Page 185 of Summer Love

Stop, Summer.

When I catch his eye, he smiles at me. He looks worn out, and not quite sure I’m really standing here in front of him.

Even in jeans and sneakers, he looks out of place here—the copper tan of his face, the ends of his hair bleached by the ocean, his white T-shirt too loose for New York. The woman with her book hasn’t turned a page since he sat down; the one at table 6 has looked up from her phone.

At one point, I set a coffee in front of the man in the suit. He’d asked for a decaf—or not. I apologize, I swap it out, he grumbles. Mavis raises an eyebrow at me.

Focus, Summer.

I pass by table 8 one more time. Jace presses on his left thigh for a second—a small, subtle touch, right above the knee, where the scar is. He lets go, picks his cup back up. I look away before he can tell I’ve seen it.

10:10 p.m.

The couple at table 6 is gone. So is the man in the suit. Two customers are left at the counter with their coffee, and the woman with her book, who won’t look up before closing.

“Last call!” the boss shouts.

A formality—nobody orders at this hour. Mavis wipes down the pass. The cook takes off his apron. The overhead fluorescent buzzes once, steadies.

Mavis puts a hand on my shoulder.

“Go on, honey,” she says, low. “I’ll finish up.”

“But I⁠—”

“Your last two customers, I’ve got them. I’ll put your tips in your locker. Take off your apron and get out of here.”

I untie the brown apron behind my back as I cross the room. I fold it, put it away in my locker. I run my hands and face under the faucet, trying to get rid of the smell of fryer grease. The mirror shows me an unflattering reflection—dark circles, hair a mess, yellow T-shirt spotted with coffee. Nothing I can do about it. I grab my bag, where I’ve stuffed my outfit for the agency—suit and heels.

When I come back out of the locker room, Mavis has moved to the counter and is chatting with one of the customers.

I go straight to Jace. He looks up and smiles at me.

He’s already tucked a bill under the cup. He grabs his backpack, stands, comes toward me. He limps a little on his first few steps.

We’re face to face. I hold out my hand.

“Come on.”

His fingers close around mine. His hand is warmer than mine, and it’s shaking a little.

The bell jingles as I push the door open.

CHAPTER 61

Summer

We walk. Three blocks west, two south. Jace’s hand stays in mine. Neither of us speaks.

The air is warm, almost sticky. An Uber Eats guy brushes past us on an e-bike, a square insulated delivery bag on his back. We pass a bodega with harsh neon, the graffitied security gates of the closed-up shops. One storefront vanishes behind scaffolding and sheets of plywood. Somewhere far off, an ambulance siren wails—on Houston, maybe.

My building finally comes into view—red brick, a fire escape zigzagging up six floors, a few lit windows. I dig out my keys.

“It’s not big,” I say, shoving the door open—it creaks, probably hasn’t been oiled in years.

“Want to see my trailer?” Jace says with a wink.

I let out a short laugh—my first in eight days.