Page 112 of Summer Love

“When you stand up, you pivot. Automatic. Got it?”

I nod. He goes back to Noah without another word.

Maya shoots me a look I don’t meet. I lie back down on the board, paddle out, and wait for the next wave.

It comes.

I paddle, I pop up, I think about the rotation. But mostly I think about the heat of Jace’s palm.

My back foot slips. My center of gravity tips… and I fall off the board with all the grace of a sandbag.

I surface. Maya bursts out laughing. Behind me, Noah shouts something I don’t catch. Even Harper, way outside, has turned around.

The wave had nothing to do with it.

The session goes on. The sun climbs, the waves stay small and steady. Maya has me work on the rotation, over and over. After a while, it comes back. My hips pivot, my shoulders follow, and the board responds better.

For his part, Noah keeps falling. He gets back up, falls again, paddles crooked, blows the timing, plants a knee where a foot should go. Jace doesn’t lose patience. He repositions, he pushes, he waits.

A small wave comes in, clean, even. Jace pushes Noah’s board at the perfect moment.

Noah paddles. For once, his arms are coordinated. The wave takes him. He plants his hands flat, pushes up, slides one foot under him, then the other.

He’s up.

He wobbles, arms flung out, knees too bent, back hunched. A technical disaster, but he’s standing. The board glides, Noah holds on.

“Fuck!”

He falls with a shout, head thrown back, and when he comes up he’s laughing. A real laugh—the first since I came back.

“¡Eso es!” Maya yells, slapping the water with her palm.

Kai just raises a hand—he doesn’t waste a motion.

Jace watches his brother surface and just nods.

The lesson winds down on its own. Maya heads out to catch a few waves on her own. Noah stays near the shore, sitting on his board, spent but still smiling. I let myself drift on the yellow board, eyes on the horizon.

Jace sits just to my right, legs in the water, silent. We don’t look at each other. We wait.

The set comes in from the west, visible from a distance—a series of dark swells forming offshore and rolling toward us in tight rows.

The first wave passes too far out. The second pitches too fast.

The third is perfect. Maya spots it from farther out.

“That one!”

I lie down on my board and paddle. To my right, Jace does the same. We paddle in parallel, four or five yards of water between us, and the wave rises behind us.

It lifts us at the same time.

I pop up. My feet find their place without searching, my hips follow, the board responds.

I don’t think. I glide.

Jace is right there, on the same wave. His feet are anchored, his stance low and open, and he surfs the way he’s always surfed—with unfair ease.