I slowly turn to my side in the plush comforter of the bed, feeling the soft warmth of morning sunlight filtering through the curtains, casting a gentle, golden glow across the room. I can't help but smile.

Being here at the lake, in this house, it's my happy place. This room has always been my favorite. It might be one of the smaller ones, but it's just perfect for me. The walls are covered in white shiplap boards, with old vintage picture frames on the walls. The hardwood floors are old and well-loved, creaking with each step. With its comfortable king-size bed and an en-suite bathroom, it's my cozy haven.

The house itself is a beautiful, old yet remodeled, massive A-frame-styled home, nestled right on the lake. The backyard stretches long, and a wooden dock extends invitingly into the crystal-clear waters.

With Ellis's parents owning gyms scattered throughout the Seattle area, their family is, well, pretty wealthy. They own three homes in Washington alone. Among them, this house is by far my favorite. It's home away from home, but actually better than my real home.

Ellis was right about coming here though. It's a perfect way to get over Beckett and stop fixating on every little detail. I have a few months to relax and clear my mind before I need to start thinking about what to do once I get home. Although now, I find myself unable to stop replaying everything that transpired yesterday.

Ugh, and now he's going to be stuck in my head all day, with thoughts like:

Am I going to have trust issues from now on? That's how that works, right? What's my mom going to say when I finally tell her? What will his mom say? I should probably call them both soon. Did other people know about this before I did? Did his friends know? I hope he remembers to water my plants; those were really expensive.

My expression drops, and I instinctively reach for my phone resting on the bedside table. The screen lights up reading 5:45 a.m. Even though it's ridiculously early, my mind already refuses to switch off.

I rub my chest, feeling the weight of it all, as I slip out of my bed and make my way to the bathroom, where I quickly brush my teeth and wash my face. Returning to my room, I change into workout shorts, throw on a tank top, and lace up my running shoes.

I don't really like running but today it's an attempt to clear my head, though it proves to be a challenge. I make my way into town, I find myself stopping along the quaint Main Street area. Just on this street alone, there's an ice cream parlor, a hardware store, a bookstore, a bar, a flower shop, and, of course, Hansen's Coffee Roasters.

I pass by Hansen's, and I notice a younger woman flipping the closed sign to open, but thankfully, there's no sign of Wells, which suits me just fine. I've decided to steer clear of Hansen's Coffee for the summer. If I've successfully avoided him the last few summers, I can certainly do the same now.

Plus, it's been nice not having him in the office or around in general– pens always where I leave them, my desk in order, and no outfits being criticized.

It's been nice but also oddly strange. I think I've gotten used to it. That might be a problem.

As the sun climbs higher in the sky, more people emerge, beginning their day. I make my way back to the house. When I get back, I find Delaney and Ellis still asleep—deciding to take advantage of the quiet surroundings, and make my way to the dock and sit in one of the three wooden lounge chairs.

"Coffee?" I hear from behind me, and I pivot to find Delaney making her way down the dock, holding two steaming cups of coffee.

She's still in her pajamas, the ones with little school pencils on them, the glasses she hates wearing because they magnify her eyes to twice the size, and her honey brown hair bundled up in a disheveled bun.

"Hey, thanks," I murmur appreciatively, taking the cup she offers me. She settles into the seat beside me as I savor a sip of my coffee.

After a moment, I feel her eyes on me, and she clears her throat. "You left your phone on the counter this morning," she says, retrieving my phone from her shorts pocket and extending it to me.

"Oh thanks," I mutter, taking it from her, even though I had purposefully left it behind. My eyes briefly skim through the notifications.

"It's been buzzing all morning," she says, gazing out at the lake, pushing up her glasses on her nose.

Most days, Beckett's messages and calls flood my phone, but sometimes, he goes silent for stretches, like yesterday. However, today stands out; already, there are three missed calls and ten text messages from him and it's not even 9 a.m. yet.

Beckett: June I miss you.

Beckett: I messed up baby. I'm so sorry.

Beckett: I'm such a fucking idiot.

Beckett: Are you supposed to clean the bottom of the shower or does that self-clean?

Beckett: See. I'm even cleaning the apartment because I miss you so much.

Beckett: I love you. I'm coming over after work today. I know you are staying with Ellis.

Beckett: I miss texting you about my day, I miss your voice. I need you.

And the worst one of all.

Beckett: I'm so fucking hard for you right now. I wish you'd just forgive me.

I'm really hoping this is one of those times when he doesn't remember anything about me and forgets that I come to the lake every summer with Ellis and Delaney.

I clutch my phone, irritation coursing through me. If it weren't for how expensive iPhones are, I'd consider throwing it into the lake.

Delaney glances at me, concern knitting her brows. "Beckett?" she asks cautiously.

"He won't stop texting me."

She takes another sip of her coffee. "I mean, you're probably going to have to talk to him eventually, right?"

I shrug. "Can you talk to him for me?" I joke, my voice laced with a hint of desperation, as I squint my eyes, looking over at her.

She chuckles softly. "Oh, I'd love to give Beckett Moore a piece of my mind, but I doubt he'd even want to talk to me."

I give her a weak smile. After a moment, she continues, "You are going to have to talk to him though. Figure out what to do with your apartment, get the rest of your things."

I take a deep, contemplative breath, then exhale with a heavy sigh. I don't want to have to talk to him. I'd rather just leave all my belongings behind and buy new ones. Plus, I'm not even sure if I can afford to live in that apartment alone, so he can have it for all I care.

"I don't want to," I say, shaking my head as I stare down into my coffee. Not after that last time.

The memory of the last conversation floods my mind, and I cringe externally at the thought. God, I don't even want to start replaying that painfully embarrassing conversation in my mind.

"I know, Junie," she says, scrunching her nose at me as her glasses slide down. She pushes them back up. "Maybe you should just block his number, forget him, delete him from your life."

I smirk at the suggestion. "I think I'd rather steal all his football trophies and light them on fire instead."

"I like that idea better. Break his heart."

"I don't want to just break his heart, want to dip it in liquid nitrogen and then smash it until it's powder."

"I totally support that decision," she says, bursting into laughter. I join her, sharing a laugh, and then I feel my phone vibrate with another notification.

"Oh god, Beckett. Shut up," I groan, expecting it to be yet another message from him. However, when I pick up my phone and check, it's actually an email from my boss.

Juniper,

I wanted to touch base regarding your upcoming article. It seems the article is running behind schedule again, and we're facing a tight deadline.

Could we schedule a computer call for 1:30 p.m. today to explore potential solutions?

Best regards,

Andrew Mitchell

"Shit," I mutter as I read the email. "I need to get to work." I hastily grabbing my coffee cup and the running shoes I had taken off earlier.

"Right now?" She says, watching me scramble. "It's not even eight yet."

"Yeah," I call back to Delaney before jogging up the dock. "I'll see you later?"

"Yup, I'll be right here all day," she yells back, her face tilted towards the sun, her closed eyes soaking in the warmth. "Basking in the sun."

Back inside, I quickly rinse off in the shower, change my clothes, and then grab my laptop. I settle down at the kitchen table, ready to start working. I open my computer, log on to the internet, and attempt to access my emails. However, a message appears:

You are not connected to the internet.

I can't help but grunt in frustration and try again, making sure to enter the password slowly and correctly.

You are not connected to the internet.

"But I am," I mutter aloud to myself, trying to will the connection to cooperate. I attempt once more to log into the Wi-Fi.

You are not connected to the internet.

It's taunting me.

"Yes, I am!" I exclaim, a note of irritation creeping into my voice. I clench my hair in frustration.

Ellis's laughter wafts in from behind me as she strolls in from the other room. "What's wrong?"

"The internet's not working," I inform her, stabbing my keyboard aggressively with my pointer fingers to make sure I type it in correctly.

"Oh yeah, it wasn't working last night either," she says casually as she grabs a mug and pours herself some coffee. "I figured we could pretend like it's 1995 or something."

I look up at her, unable to tell if she's serious or not. With a hint of desperation in my eyes, I say, "But I have to work. I need the internet. I need it to be 2023."

"Okay, well, I'll call the people today," she says, taking a sip of her coffee as she leans against the counter.

"The people?"

"You know, the internet people. The squad of geeks people. The people that fix the box thingy," she says, waving her hand dismissively. "I'm sure they can come by the end of the week."

I return my gaze to my uncooperative computer, frustration building within me. Ellis senses my tension.

"Just go to Hansen's," she suggests. "They had internet there yesterday. It's only like a ten-minute walk."

I look up at her, my reluctance evident. I really don't want to work there. I'm supposed to be avoiding Hansens. I can already imagine Wells receiving an email from Mitchell, asking if he can take over my article. The last thing I want is to sit there and listen to him brag about it and see his stupid face.

"Fine."

I stand up, grab my laptop, go back upstairs to change into something that Wells can't make fun of—jean shorts and a tank top. Then I make my way out the door.

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