Now that Stiles has put the idea in her head, Summer can’t make it go away; it’s /annoying/. She’s not dating; she’s not going to be interested in someone right now.
Not as long as /he/’s still looming over her life, anyway. Figuratively speaking.
A moment ago she didn’t want Stiles to leave; now, reminded of things she doesn’t want to be thinking about, she can’t wait for him to go, so she can hate herself in private, for trying again, for not just accepting the truth, /his/ truth that he stabbed her with. But she still doesn’t like the idea of Stiles bringing other people to the bowling alley. Which is why Summer says, of course, “It’s fine if you do. I don’t mind. One can never have too many friends.”
Stiles grows silent for a few long moments, watching Summer’s face. He even almost grows still, hands clasping neatly around the book that she’s lending him. The twitchy, overwhelmed body language seems to shunt away like water off a duck’s back, replaced by something canny, like Stiles is learning something about Summer and coming to conclusions and putting the puzzle together.
He winces, like he’s swallowed some kind of sour pill.
And then the moment’s gone, and he bobs his head, shuffling awkwardly in the direction of the door. “Okay. I’ll…talk to my Dad. Thanks for the book loan. And the ice.”
Summer doesn’t notice the momentary change in his body language; she’s fallen too far inside herself and all she sees right now is the need to run away.
Hell is other people; hell is herself.
“You’re welcome.” Somehow, /somehow/, in spite of all that, the words, the smile are still genuine. “Thank you again for bringing my rapscallion home. I’ll see you tomorrow night, okay? Please let me know if you aren’t going to be able to make it.” And then he’s out the door, snd she closes it and slides down to sit on the floor with her knees to her chest and her head on her knees. Running away from herself just as hard as she can.
—
Even though there hadn’t been a message, Summer still doesn’t expect to see Stiles at the bowling alley. That’s not how her life works. Jesse is there; of course he is there, three lanes over and she can’t keep herself from glancing over too often. She’s never been one for the razor blade, but then again why cut your skin when you can make yourself bleed so much more on the inside?
It’s a little after midnight, and she’s canvassing the racks for the perfect weight ball, light enough she can throw it but with finger holes she can actually use. Beth and Zenobia are basically just waiting on her, and she’s loitering at the racks nearest the doors, hoping she might be wrong this one time.