One Perfect Summer

course she means ‘yes’. ‘You’re going out with him ?’
    ‘Mmmhmm.’
    ‘But I thought you didn’t like him?’
    ‘Turns out I do.’
    ‘No!’
    ‘Yes.’
    I grin at her reaction.
    Her brow furrows as she recalls something. ‘Wait, isn’t he the cold-compress guy?’
    I laughingly tell her about the Mr Bump present he gave me for Christmas.
    She giggles. ‘What a cheapskate.’
    I hesitate before pulling out the diamond necklace from under my shirt. I’ve consciously been choosing outfits that wouldn’t bring too much attention to it. I didn’t want to have to explain about Lukas to my parents – or my friend – the moment I walked through the door. ‘He also gave me this.’
    She stares closely at it. ‘Whoa.’ She glances up at me. ‘Is it real?’
    I nod.
    ‘Whoa,’ she says again. She lets it go, then sits back in her chair and regards me. ‘It’s serious, then?’ There’s something a little accusatory about her tone.
    I nod again. ‘Yes. Pretty damn serious,’ I reply a touch flippantly.
    ‘Have you . . .?’ Her voice trails off.
    I purse my lips together.
    ‘No way!’ She leans forward. ‘Are you blushing?’ she exclaims, plonking her glass down on the table.
    ‘What? No!’
    ‘Yes, you are.’
    ‘Okay, then, I am a little bit, but, you know . . .’
    She raises her glass. ‘Cheers. Here’s to you.’
    ‘Stop it.’ I laugh and wave her away. ‘How about you? Anyone on the scene?’
    ‘Might be.’
    ‘Tell me!’ I squeal. ‘Have you—’
    ‘No,’ she cuts me off. ‘Not yet. But we’ve come close,’ she admits self-consciously.
    ‘What’s his name?’
    ‘Callum. He’s Scottish,’ she adds before I can ask.
    ‘Is he at university with you?’
    ‘He is, indeed. Studying politics.’ She pulls a face. ‘But he’s well fit so I’ll forgive him for it. What does . . . what’s his name?’
    ‘Lukas.’
    ‘Cool name. What does Lukas study?’
    ‘He reads ’ – I say this playfully – ‘Physics at the University of Cambridge.’
    ‘Ooh, get him!’ she cries. ‘What does that involve?’
    ‘I wouldn’t have the foggiest. All goes way over my head.’
    She laughs. ‘When can I meet him?’
    Join the queue . . . ‘The next time you come to visit.’
    ‘You seem so much better,’ she says, and instantly I feel anything but because I know what’s coming. ‘You’re over Joe, then?’
    I can’t speak for a moment, but then I reply.
    ‘No.’ I swirl my drink around in my glass. ‘No, I’ll never get over him.’
    ‘Yes, you will,’ she brushes me off.
    ‘No, I won’t.’ I meet her gaze seriously. ‘I know I won’t.’
    She shrugs. She doesn’t believe me, but there’s no such thing as ‘time heals everything’ in this situation. Time will prove her wrong, that’s what time will do. I’ll always love him. I’m just trying not to think about him for the foreseeable future.

 
    My intentions remain stable until somewhere between Christmas and New Year, when I’m watching telly with my parents and a programme about Dorset comes on. I want to get up and leave the room, but my backside is glued to the sofa. I stare at the television screen and that night I can’t sleep for the images going over and over in my mind.
    Finally I allow myself to daydream about my time with Joe from beginning to end. I try to remember everything . . . the first time I saw him at the pub . . . the way I felt: the POW feeling when he looked up and met my eyes . . . how I was unable to get him out of my mind that evening when I went for a walk to Dancing Ledge, and how I bumped into him and helped him with his quiz questions. I’m full of butterflies as I recall that first kiss on Dancing Ledge . . . the fireworks going off in my stomach . . . sitting with him late at night on the bench outside the cottage . . . wanting to be with him every minute of every day, not caring about sleep . . . making love to him for the first time, and the next time, and the next . . . My heart flips again and again as I remember, and I don’t even feel sad. I feel determined. I want to find him.
    Early the next morning I get up and walk on autopilot down the high street to the tube station. I spend hours – I don’t even know how many – wandering through the streets of central London looking for him. With every hour that passes I feel more lost – not physically, but emotionally.
    My feet somehow take me home again, but I am broken. I tell my parents I’m not