Page 3 of Stealing Summer
“We were pretty good at catching fireflies, weren’t we?” Boston’s voice pulled me from my memories.
I laughed softly, though it sounded more wistful than I intended. “You were always better at it than me, Boston.”
But as I glanced at him, I felt a pang of longing for a time when he wasn’t so out of reach. Things were different now, and we didn’t exactly run in the same social circle in college. I wasn’t an athlete like he was. I spent most of my time with my roommate, Kristina, and a group of the theater students because the thrill of performing in front of an audience was something I couldn’t get enough of, and we all understood it. Our group may have been small, but we could always count on each other—and that was all I needed. The idea of romance in real life was daunting and out of my comfort zone—I found solace in acting and playing out fictional love stories instead.
I stifled a yawn, the exhaustion finally catching up to me. “Thanks for walking me home, guys,” I replied, as I pulled out my keys. “I’m sure I’ll see you both around campus before we leave town.”
“Alright, then. Sleep tight, Chandler,” Parker said, his tone brotherly as ever.
“Night, Chandler,” Boston said, shooting me a wink before pushing off from the railing.
two
I was almost through my first year of college, but somehow surviving this final week of pointless classes felt more brutal than the entire year. I dragged myself out of bed, knowing that only a strong cup of coffee from the cafe could save me from the distress of this last school day.
“Chandler!” Parker’s voice made me look up from my phone on my way out of the cafe, Boston right behind him with that calm smile that seemed to light up the campus.
“Hey,” I greeted, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear, not expecting to run into either of them.
“Grabbing a coffee myself. Wait up a sec. We’ll walk you to your class,” Parker said, already edging past me without waiting for my reply.
“Sure,” I responded, looking down at the time on my phone.
His absence left me acutely aware of being alone with Boston—all tall and effortlessly gorgeous. He leaned against the wall, glints of sunlight filtering through the tall windows catching him at just the right angles.
“Let me guess. You already took a selfie of your coffee and posted it on your story?” Boston teased, with a subtle lift of his brow.
“That’s so lame. Who would do that?” I managed a weak smile before quickly deleting the last picture I posted on my story. “And it’s not called a selfie unless it’s a picture of yourself.”
“I see,” he observed, a playful tilt to his lips.
Then, out of nowhere, a girl brushed past, her hand lingering on Boston’s arm just a second too long.
“Hey, Boston,” she batted her long thick lashes. “Saw your last game. The way you made those outs at shortstop was so impressive.” She winked; her flirtation was annoyingly obvious.
“Thanks,” Boston replied. His voice held a note of polite distance that didn’t stop my stomach from twisting.
“See you around,” the girl said, throwing a wink over her shoulder as she walked away.
“Fans,” he shrugged, turning back to me as if nothing had happened.
That girl’s obsession with Boston forced back memories from high school. It was nothing new—I remembered moments like these like it was yesterday.
I blinked, unaware of my own expression until I saw it reflected at me in the mirror of my locker—a sharp glare, lips pursed in a scowl. Resting bitch face. I definitely needed to work on that.
“Chandler!” The voice came at me like a viper’s strike, all sharp edges and hissing syllables. It was Amber Collins. Her expression pinched as she glanced nervously around before thrusting a folded piece of paper into my hand.
I could almost hear the strained screams of her scalp. Her slicked-back hair was snatched so tightly into a neat bun that it seemed as if any more tension would surely cut off the circulation to her brain. I wondered to myself if her over-styled ‘do was an attempt to compensate for the absurdity of her shorts—frayed denim cut-offs with pockets that dangled below the hemline, larger than the shorts themselves.
“So, will you give it to him?” Amber demanded, her tone laced with impatience and something else—a desperate hope masquerading as disdain.
“Give it to who?” I said, playing dumb, knowing full well that the ‘him’ she was referring to could only be one person at school.
“To Boston,” Amber snapped, her eyes darting toward the figure approaching from across the hall. The sight of Boston Riley always had a way of sending a ripple through the crowd. His tall, athletic frame moved toward us, his wavy hair catching the light, the piercing blue of his eyes scanning the hall until they landed in our direction.
“Sure, Amber. I’ll give your note to Boston,” I replied, the words sliding off my tongue with practiced ease, even though a part of me wanted to crumple the paper right there and toss it into the nearest trash can. “Although you do have the option of giving it to him yourself.”
Why did everyone think I was their gateway to Boston Riley back then? I never signed up to be the go-between or the messenger for him.