Page 167 of Summer Love

The contract could wait. I could email it or slip it under Jace’s door on my way out. But I’m leaving Coral Bay tonight.

So everything has to be settled tonight.

I read the names by the buzzers. Walker, third floor. I climb. The stairwell smells of varnished wood. One flight of stairs, a landing, another flight.

I stop in front of the door. I take the contract for Maggie out of my tote bag and knock. Quick footsteps, a muffled sound inside. The door opens.

Avery appears, barefoot. She’s grown—that’s my first thought. Her hair is long, sandy blonde, lightened at the ends. Two faded-blue streaks fall to one side, with little beads worked into a braid above her ear. She has Jace’s eyes, Noah’s jaw. I see them both in her.

Her hand stays on the door handle. She doesn’t step back.

“Hey, Avery. Is your mom home?” I ask.

She glances down at the contract in my hand and stiffens.

“No.”

Her hand tightens on the door handle.

“You’re leaving again, huh?”

I don’t answer. She takes a step out onto the landing.

“You come to get your papers signed and you take off. Again.”

She’s talking fast, getting louder.

“He’s not good enough for you, is that it?”

I swallow. The contract burns against my palm.

“No, Avery, I⁠—”

“He’s finally doing okay again. And you show up tonight to wreck him. The first time wasn’t enough?”

I could hand her the contract, say, “Give this to your mom,” turn around. I don’t. She loves her brother and she’s fighting for him. I don’t blame her.

“Something happened,” I say.

“When?”

“Six years ago.”

She doesn’t move. She studies me.

“Avery, can I come in for a couple of minutes?”

She hesitates. Then she steps back, opens the door wider. I go in. The apartment is small, clean, almost bare. My eyes move from the beige fabric couch to the coffee table, to the book sitting on it, then to the open kitchen tucked into one corner of the living room.

On a low cabinet against the wall, I notice two photos.

The first one is old: Tom and Maggie by the sea, young. Jace looks about three; he’s leaning against Tom’s leg. Noah is still a baby in Maggie’s arms.

The second is more recent: Avery on a beach, a trophy in one hand, her surfboard under the other arm, hair plastered to her forehead.

Avery shuts the door and moves toward the couch, arms crossed, chin up. I set the contract on the coffee table. I don’t sit; neither does Avery.

“I wasn’t planning to tell you why I’m leaving… but I can’t let you think I’m just taking off like that.”