Page 15 of A Bittersweet Summer

I smooth down the clear bandage, making sure it’s firmly attached. My goal for today is to get less sweaty, though I’m not sure that’s possible out here.

Six-fifty flashes on the dashboard, and I dig my phone out of the bag on the floor of my car. I’d been so tired after leaving Lennon’s house yesterday that I hadn’t had time to read through any of the notifications.

I click through junk emails and delete them, ignoring a text confirming a food delivery before finding my way on the dreaded social media.

Most of the notifications are the usual. Ellis and Lennon liked the photo I took on the farm. Gus sent me no less than twenty videos he found hilarious (rightfully so), but one notification that makes my stomach plummet.

Wesley8 liked your photo

“Jesus,” I whisper.

I click on the photo expecting it to be recent. Instead, I find he liked a photo fromtwo yearsago. A photo with Chad, no less.

The tattoo on my side itches, and I fight the urge to scratch. Maybe I really did ruin the thing with all of the poop scooping I did. That, or it’s finally healing.

I see myself in the photo—a different version of myself—happy on the boat we took from Chad’s lakehouse. The one thing that’s abundantly clear is that Chad doesnotlook happy.

Maybe he never really was.

I stare at Wesley’s username and fight against snooping. It would be so,sotempting to snoop. It’s difficult to get a read on him, if I’m being honest. His Instagram could be a goldmine of information—really give me the upper hand here.

For the farm, of course.

Exiting out of the app, I glance at the clock and quickly toss the device into the passenger seat.

I drive down the long gravel driveway that passes what will hopefully be my new home, and look out over the fields of horses grazing. At the sight of my car, a few of them trot up to the fence, and I smile. I recognize maybe one, but that will get better with time. It’s only my second day.

Blue leaks through the purple-streaked sky as the clock ticks closer to seven.

When I get out of the car, I change into the boots that finally arrived, wriggling my toes and dreading the thought of breaking them in. I’m sure one full day of work will do just that, but it won’t be without blisters.

Unfortunately, my rain boots now have a hole in them, and I’m a few steps away from being permanently known as the employee with farting shoes.

I’ll take the blisters over looking incompetent and foolish.

Wesley had sent me a text after I left yesterday, saying to start with the dog up at the house.

Nerves twist in my gut at the thought of simply walking into the back door. I was given explicit permission, but it somehow still feels like breaking and entering—like I’m invading space I’m not welcome in.

When I stop the car and get out, I find my way up the hill to the farmhouse. The incline sucks the oxygen out of my lungs, leaving me panting more than I should by the time I climb the porch steps and open up the screen door.

“Hello?” I say, poking my head into a small galley kitchen. Large cabinets, a sink, and a humming refrigerator.

Seems right. It’s definitely a kitchen.

When nobody responds, I turn to the closet door at my right. It opens with a soft squeak. When I let go, the door continues to swing slowly until it crunches against a bag of dog food.Aha!Accomplishment fills my chest, and I stand straighter. It’s the same feeling I get when I finish a crochet project without messing up any stitch counts. Apparently, I’m very proud of my ability to follow directions.

As expected, the scoop sits inside the opened bag of dog food, and I measure the kibble carefully before walking back into the kitchen. My boot scuffs on the uneven, wooden flooring, and I lose a piece of kibble to the abyss beneath the refrigerator.

The house is old, that’s for sure. Worn wooden cabinets painted a fading white, scuff marks on the doorframes and countertops. It’s all chipped corners and missing paint. Well loved. Well used.

When the kibble drops into the metal bowl, the rapid clicking of nails on hardwood startles me. I jolt upright in time to see a giant German Shepherd come barreling into the small space.

His tongue lolls out of his mouth when he runs up to me, greeting me with a slobbery lick to the hand.

I smile. “Hey,” I say, scratching behind his ear. When he jumps up to grab the scoop, I move it away from him. Luckily, he’s friendly—almost too friendly. I laugh at his second attempt to steal the scoop. “Hold on,” I say, gently pushing him down before pointing to the bowl on the floor. “It’s all right there for you. There’s no need to assault me.”

A shadow passes near the other end of the kitchen, leading deeper into the house. When I turn toward it, I’m greeted by the perkiest boobs I’ve ever seen. Full nipple. A beautiful woman throws a flannel over her shoulders and begins buttoning it as I avert my eyes.