're getting married next month.”

Summer nodded.

“That's wonderful.”

He gave a strained laugh.

“Yeah. My mother's been pushing for a prenup. Wants everything settled before the wedding.”

Summer recognized the tension in his voice.

He looked exhausted.

For the first time, she wondered whether Landon had discovered that the life he had so casually pursued came with obligations he couldn't simply ignore.

She felt an unexpected flicker of sympathy.

He had never been particularly good at dealing with pressure.

“I'm sure you'll work it out,” she said.

Landon looked away.

“Yeah.”

Summer hesitated.

“You'll be a good father, Landon.”

He didn't answer immediately.

Then he gave a humorless laugh.

“I hope so.”

“You've got your family.”

Landon shook his head.

“Henri's on probation.”

Summer stared.

“What happened?”

“Car accident. He was driving. Charlene got hurt.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Yeah. It was ugly.”

“Were the children with them?”

“No. Thank God. They were at my parents' house.”

Summer was silent.

She thought of Henri's reckless behavior, the drinking, and the way he treated nearly everything as a joke.

It was frightening, but not entirely surprising, that his carelessness had finally resulted in serious consequences.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

Landon nodded.

“Yeah.”

For a moment, he looked as though he might cry.

Summer felt the old impulse to comfort him.

It surprised her.

She had spent so many years managing Landon's emotions that seeing him distressed still awakened an almost automatic desire to help.

“I wish there was something I could do,” she said.

Landon looked up.

“Well…”

Summer waited.

“There actually is something.”

She felt a small shift in her stomach.

Of course.

Landon leaned forward.

“Remember those investments we bought together when you first moved in?”

“Yes.”

“They're still held jointly. My attorney says we need to straighten out the ownership before the prenup is finalized.”

Summer considered that.

She remembered the investments.

They had been purchased years earlier, when she and Landon still imagined a permanent future together.

Neither had bothered to address the holdings after their separation.

“What are you proposing?” she asked.

“I'd buy out your interest. Fair market value. My attorney can have the paperwork prepared.”

Summer nodded slowly.

“That sounds reasonable.”

Relief crossed Landon's face.

“Really?”

“Yes. Assuming the valuation is correct and everything is handled properly.”

“Of course.”

“I'd want to review the documents before signing.”

“Sure. Absolutely.”

Summer looked at him.

She wasn't angry.

The timing of the request was hardly accidental, but the matter did need to be resolved.

And the proceeds would be useful.

Her surgery and reduced income had created financial pressure she couldn't ignore.

Selling her share of the investments might provide some welcome breathing room.

For once, Landon needed something from her that could benefit them both.

She found that strangely satisfying.

With the difficult part of his visit apparently completed, Landon seemed reluctant to leave immediately.

“So,” he said, “you seeing anyone?”

Summer hesitated.

She thought of Bailey.

Then she thought of the restaurant, the abandoned dinner bill, and the unanswered messages.

“Not seriously.”

“Oh.”

“There was a man named Bailey Sutton. Property investor. Ever heard of him?”

Landon considered the name.

“No. Can't say I have.”

Summer nodded.

“I didn't think so.”

“He treat you all right?”

The question surprised her.

She almost laughed.

Landon, of all people, asking whether another man had treated her properly.

“He was interesting,” she said diplomatically.

Landon smiled faintly.

“That doesn't sound promising.”

“No,” Summer admitted. “I suppose it doesn't.”

He looked at her for a moment.

“I hope you find somebody good.”

Summer studied him.

There was no obvious sarcasm in his voice.

Perhaps he meant it.

Perhaps he was simply being polite.

Either way, she appreciated the sentiment.

“Thank you.”

Landon rose.

“I should let you rest.”

Summer nodded.

“My attorney will contact you about the investments,” he said. “We can arrange everything through the brokerage and have the documents reviewed.”

“That would be best.”

He paused near the door.

“It was good seeing you, Summer.”

She smiled.

“It was good seeing you, too.”

And to her surprise, she meant it.

After Landon left, Summer lay quietly in bed.

The visit had stirred emotions she hadn't expected.

She didn't want him back.

She knew too much about him now, and she had spent too long recovering from the relationship to mistake nostalgia for love.

But seeing him had reminded her that their years together hadn't consisted entirely of misery.

There had been laughter.

There had been pleasant evenings and shared experiences.

There had been moments when she genuinely believed they understood one another.

Those memories still existed, even if the relationship had ultimately failed.

Summer found it comforting to know that Landon was somewhere in the world, moving forward with his own life.

He was going to be a father.

He was getting married.

His circumstances were changing, just as hers were.

They no longer belonged together.

But they had once mattered greatly to each other.

That didn't have to become meaningless simply because the relationship was over.

At the same time, Summer couldn't ignore the practical reason for his visit.

Landon had come because he needed her cooperation.

His concern for her recovery had been secondary, if it had figured into his decision at all.

She didn't resent him for it.

She simply recognized it.

That, too, was progress.

Later that afternoon, Summer looked at her phone.

Heather had messaged to ask whether she was still being discharged that day.

Summer replied that the doctors were continuing to monitor her and that she would let her know when she had a confirmed discharge time.

Then she thought of Bailey.

She hadn't spoken to him in months.

She knew he wasn't someone she could depend on emotionally.

Still, the idea of calling him crossed her mind.

Perhaps seeing Landon had made her sentimental.

Perhaps she was simply tired of being alone.

Against her better judgment, she found Bailey's old number and called.

He answered after several rings.

“What's up?”

Summer hesitated.

“Hi, Bailey.”

“Hey.”

She took a breath.

“I know this is unexpected, but I'm in the hospital.”

A pause.

“What happened?”

“I had surgery on my back.”

“Oh.”

She waited.

Bailey said nothing.

Summer almost ended the call.

Instead, she asked, “Would you be willing to give me a ride home when I'm discharged?”

Another pause.

“Yeah. I can do that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure. Just let me know when.”

“Thank you.”

“Okay.”

He hung up.

Summer stared at the phone.

The conversation had lasted barely a minute.

She didn't know why she had called him.

Perhaps she wanted to believe that someone who had treated her so poorly could still be capable of an ordinary act of kindness.

Perhaps she was testing whether he would respond differently when she genuinely needed help.

But she knew better than to interpret a possible ride as evidence of affection.

She sent Heather a message explaining that she might have another transportation option, though she would confirm the arrangements only after the hospital approved her discharge.

Then she set the phone aside.

Summer looked toward the window.

The afternoon light had begun to fade.

She had spent much of her adult life surrounded by men who measured themselves through money, status, and their ability to control other people.

Landon had possessed wealth without much responsibility.

Bailey had worked for his money but seemed to resent anyone whose circumstances he didn't understand.

They were different men.

Yet both had made Summer feel as though her value depended on what she could offer them.

She thought about the investments Landon wanted to buy from her.

At least that arrangement would be straightforward.

There would be a valuation, documents, and a payment.

No promises of affection.

No expectations of gratitude.

No need to pretend that a favor was something more than a favor.

Summer had spent years confusing financial security with emotional security.

Now, lying in a hospital bed with a healing incision and an uncertain future, she understood how dangerous that confusion had been.

She still wanted companionship.

She still wanted someone who would be glad to see her, help her when she was ill, and treat her difficulties as something worth understanding.

But she no longer wanted those things badly enough to accept contempt in their place.

She had survived losing Landon.

She had survived leaving Mimsy.

She could survive being single, too.

Summer adjusted her pillows and settled back against the bed.

For the moment, she had enough to worry about without adding another disappointing

man to the list.

Whatever happened with Bailey, she had no intention of mistaking one decent gesture for a relationship.

And when she was finally able to leave the hospital, she intended to keep moving forward, whether anyone offered to accompany her or not.