The Summer I Destroyed You, page 1
THE SUMMER I DESTROYED YOU
ELIZABETH O'ROARK
Copyright © 2024 by Elizabeth O'Roark
Editors: Sali Benbow-Powers, Lauren McKellar
Copy Edit: Christine Estevez
Photography: Rafa Catala
Model: Alvaro Torralbo
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
CONTENTS
Note from the Author
1. Emmy
2. Liam
3. Emmy
4. Liam
5. Emmy
6. Liam
7. Emmy
8. Emmy
9. Liam
10. Emmy
11. Liam
12. Emmy
13. Emmy
14. Liam
15. Emmy
16. Emmy
17. Emmy
18. Liam
19. Emmy
20. Emmy
21. Liam
22. Emmy
23. Liam
24. Emmy
25. Liam
26. Emmy
27. Liam
28. Emmy
29. Emmy
30. Liam
31. Emmy
32. Liam
33. Emmy
34. Emmy
35. Liam
36. Emmy
37. Emmy
38. Liam
39. Emmy
40. Emmy
41. Liam
42. Emmy
43. Liam
44. Emmy
45. Emmy
46. Liam
47. Emmy
48. Emmy
Epilogue
The Summer I First Saw You: Excerpt
Acknowledgments
Also by Elizabeth O'Roark
About the Author
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
Emerson’s struggles with weight and body image are the product of her own disordered thinking and do not reflect the author’s personal views in any way.
Sometimes people (and characters) must admit to hating parts of themselves before they can challenge the thoughts that got them there.
1
EMMY
I have a theory: the person you were in high school is the person you are for life.
That’s why the most popular girl in school still thinks she’s cute decades after anything cute about her has withered up and died, and why Silicon Valley billionaires still feel like geeks, no matter how many models they screw.
Donovan Arling was never a geek. He’s been a beautiful specimen his entire life and can’t forget it for a minute. Even now, while he fucks me, it’s not my naked frame beneath him he’s staring at lovingly—it’s his reflection in the mirror he can’t look away from.
Then again, I’m down here thinking about what an asshole he is, so maybe neither of us has our head in the right place.
“I love your arms,” I murmur, running my hands over his triceps. It’s not a lie—he really does have amazing arms—but mostly I just need him to finish so he gets the hell out of my apartment.
“Yeah?” he grunts, a tiny note of desperation in his voice.
“They’re so defined,” I moan. “Those triceps.”
“Oh fuck,” he says, and now his voice is all full-blown panic, a guy who knows the end is nigh whether he wants it to be or not. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.”
He’s busy now, with all the coming and whatnot, so I’m able to roll my eyes at a leisurely pace, knowing even as I do it that I’m being wildly hypocritical.
How many guys have I slept with solely to reassure myself I’m pretty? Many. But Donovan has always been beautiful, so it’s not like he’s got some kind of vacancy to fill—whereas mine appears bottomless.
If you were ever the fat girl, you will always be her inside your own head.
Donovan collapses on top of me. “Fuck, that was hot.”
“Cool,” I reply. “Now you need to get out of my apartment. I’ve got to pack.”
He flips onto his back, pushing his hair away from his face with a lazy hand. “Is that any way to treat the guy who made you come four times this morning?”
He didn’t make me come four times. I haven’t come four times total during all the weeks we’ve slept together.
“Sorry. Please get out of my apartment.”
He sits up, scowling. “Do you always have to be such a bitch?”
“No, I don’t have to be.” I yawn, waiting to grab my phone until I’ve heard the door slam behind him.
I’d intended to check on my flight, but I forget it entirely when a text from Liam Doherty catches my eye.
He’s the point of contact for one of my projects in Elliott Springs. And though I normally avoid friendliness with employees and vendors, it’s hard with him. No matter how awful I am, he winds up making me laugh. There is no amount of bitchiness on my end that dissuades him.
I scroll back through yesterday’s messages, fighting a smile.
I’ll be in the theater day after tomorrow. I want the ceiling tiles in by the time I get there.
Liam
That’s a full day’s work and I’m currently at the nursing home with my dying grandma.
That sounds made up.
I told you about this not five hours ago. It’s like you don’t hear me anymore.
I’m doing my best not to hear you. And unless she’s loaded, making me happy is the wiser financial decision.
And his reply, which I’m only seeing now:
Liam
I guess Nana might have another day, despite what the doctors have told us. I’ll just remind her not to walk toward the light.
It’s dangerous, allowing myself to be amused. It’s dangerous that I’ve allowed him to amuse me for months now. I should have shut it down. When he expressed concern about me leaving the office late one night or when he said I think you need someone to take care of you, Em…I should have reminded him what this was.
A professional relationship, one that’s nearly over.
Instead, I read and reread those messages as if they’re exactly what they are: the closest thing to love notes I’ve ever received. And now he’s going to meet me and I’ll have to put an end to it. But I sort of wish I didn’t have to.
I put the phone away, hop in the shower, and descend to the lobby ninety minutes later, pulling three suitcases with my carry-on slung over my shoulder. I walk fast past Giorgio, the doorman—I loathe unearned friendliness and idle chitchat, and he has an insufferable fondness for both. There was never a conversation about the weather or my destination that Giorgio couldn’t drag out five minutes beyond its time of death.
“Rushing off somewhere exciting, Miss Hughes?” he asks, grabbing one of the suitcases.
“Elliott Springs, California.” My tight smile is a warning that says don’t ask more questions. It’s a warning he never fucking heeds.
He holds the door. “Can’t say I’ve heard of it.”
“No one has.” I move briskly toward the waiting town car. “That’s why I left.”
“Well, you’ll be missing some nice weather here,” he continues as the driver takes my luggage. “Seventies all week. But it’s good to get back to your hometown.”
“It is,” I reply with my first real smile of the morning. “Especially when you’re there to destroy it.”
Giorgio’s jaw is still open as I climb into the car.
It takes a six-hour flight, an hour waiting for the correct rental car, and a ninety-minute drive to reach Elliott Springs, a postcard-perfect Northern California village, equidistant to San Jose and Santa Cruz but not especially convenient to either.
Elliott Springs is known for its cobblestone streets, 1800s architecture, and small-town values, which are all things I don’t care about. But there’s a resort opening on the mountain to the right of the town and two major companies relocating to the left—and I care very much about that.
Soon, Elliott Springs will be flooded with wealthy new residents and even wealthier tourists. And will they want to shop at Cuddlebug Lady’s Fashions and Candles? They will not. Will they want to get their hair done at Cuts-n-Stuff after a plate full of Hamburger Alfredo or whatever the hell the local diner calls an entrée? Doubtful. They’ll want wine bars, decent food, and hundred-dollar yoga pants. I love wine bars and expensive yoga pants too, but what I like best is the thrill of destroying Elliott Springs.
As I drive through town, I pause for a moment in front of Lucas Hall. Once upon a time, the area’s biggest events were held inside its walls. There were wild parties there during Prohibition, fundraisers for the troops during both World Wars, debutante balls during the fifties, and every school event for a century.
The entire town’s history is wrapped up in this decaying old building, and my history too. I remember the way they tripped me on the way up to the stage and tore my dress; I remember Bradley Grimm saying, “I feel the building shake when she walks,” as I crossed the portico for my diploma. What a nice moment of levity they brought to our high school graduation, here in this building they all treasure so very much. I’m certain they’re still laughing about it, and that they laugh even harder about
But once this building is an apartment complex and I’ve driven all their businesses into the ground, I bet they’ll find those memories about as funny as I do.
I turn down Main Street, heading for the bridge. My boss calls just as I hit it, as if he’s tracking my location, which I would not put past him.
“Is everything set?” Charles barks.
“Yes,” I reply crisply. It’s deeply annoying that he’s even asking the question. “The architect’s drawings were completed weeks ago, and I’ll talk to the mayor before the meeting.”
“We’re indulging you here,” he warns, “but we still expect results. Once The Hedgerow opens this summer, it might be too late to fly under the radar.”
“Yes, I realize that, Charles,” I say between my teeth. I’m the one who told you about it, remember?
I don’t fault Charles for being unfriendly—it’s hard to cut down the weak branches if you’ve gotten personally attached to those branches. I do, however, fault him for the fact that he likes to take credit for my work. It’s one of many reasons he’ll be a branch I cut away once I’m in charge. I’ve had a designer mapping out my tastefully feminine renovation of his office for months.
“Do whatever you have to do,” he says before he hangs up.
What he’s really saying is sink to any level necessary to achieve our goals, an unnecessary reminder since I always sink to any level necessary. But he also means be fearless, and as I pull up in front of my mother’s home, the place where I endured the worst years of my life, I’m feeling a lot less fearless than usual.
Nothing has changed in the two years since I was here last—the gate is still broken, shutters hang askew, the angel figurines I gave my mother as a child sit on the front porch collecting dust while the ones my brother gave her will sit on glass shelves inside like the treasured heirlooms they are.
She won’t be pleased to see me. Her voice will drip with disdain as she tells me my expensive purse is tacky, when she says it looks like I’ve gained weight and that she wishes Jeff was the one here to take care of her instead of me.
And I’m going to suck it up and take it, the way I always have.
The timing of my mother’s knee surgery worked to my advantage—I’m trying to arouse as little suspicion as possible about Inspired Building’s plans, and this allows me to claim I’m here only as a loving daughter as opposed to some big-city interloper trying to destroy Elliott Springs’ small-town charm. I wonder if it could possibly be worth it, though, as I approach the house in the sun’s dying light.
The door is unlocked. I enter and drop my suitcases in the foyer, careful not to jostle the glass display shelves, then walk to the back of the house.
“You’re finally here,” my mother says, the folds around her mouth sagging as she pauses the TV. Her gaze drifts over me, head to toe. “And all dressed up for the occasion, apparently.”
“It’s lovely to see you too, Mom.” I don’t bother to explain why I’m in a suit—nothing I say will impress my mother, though I doubt that will stop me from trying repeatedly during the months ahead. No matter how old I get, there will always be this five-year-old inside me who desperately hopes she can make Mommy love her. And the harder I want it, the more she hates me instead.
She nods toward what remains of the back deck while her new screen porch is being built. “Let Snowflake in.”
“You got a dog?” I ask. “You hate dogs.”
“I don’t hate dogs,” she argues, though it’s what she said, verbatim, throughout my childhood. “He was Jordan’s, but he got too big for their place.”
This doesn’t surprise me in the least. Jordan, my brother’s fiancée, is exactly the type to get a dog she could fit in a designer handbag and abandon it once he wasn’t willing or able to be carried around quietly. My mother had better warn Jordan that babies won’t fit in purses forever either.
I open the door and Snowflake bounds inside, jumping on me with muddy paws. I walk into the kitchen to wipe the mud off, glancing at my watch. I suppose I’ll be expected to cook, though God knows what I’ll even make—my repertoire in the kitchen is mostly limited to peanut butter and jelly, or things that only require a microwave, and I even manage to destroy those. “It’s nearly dinnertime. Are you hungry?”
My mother is holding the remote up, ready to resume her show. It’s been two years, but we’ve apparently exhausted the conversation.
“I don’t need dinner,” she replies. “And it wouldn’t kill you to skip a meal or two either.”
My hands grip the counter. I cannot believe she’s already starting this shit with me. I’ve lost eighty pounds since I moved away after high school, yet we’re right back where we were: my mother smugly proud of her restraint while reminding me I suck at it.
Any time I got a snack growing up, any time I wanted seconds, she’d frown, disgusted with me. “You can’t possibly need that,” she’d say, and that was all it would take to turn my actual hunger into something darker and emptier, something I could never fill with food.
“Are you seriously trying to imply that I should lose more weight?” I ask between my teeth.
She sighs. “Still as easily offended as ever, I see. I’m only saying that as you get older, it’s going to get harder to keep that weight off, and we both know it’s always been a struggle for you.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. I could argue that it was only an issue under her roof, but we’d both know that was a lie. I maintain my weight through a less-than-healthy combination of rigorous exercise and calorie counting, two things my mother has never had to resort to, and when I slip up, it feels as if I’ve fallen into a well and will never, ever be able to scramble back up its slick walls.
I’ll eat dinner in defiance tonight, forcing down every bite, and it still won’t be enough. I’ll want to eat everything that isn’t nailed down because she’s reminded me I shouldn’t want any of it.
I’ve been home for an hour and she’s already begun to win.
The room that used to be mine is now essentially a storage area, with boxes of my mother’s old clothes stacked nearly to the ceiling. I have to create a pile against the wall simply to form a path to the bed. The closet is full of her out-of-season clothes so there’s nowhere to put mine. I know mobility has been an issue since she hurt her knee. But I also know she wouldn’t have cleaned this room out for me regardless.
I shower and climb onto the bed, kicking the musty coverlet to the floor. I miss New York in a way I never dreamed I’d miss anything. I want my lovely, clean apartment with its floor-to-ceiling windows and utter emptiness. You could roll a marble from the front door to the back wall without ever hitting a goddamn thing.
I pick up my phone. It’s absolutely pathetic how often I check my texts now, looking for his name.
I’m coming by the store tomorrow around 2PM and that ceiling had better be in. How’s your grandma, by the way?
Liam
You don’t care about my grandma.
That’s because I don’t think you actually have a grandmother. I’m pretty sure you’ve used her death before.
