Page 150 of Summer Love

“Be careful, love. You know she lives in New York.”

Her voice is soft, no reproach. She’s talked to me like this since the accident.

“I’m fine, Mom.”

She doesn’t answer. She never pushes. That’s worse.

Between heats, while Avery goes to grab an açaí bowl from the stand by the entrance, I pull out my phone and text Summer.

Avery won her heat. Heading back soon.

I hit send before I can chicken out.

The reply comes in under a minute.

Congrats, Avery!

The house is coming along. Drive safe, see you tomorrow

I stare at the red heart at the end of the message. It’s just an emoji. No reason to stand here like an idiot.

I read the message again. I read it one more time.

I don’t reply with a heart—I’m not that guy. But the corner of my mouth lifts.

“Okay,” Avery says, planting herself next to me, bowl in hand. “Who is it?”

“Nobody.”

“You’re smiling at your phone, Jace. That’s a first.”

I slide the phone into my pocket.

“Let’s go. Gotta load the boards.”

Mom drives the VW bus on the way home. I’m in the passenger seat; Avery’s wedged between us on the bench seat, bare feet on the dashboard. She falls asleep within five minutes, head on my shoulder.

In the back, Dylan and Tess are asleep too.

The boards are strapped to the roof, and the van smells like wax and the coconut oil Avery worked into her hair after the contest. Highway 1 unspools, winding between the cliffs and the ocean. The windows are down. Warm wind gusts in and rattles the straps.

Mom drives without a word. On the wheel, her hands are tanned, a little dry, nails cut short. Surfer’s hands. Mother’s hands.

I watch the ocean through the window. I think about Summer.

The red heart. See you tomorrow. It means she wants to see me.

Avery shifts in her sleep, settles her cheek against my biceps. Her breathing is steady.

I’m not supposed to be happy. Not over an emoji.

Coral Bay appears at the end of the road a little after five. Mom parks in front of the surf school. Dylan and Tess climb out, grab their stuff. I unload the boards while my sister stretches, arms up, back arched, with that cat-yawn she’s always done.

I kiss Mom and Avery, then head to PT. Like every Tuesday for six years.

The medical center on Main Street is quiet. The receptionist nods at me as I pass the front desk. I know the way by heart. Narrow hallway, door at the end.

Steph’s waiting, the treatment table already set up, a white towel folded at the end.