Page 157 of Summer Love

This time it’s real.

“Sleep okay?” he asks, getting to his feet.

“Yeah.”

My voice is a little hoarse. I don’t tell him about the panic when I saw the empty bed. Should I?

I follow him into the trailer. He turns on the coffee maker. I sit down on the bed, feet tucked under me, and watch him work. He gets out two mugs, sliced bread he sticks in the toaster, a jar of peanut butter.

“What do you want to do?” he asks, spreading peanut butter.

I want to stay on this bed. I need to get out of here. I’m torn between the two.

I take the mug he holds out.

“I’d like to go for a run with Noah, if he’s free.”

I take a sip. The coffee is strong, almost bitter, but good.

“Okay.”

No comment. No pointed look. No question.

“See you later, then,” he says. “If you want, I can help you after my lessons.”

“Help me...?”

“The yard. You’ve got what, three days of work left?”

I smile.

“About that.”

“I’ll come by at the end of the day.”

He bites into his toast, standing against the counter. There’s a little peanut butter at the corner of his mouth, and I hate what it does to me.

Morning suits him—the faint shadows under his eyes, the hair every which way, before the students, before the instructor smile.

I finish my mug. We don’t talk much. That’s fine with me.

The rest of the day goes by fast.

The inside of the house is done. The walls are repainted, the floors sanded, the kitchen up and running. I’ve cleared out the garage, tossed what needed tossing, kept what mattered. Nothing spectacular—it’s a rental, not a model home—but it’s solid, clean, livable.

I said yes to the roommate setup. With three bedrooms rented, the math holds up: rent the others can afford, and enough coming in to really keep me afloat. And the idea of seeing my grandparents’ house lived in by people I know appeals to me more than I’d have admitted a few days ago.

That leaves the yard. Three days, maybe less, if Jace keeps his promise to come help at the end of the day.

Midafternoon, I decide to tackle the hole in the fence on the beach side. A rotted post, the sagging wire mesh to pull taut and reattach. I set the toolbox down in the grass, grab gloves and a pair of wire cutters. I crouch to size up the damage, and I look up.

On the beach, in front of the surf school, Jace is teaching a group. They’re little—six, seven years old, I’d guess. Wetsuits too big for them, foam boards in the sand, faces focused like their lives depend on it. Jace kneels in front of a blond boy. He holds the boy’s arms, shows him the stance, repeats the motion. The kid tries and falls. Jace gets him back up, laughs with him, shows him again.

Farther out in the water, Kai and Maya have another group—teenagers, more independent. Kai is calm, Maya is all gestures. But it’s Jace I’m watching.

He notices a girl who’s afraid to lie down on the board. He goes over to her, crouches, talks to her, waits. He doesn’t push her, doesn’t force her. After a moment, she lies down, and he puts a hand on her back to steady her.

He’s naturally patient. Like his father.