Cure for the Common Breakup (11 page)

“You haven't seen the last of me,” Hattie proclaimed, then stalked toward the door.

And before the door finished closing behind the biggest bully in Black Dog Bay, the mayor walked in.

—

“Well, well, well.” Summer wound a strand of hair around her index finger. “Look who's back.”

“Twice in one week?” Hollis said. “That has to be a record.”

“Oh God. Why is he here?” Jenna launched into a second nervous breakdown. “He's going to cite me and shut the whole place down. Unless Miss Huntington beats him to it.”

“No one's shutting the place down,” Summer said.

“Miss Huntington will,” Jenna predicted. “That's how she is.”

“Should I go ask him if he wants a drink?” Hollis asked.

“I'll do it,” Summer said. “As long as he's here, I might as well ask him out again.”

Jenna stopped hyperventilating long enough to ask, “Didn't he turn you down before?”

“Yep.”

“He's looking at us!” Hollis spun around so quickly, the paperback fell out of her apron pocket. “Be cool! Be cool!”

Jenna was still staring at Summer. “So all these women have asked him out, and he's said no. And
you
asked him out and he said no.”

Summer nodded. “Correct.”

“But this time, he's going to say yes?”

“Correct.”

“And it will go differently this time because . . . ?”

“Because, um . . .”
Because I'm the girl who can always get the guy. I can't
keep
him, but I can
get
him.
“I heard from a reliable source that it was worth trying again. So break out your marshmallows and your sleeping bags, because this girl is on fire.” She rummaged through her handbag until she located a small paper bag. “Jenna, would you kindly set the mood with some appropriate music? Something sultry and slow? Maybe Nina Simone?”

Jenna changed the soundtrack to “Call Me Maybe” and Hollis started lip-synching.

“I hate you both,” Summer told them.

Dutch caught her eye and started toward the bar, but every few feet, he was waylaid by a friend or a concerned constituent.

Summer helped herself to a clean wineglass, added the finishing touch, then handed it over to Jenna.

“Give that to Dutch,” she instructed. “Tell him it's compliments of the hot blonde on the other side of the bar.”

Jenna looked at the glass and burst out laughing. “You really want to do this in front of everyone?”

“Hell, yeah. This is the Summer Benson school of courtship. Go big or go home.”

Hollis whispered to the woman next to her, who exclaimed to the person next to her, and a crescendo of chatter swelled through the crowd. All eyes were on Dutch by the time Jenna arrived with the wineglass in hand.

The moment Jenna opened her mouth, all conversation ceased, though Carly Rae Jepsen kept singing in the background.

“This is, uh . . .” Jenna almost dropped the glass. “From her.”

Dutch reached into the glass and pulled out the lacy red panties Summer had tucked inside.

He looked at her. She looked at him.

The registered voters of Black Dog Bay scrambled to clear the way as he strode across the room.

He stood directly in front of her, blocking her view of the bar and backing her up against the wall. She could feel tension radiating from his chest and shoulders. He was obviously struggling to keep himself in check. But she couldn't figure out if he was angry or exasperated or . . . something else.

Finally, he spoke. “Thanks for the drink.”

Definitely something else. She caught the undercurrent of heat in his voice.

“Oh, you're welcome. I know you like reds.” She tilted her head and smiled. “I considered writing ‘Will you go out with me?' on them in glitter, but I thought that might be overkill.”

His expression shifted just a bit. “You're a master of understatement.”

“Exactly. So!” She glanced down at the undergarment clutched in his hand. “Ready to die of embarrassment yet?”

“Summer.” He said her name low and rough. “Do I look like I give a damn what anybody else is thinking right now?”

She stopped sassing him and glanced down, feeling suddenly shy. “No, you do not.”

“Okay, then. You want to go out?” His slate gray eyes darkened. “Let's go.”

“Right now?” Her throat had gone dry.

“Right now.”

“Oh, I . . . Okay.” She started toward the door, but he pressed his palm against the small of her back.

“Allow me.”

She let him lead the way, feeling more flustered with every step as they headed out into the night.

And as she fell into step behind the levelheaded, responsible small-town mayor, she knew that he was about to give her more trouble than all the bad boys she'd ever been with.

“S
o, um, where are we off to?” The air outside the Whinery felt cool and still. The town square was illuminated by only a streetlamp and the white moon over the ocean.

Dutch never took his gaze off her face. “You tell me—you asked me out. Or would you like me to take over from here?”

I love it when he tells me what to do.

Summer shook off the memory from the flight to Paris, determined to stay in the moment.

“No curfew?”

“Not tonight.” He smiled. “My sister's at a sleepover.”

“Ingrid,” she said. “I met her.”

“She may have mentioned that.” Before he could say more, his cell phone buzzed. “Speaking of Ingrid, I'm sorry, but I have to take this.”

“Of course; go ahead.” Summer hung back to give him privacy, but she couldn't help overhearing bits of the conversation over the strains of music from the Whinery.

“Wait,
where
are you?” Dutch hunched over the phone. “I thought you were at Hayley's house. Ingrid, stop. Take a breath. I can't understand what you're saying.” He pulled his car keys from his pocket with his free hand. “Start over. You're
where
? Sit tight. I'll be there in fifteen minutes.” He straightened up, his expression grim as he turned back to Summer. “Let me walk you to your car.”

“Everything okay?”

“My sister, who is supposed to be at her friend Hayley's house, is apparently out with a bunch of college kids at some eighteen-and-over club in Ocean City.”

Summer pulled out her own phone and started tapping away on the screen. “What's the name of the club?”

He rubbed his forehead. “The Cheeky Tiki.”

Summer laughed. “I'm sorry. I know this is serious, but—”

He rolled up his shirt cuffs. “I should have known this was coming. All those years of straight A's and common sense had to end eventually.”

Summer couldn't help noticing that Ingrid's inner problem child had emerged the week she'd met Summer. “Want me to come along? I can navigate.”

Dutch jingled his keys, then nodded and led her across the street to a dark sedan. “Can you talk sense into a bunch of adolescents sloshed on Alabama slammers?”

“Like a professional hostage negotiator.”

He opened the car door for her, and Summer slid into the passenger seat and buckled her seat belt.

“When I was seventeen, clubs like the Cheeky Tiki were my second home. Although I think the one I went to was called Risqué.”

“She shouldn't even be there.” Dutch backed the car out and turned onto the main road that led to the highway. “She's only seventeen.”

The overhead sodium lights illuminated the car's interior as they drove down the coastal highway. Although the radio was turned way down, Summer could make out the intonations of an NPR broadcaster reporting on mounting international hostilities. “She must have borrowed an ID from an older friend.”

“My sister would never do that.”

Summer hid her smile. “Maybe they didn't even check her ID. When I used to go to these places, they'd just take pity on me and wave me through.”

Even as he fumed, Dutch abided by all posted speed limits and traffic signs. “That's illegal.”

“That's reality.” She checked their progress on her phone map as they crossed the state border into Maryland. “Although Ingrid doesn't strike me as a normal, rebellious teenager.”

“She's not.” Dutch scrubbed his jawline with the back of his hand.

A few minutes later, they located the Cheeky Tiki in a run-down strip mall bedecked with pink neon, blazing tiki torches, and real palm trees.

“Wow.” Summer rolled down the window, the better to hear the Bob Marley cover band and smell the cigarette smoke wafting through the air. “I feel like I'm back in high school.”

A tall, shaggy-haired boy lurched across the parking lot, pausing just long enough to throw up on Dutch's car headlights.

“Oh my God—I
am
back in high school.”

Dutch opened the door and got out. “Back in a minute.”

But as Summer scanned the teens milling in front of the club's entrance, she spotted a slender, shuddering silhouette near a trio of tiki torches. “I see her. She's right there.” She stuck the upper half of her body out the window and waved. “Ingrid!”

Ingrid jerked to attention and hurried toward the car, stumbling over every crack and pothole in her high heels. Her hair seemed different than the last time Summer had seen her, but Summer couldn't be sure because she couldn't stop focusing on the teenager's outfit.

“What the hell is she wearing?” Dutch said.

“Don't say anything,” Summer instructed. “It'll only make it worse. Let me do the talking.”

Dutch reached into the car's backseat and grabbed a box of tissues, which Ingrid seized as soon as she was within arm's reach. She was crying and ranting and shivering all at once.

No surprise, given the amount of exposed skin.

“Hayley left without me, and Mattie's making out with her boyfriend on the patio, and . . . and . . .” She blew her nose and turned to Dutch. “I lied to you.”

He nodded and indicated she should get into the car.

“I know I'm not supposed to be here.”
Honk, sniffle.
“Are you going to have them shut down for letting me in when I'm not eighteen?”

Dutch slid into the driver's seat and rolled up the car windows. “No.”

“Thank you.”

Summer shifted in her seat and gave Ingrid a sympathetic look.

“Go ahead and yell at me.” Ingrid hung her head. “I deserve it. I know you're disappointed.”

At this, Dutch turned off the ignition and gave his sister his full attention. “I'm not disappointed. I always told you to call me if you need a ride home, and you did. I'm proud of you.”

“You are?”

“Yes. Plus, Ocean City's not my jurisdiction.” He started the car again, drove out of the parking lot, and pulled into the gas station across the street.

“Why are we stopping?” Ingrid asked.

Dutch swore under his breath as he unbuckled his seat belt. “I have to wash off the headlights.”

—

“So? What's his name?” Summer twisted around in her seat and grinned at Ingrid.

Ingrid was going through three tissues at a time. “What're you doing here?”

“Dutch and I were just . . .” Summer narrowed her eyes. “Oh, no you don't. I'll be asking the questions tonight, missy. What's his name?”

Ingrid scrunched up her body even tighter. “Whose name?”

“The guy you got all tarted up for.” Summer reached back and patted Ingrid's knee. “Please. I know that no woman puts on heels that high and a skirt that short unless she's man hunting.”

Ingrid gazed down at her neon pink halter top, zebra-print miniskirt, and S&M shoes. “I look ridiculous.”

“You don't look ridiculous. You look . . .” Summer struggled to find the right word. “Listen, ain't nothing wrong with flashing a little flesh. But it's an art form. You have to feel good about yourself. Own it.”

Ingrid tugged at her skirt hem. “These aren't my clothes.”

“I figured.”

“I borrowed them from my friend Mattie.” Ingrid tossed another crumpled tissue to the floor mat. “And his name is Maxwell.”

“Okay, well, tonight we're going to go home and get you cleaned up, and tomorrow we're going to go shopping and find you something to wear next time you're on a man hunt.” Summer felt an unexpected burst of energy and purpose. “Something sexy that you'll still feel comfortable in. We'll also do a walking-in-heels tutorial.” She couldn't stop staring at the dark rings around Ingrid's sweet gray eyes. “And an eyeliner tutorial.”

“It won't make any difference.” Ingrid sighed. “I'm hopeless. I can't even do a shot right. I took one sip of a Swedish Fish shooter and almost threw up.”

“Well, I can't even hear the words ‘Swedish Fish shooter' without wanting to throw up, so don't feel too bad about that.” As an afterthought, Summer added, “Oh, and, you know, underage drinking's bad, mmm-kay?”

“Boys like Maxwell never want girls like me.” Ingrid swiped at her smeared eye makeup. “I'm too boring and quiet and brown-haired.”

That's when Summer finally noticed the follicular fallout. She squinted, trying to assess the damage through the shadows. “Ingrid Jansen. What did you do?”

Ingrid started sobbing again. “The box said ash-blond.”

“The box?” Summer's heart sank. “Oh, no. You tried to dye your own hair? Without any supervision?
Whyyyyyy?
”

“I followed the instructions exactly.” Ingrid hiccuped. “Well, I added a few minutes to the processing time. They said leave it on for twenty minutes, so I kept it on for thirty. For good measure.”

“Oh, honey.” Summer brushed her fingers against the formerly glossy chestnut locks that were now brittle, lank, and . . . gray.

“I followed the directions!” Ingrid repeated. “The box said ash-blond!”

“Yes, and your hair is now the color of ash. Literally.”

They stopped talking when Dutch opened the driver's seat door. He started to get in but, upon seeing two sets of panicked female eyes peering back at him, backed away. “You two need a moment?”

Summer went into damage-control mode. “I need M&M's right now. Big bag, please—it's an emergency. And Ingrid needs . . . what do you need?”

“Cheetos,” Ingrid quavered.

“Cheetos. And we need to stop at a drugstore on the way home.” She held up a hand when Dutch opened his mouth. “Yes, it's a girl thing, and no, you may not ask any questions.”

—

Two hours later, Summer padded down the staircase from the top floor of the Jansen home. “Well, she finally stopped crying. And her hair is . . . Well, it'll have to do until the salon opens tomorrow.”

Dutch's house had probably been built a hundred years ago, and the simple, rustic decor reflected this. The floor planks, window casings, and banister were old, hand-carved wood that had been refinished. The furniture looked sturdy and no-frills, but Summer had been in enough trust fund babies' Nantucket summer homes to recognize heirloom-quality antiques when she saw them. There were photographs everywhere—the walls, the side tables, the edges of the built-in bookshelves. Black-and-white portraits and fading color snapshots of a huge extended family that had dwindled over the generations to these last two siblings.

Dutch sat on a dark blue sofa, his expression shell-shocked, a man who'd unwittingly stumbled into a minefield of neon and hormones. “What was all that about?”

“A boy.” Summer perched on the sofa arm. “Some strapping lacrosse player named Maxwell. Sound familiar?”

“No.” His brow creased.

“
Well, apparently, she's pining away for this guy, and he goes for blond cheerleader types.”

He covered his eyes. “I don't want to hear this.”

“Have some M&M's. It'll help.” She poured a few candies into his palm.

He threw back his head and swallowed them like they were prescription painkillers. “I can't handle this.”

“You're handling it just fine,” she assured him. “You're a great brother.”

“Exactly—I'm her brother. Not her dad, not her mom.” He unknotted his tie. She watched the light blue silk slide through his strong, tan fingers, let her inappropriate thoughts take over for a moment, and then remembered the distraught teenager who could descend upon them at any moment.

Dutch snapped her back to reality with, “Our parents both died when she was six. Boating accident.” Finished with his tie, he unbuttoned his shirt cuffs. “I was in college at the time, so I was named legal guardian.”

“How old were you?”

“Twenty.” He smiled at her surprise. “Yeah, Ingrid was kind of a midlife surprise for our parents. My mom used to call her the ‘bonus baby.' Anyway, one day I was living in the basement of a frat house, and the next, I was making funeral arrangements, moving into my old bedroom, and learning how to iron a Brownie uniform.”

“Hang on—you look like that, and you garden,
and
you iron?” Summer said. “But you don't date? That is a crime against all womankind.”

“I tried to do everything I was supposed to. All the parent-teacher conferences and piano lessons and soccer games, but obviously I missed a few things.”

Summer smiled at the mental image. “I bet you were the golden boy of every PTA meeting. All the cougar moms must've loooved you.”

“Oh, I never went to PTA meetings. But I did sell a lot of Girl Scout cookies.”

“I can imagine.”

“I don't mean to brag, but Ingrid and I set the troop record.” He finally relaxed a bit. “Plus, it was good training for door-to-door campaigning.”