10. Summer

10

SUMMER

Present day

Stella answers on the first ring. “Let me guess. You’re in jail, and you need me to bail you out.”

“As if I’d call you first,” I say indignantly.

“Who would you call?”

I consider this from bed, staring at the ceiling. “Logan probably. He can talk his way out of anything.”

“Sweetie, it’s money you need for bail. Not talk.”

“But maybe he could talk his way out of the bail,” I suggest.

Stella yawns so savagely you could drive a semitruck through it. “Anyway, why are you calling at ten at night if you’re not in jail?”

“How old are you? Ten is not late.”

“Two years older than you, which means I need my sleep.”

“Sorry,” I mutter. “Sort of. Anyway, I’m calling because I wrote the letter, and I’m about to hit submit. But want to hear it first?”

“Oooh! I am wide awake and ready.”

I clear my throat and read the letter out loud.

Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend,

I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again.

Exes are exes for a reason.

But not always for a bad reason.

Usually, they’re in the past because you didn’t see eye to eye.

Or because you didn’t love each other enough.

Or maybe circumstances pulled you apart.

That happens, and it’s just part of life, part of learning.

Sometimes, though, an ex is history because one of you, or both of you, are absolute douches.

After all, exes can be jerks. They can wander into bars, saunter over to you when you’re with your friends, and act like nothing happened.

Or invite you to their wedding when you have zero interest in their nuptials and even less in their swaggy wedding favors. (Seriously. Commemorative pens? Pens with your face on them?)

But I’ve never believed that all the ex-boyfriends are the worst.

I don’t believe that about you .

You stepped in when I needed you the most, with your charm, and your wit, and your “I’ve got this” spirit.

You lifted me up when I needed you to. And you saved me when I needed saving. I saved you too.

And I know you—from the way you look when you get out of the pool to the way you like your English breakfast tea (not at all, thank you very much).

But in spite of this knowledge, you told me that someday I’d call you a douchey ex too.

And you’d deserve it, you said.

You’d deserve it because we don’t always see eye to eye. Because we don’t agree on everything. Because we see the world differently.

But you know what? I’ve learned something about who I am from you.

Just like our choice of a last meal is insight into the life we led, right? Exes say something about a person. When I look back on mine, they tell the story of my heart and my goals and my dreams. They say I’m not ready yet to give my all to a relationship. I’m not ready to move into that phase of my life.

There is a world out there and so much to see in it. I couldn’t travel the way I wanted to if my exes had been the kind to stick around.

The kind I wanted to stick around.

And especially if you’d been the kind of guy who wanted more.

That was never in the cards for us.

So I say, if you want to be Douchey Ex Number Four, I welcome that. I’ve got labels printed out. You can wear a sandwich board stating that you’re Douchey Ex Number Four—and proud of it.

We’d grab a pint someday and probably even laugh about it, except we both prefer martinis.

Because you and me? We know what we are to each other. We know that the world needs more sexy ex-boyfriends so we can achieve our dreams.

May we learn lessons from all kinds of exes—from the jerks, from the timid, from the crazy, from the ones we just didn’t love enough, and from the ones who didn’t love us enough.

They teach us about ourselves.

And I’m still trying to achieve all my dreams.

So I say thank you, Douchey Ex Number Four, for being the sexiest ex-boyfriend of all.

My best,

Summer

I finish, feeling naked, exposed, but hopeful that it says everything I want to say, and that Stella will like it.

Hopeful that The Dating Pool will love it, because winning this could tip me over the edge with my new venture.

“It’s . . .” Stella begins, but doesn’t finish.

“It’s terrible? That’s what you were going to say? Or it’s a brilliant scheme and a terrific chance to nab some extra money if I win. And if I win, I would use it to add a self-defense class to the roster, and that’s precisely what my gym needs.” My words are like froyo spilling out too fast and overflowing from the sample cup.

She laughs sweetly. “I was going to say I think it’s a brilliant scheme and a lovely letter. And I actually think I get it now.”

My brow knits. “Get what?”

“You and Oliver. Your connection. I think I understand it in a whole new way.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, I do. I kind of get why you’re not interested in testing my theory. I understand now why you always say nothing will happen.”

“Thank you,” I say, warmth and happiness bubbling up in me. “It’s so easy to think because we’re good friends that a romance is inevitable. But that’s not in the cards.”

“Yeah, I see that now,” she says, sounding introspective. “I guess it’s human nature to want to ship two pretty people who spend so much time together.”

“And now you understand why there is no Sumiver Ship or Olimer Ship.”

“More proof you’re right. Your names are horribly un-shippable.”

“There you go.” I smile, thanking her, then hit submit.

Even though, I suppose, a small part of me still wonders about the accuracy of her theories.

But just a small part, I swear.