Page 170 of Summer Love

I could turn around.

I let go of the pendant, put my hand back on the wheel, press the gas. The engine growls louder, the sign passes on my left, then disappears in the rearview mirror.

It’s over.

The tears come all at once. All they needed was a stupid border, painted on green sheet metal.

My vision blurs, the oncoming lights doubling in the windshield. I blink, wipe one cheek with the back of my hand, then the other. I don’t slow down.

It’s the second time I’ve passed this sign crying.

The first time, I was seventeen. I was sitting in the passenger seat. Dad was driving, there was a helicopter overhead, sirens I wouldn’t understand until years later. I hadn’t chosen it. I’d cried anyway, my forehead against the window, blocking Jace’s number and Noah’s.

This time, I’m the one driving. I’m the one who chose. And it doesn’t make things any easier. Just the opposite.

I’m crying because I love him. Because it isn’t enough.

I made the right decision. The pain isn’t doubt. It’ll follow me to New York, into air-conditioned hallways, into meetings where no one will know there was once a boy on a beach who thought the yellow board was the color of my hair. It’ll take up less room eventually. Someday, maybe.

Coral Bay falls away behind me, a little more every second. San Francisco is almost three hours away—I’m driving straight to the airport, no stops. The red-eye takes off just before midnight. I land in New York in the morning.

I don’t turn around.

CHAPTER 54

Jace

Ipush open the lodge door. Flip slips past me, nose skimming the floor, and trots to the counter.

The front desk looks like it closed early. The wall lamps leave the corners of the room in shadow. Yumi looks up at me.

“Jace.”

She doesn’t smile. She slides an envelope toward me, my name written on it.

“She left this for you.”

I recognize Summer’s handwriting. Round, slanting right, the J too big. I bite back a smile. She could’ve texted me; she went with a note instead. I take the envelope and peel back the flap. Flip sits at my feet, ears up.

I read the first line without understanding it. I read it again.

I’m not coming back.

I brace one hand on the counter.

I love you. It’s not enough.

I read it again, the middle, the end, out of order.

Don’t contact me.

My fingers tighten on the paper. Yumi watches me. She knows. She knew when she handed me the envelope.

“When?” I ask, my voice rough.

“A little over an hour ago.”

An hour. She’s on the road. She’s already miles away.