Her Hot Summer

BETSY

Betsy stood in front of the mirror, stark naked, eyes dragging over every freckle, mole, and sharp angle of her too-long limbs. Sixteen, all elbows and knees, with a face that still looked a little too young and hair that refused to do anything but frizz. Average—that’s what she told herself. Just an average girl with sun-starved skin, restless brown curls, and wide, teal grey eyes.

She smacked her lips as she continued assessing her form, gazing across her pert breasts and her flabby stomach — how would it feel like to have a hand touch her where she most wanted to be touched? To be squeezed in the most tender of places?

She blushed at the thought, stepping away from the mirror, as though it was to blame for her misaligned thoughts in the morning.

But she knew who was to blame. And as a matter of fact, she was going to spend the next three months of summer stuck under the same roof as him. Couldn't the Lord just do her a favor and strike her dead, right there and now? Surely, the mirror could shatter and the shards would pierce into her skin, or she could spontaneously combust? Pretty please?

No? Nothing? Alright, she pursed her lips firmly and reached for her bra. Maybe some things weren't up to God to deal with; maybe she'd be better off poisoning him instead, after all she reasoned she'd be doing humanity a favour, she thought as a wicked grin split her lips.

Connor lounged against her doorframe like he owned the place, arms crossed. "You aren't dressed yet?"

Betsy froze mid-reach, fingers brushing the strap of her bra on her bed. Slowly— deliberately — she lifted her gaze to him, unimpressed. "Well, if you don't get out of my room, I might never be."

"You're stalling," Connor said. He has always been able to read her, and rather than leave as she suggested, he walked in and sat on the bed ignoring the mess that it was. "Liam isn't the same kid you knew, Bets. He's changed."

Betsy scowled, as though she'd tasted something sour. Connor would defend and praise Liam's character to the moon and back even without a gun held to his head. She scoffed as she picked up her bra and turned back to the mirror, making sure Connor could see her face and read her expression the exact way she felt: bullshit. Keeping her voice dripping with sarcasm, she replied, "of course you'd say that. He's your best friend. It's always 'us against the world' even when it involves your sister."

Connor rolled his eyes, he'd heard this too many times from her for it to make any real impact on him. But she wondered if he knew she wasn't just idle-speaking. As a child, she'd always felt excluded by both of them.

"You're both adults now, Bets." Connor replied, leaning back against the cluttered mess that was her bed. "I don't think he's gonna repeat the same thing he did when he poured cold water on you or stuffed you into a sack.”

Betsy spun around, her hairbrush clutched like a weapon, eyes blazing. “You knew! You knew when he did that!”

Connor's lips twitched, a half-suppressed grin betraying him. “It was funny,” he said, utterly unapologetic. “And I'm sure his pranks would have matured, too.”

Betsy narrowed her eyes, and then unexpectedly thrusted the hairbrush at him. Connor grinnedd, and shaking her head, she turned back to her dresser with a sharp flick of her hair. "You know what? Fine. Laugh it up, you jerk. But newsflash, I'm not twelve anymore, and neither you or Liam are getting away with any of that crap this summer. I won't let myself be bullied by either of you."

She picked up a shirt from the pile of clothes on the bed, and wore it deliberately with jerky movements to show how serious she was.

"I'm your big brother, Bets. It's my job to bully you." Connor grinned as he got up. He gave her a loud kiss on her head as he strode by her, out of the room. By the door, he paused, his expression a little concerned as he drummed his fingers on the hinges. “Hey, Bets”

“Now what?” she asked harshly as she hopped on one foot, attempting to wear her jeans trouser.

“You know I care about you, right? Whether or not you and Liam don't get along?”

Betsy rolled her eyes heavenward, groaning as she did. “Yeah, thanks, Connor. Now can you get out so I smoothen my pubes in peace?” Connor grinned and walked out.

The drive was kind of short and peppered with small talk; Betsy pointedly refused any attempt to engage, preferring instead to gaze outside the window, her favorite art book clutched in her hands, her mind whirling with unanswered questions and unbridled feelings.

Every mile covered was just another nail in her coffin—a reminder that soon, she’d be under the same roof as Liam fucking Callahan. Her brother’s best friend. Her sworn nemesis. The boy who’d spent every summer of her adolescence finding new ways to make her life hell.

Betsy could still remember every humiliating prank, every sharp-edged nickname that clung like a scar. The time he’d dumped an entire pitcher of fruit punch on her head in front of her crush. The time he’d locked her out of the lake house, soaking wet in nothing but a swimsuit, while the guys laughed themselves sick inside. The endless teasing about her knobby knees, her braces, her weight, her height, the fact that she always carried an artbook like some kind of lifeline.

But what kept her up at night—what haunted her most—was that night. The one she never spoke of. The bonfire at the beach. The heat and the smoke curling in the air. The way his gaze had cut through the crowd like a blade and landed on her. It had been dark, music thumping in the distance, and maybe she’d been tipsy, maybe the summer air had gotten to her—but for one heartbeat, one dangerous second, it hadn’t felt like hate when he’d brushed past her, close enough for her to feel his breath against her ear.

She’d told herself she imagined the way he lingered, the way his eyes tracked her when she walked away. Because Liam Callahan hated her. And she hated him.

And God knew that if she didn't value her life as well as she did, she'd have signed her soul over to Satan just to give him his just desserts.

Leila glanced for what was the umpteenth time at the rearview mirror, to read the expressions on her younger child's face. But as always, Betsy remained expressionless; her teal eyes simply gazing into the distance, her brown hair billowing wildly in the wind — Leila knew that so many facets of emotions were swirling just beneath the surface of her daughter's icy facade. She'd tried to speak to her but Betsy didn't so much as glance at her, absorbed in her thoughts that Leila wished she could pick apart, scrutinize and help her understand.

She knew the move was hard on the kids—but it was hard on her too. They weren’t just saying goodbye to the only home they’d ever known; she was, too. Every corner of that house held a memory—a pencil mark on the wall where birthdays had been measured, the kitchen that had once been filled with laughter and Sunday morning pancakes, the porch where they’d watched summer storms roll in.

She was saying goodbye not just to a house, but to a life she and their father had built together. A life filled with love, with chaos, with moments that had made up a world. Packing the boxes felt like packing pieces of her heart—memories folded carefully away, but never left behind. She was saying goodbye to a life lived.

But one thing Leila understood that home or life wasn't just limited to a geographical location, it was inbound in your heart. For better and for worse, and she hoped she'd help Betsy see that.

She was only thankful and grateful that Jessie Callahan had been an absolute gem about letting them stay for the summer, while she worked out her portfolio to secure another job after her previous one unfortunately ended in termination due to internal and external bankruptcy; she didn't have much in life but she was grateful for the few good people that were sent her way. She hoped her daughter would see this as an opportunity, she wasn't worried about her son. Jessie's son was his best friend, if anything, it seemed he was rather looking forward to it.

She caught Connor's eyes in the rearview mirror and she jerked her head towards Betsy. A silent question.

Check on your sister, will you?

If there was anyone that could get to or understand Betsy, it'd be him.

Connor slid his gaze to his sister, watching her quietly from the driver’s seat. Betsy sat curled against the car door, her chin propped on her hand, staring out at the blur of trees and asphalt as though the whole world outside the window had gone silent. Her hair—messy from the early morning rush—framed her face in loose waves, and her fingers picked absently at a frayed thread on her jeans, the way she always did when her mind was miles away.

Leila caught his eye again from the passenger seat, her brows knitting in quiet worry before she tilted her head toward Betsy in a subtle plea. Say something.

“You know,” he said, glancing at her, “if you sulk this hard all summer, you’re gonna wrinkle before you hit eighteen.”

Betsy snorted. “I'm sure that's just about the motive for this move, then.”

“Things wouldn't be all that bad, Bets. You gotta chill out,” Connor replied, watching her.

Betsy scoffed and said nothing else.

Well, at least he tried, Leila thought dismally. She really hoped she wouldn't be scraping body parts off the floor in the next three months.

The car turned a corner and Betsy could see the Callahan household at the end of the street. Her stomach plummeted and she gripped the edges of her artbook tighter than she anticipated. What would Liam do to ruin this summer for her? She thought.

Knowing Liam, he was already probably planning a hundred and one ways.