Page 109 of Summer Love

“Run?” I say with my best smile.

“You’re kidding,” he mutters.

“Not even.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but the door has swung a little too wide and I can see inside.

The cabin is a disaster. Pizza boxes stacked on the little desk, beer cans lined up along the wall, crushed soda cans, an ashtray overflowing on the nightstand, clothes on the floor. The curtains are drawn. The air reeks of stale smoke, greasy cardboard, and sweat.

Noah follows my gaze and turns red all the way to his ears. He steps sideways to block the view. Too late.

“It’s…” he starts.

He closes his eyes, crosses his arms.

“Hey… It’s fine, Noah.”

I take a step forward, put my hand on his arm.

“It’s not a contest, but my room at college was way worse after my fracture. For a month it looked like a dump.”

My dad called every day, his voice too gentle. My mom had left for Montreal with Elena after our fight. I spent a month in a studio apartment where the floor disappeared under tissues and instant ramen wrappers.

Noah stares at me, then uncrosses his arms.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Except for me it’s been more like four or five years.”

I don’t answer.

“I’ll get dressed,” he says, heading for the back of the cabin.

He digs through the pile of rumpled clothes on the floor, picks one up, pauses, looks for something else.

I hesitate on the threshold, then step inside.

I open the window and the air rushes in all at once. I gather the empty cans and drop them into the trash bag hanging from the closet handle. I grab three pizza boxes, close them up, and set them by the door. I’m not doing a deep clean. I’m just helping. No pushing, no comments.

As I lift one box, I catch sight of a yellowed cover. The book’s title: Clinical Oncology: Principles and Practice. I don’t touch it. Under the book, a form sticks out. I can read the header: Monterey Peninsula College. A coffee ring stains the top corner brown. The first line is filled in—first name, last name, date of birth. The rest is blank.

I put the box back where it was.

Noah has pulled on shorts and a gray T-shirt. He looks at the open window, the cans in the bag, the stacked boxes. His jaw tightens. He doesn’t say thank you, but he doesn’t ask me to stop either.

“Summer… About what you told me yesterday about Jace, you need to know that⁠—”

“No,” I cut in. “Not now.”

Noah shuts his mouth. What I read in his eyes looks like guilt—which makes no sense. It’s not his fault his brother is an asshole.

He nods. We head out.

The pier is a ten-minute run away. The sky is brightening in the east, pink and orange low on the horizon, gray everywhere else. The sand is firm underfoot, packed hard by the low tide. The waves roll on our right, long and steady—the background hum of Coral Bay, the one I hear even in my sleep.

Noah runs beside me. He’s breathing hard, his strides uneven. After five minutes he starts to lag, but he keeps up. We don’t talk.

We turn around at the end of the pier. Noah has his hands on his hips, breath short, T-shirt stuck between his shoulder blades.

“Want me to slow down?” I offer.