Page 19 of Summer Love

CHAPTER 8

Summer

The bungalow is stifling. The ceiling fan turns overhead, slow, useless.

I sit down on the bed, sandals still on, the taste of the barely-touched burger in my mouth.

$780,000 on paper. $100,000 on the table. And Ryan in between, with his $300,000 and his shark smile.

My phone screen reads 2:20 p.m. In Oxford, it’s 10:20 p.m.

My father’s spending the summer there—a research program at the university, Victorian or Romantic literature, I forget which. He taught in New York for a long time; more recently he’s been a professor in Boston, where he also met his new partner. She followed him to Oxford this summer. I’ve met her twice, she seems nice, we have nothing to say to each other.

Dad picks up on the third ring.

“Summer?”

His voice is soft, a little weary—end of the day over there. I hear a door, then the sound shifts, less muffled. He’s stepped out onto the balcony.

“Hey, Dad. Did I wake you?”

“No, no, I was reading. How are you? How’s Coral Bay?”

How’s Coral Bay. I watch the fan spin. What’s there to say?

“The house is in rough shape. The agency’s only had one offer in six months, for a hundred thousand dollars. Nobody wants to buy because of the noise—the surf school.”

Silence. My father’s not good with numbers, and even worse with real estate.

“A hundred thousand, that’s... really low, isn’t it?”

“It’s insulting, honestly.”

“And the agency, do they have a solution?”

“The agent’s offering to buy it himself for three hundred thousand. Says the market’s only going to drop.”

“Three hundred thousand... that’s less than half.”

“I know. But the shutters are falling apart, the yard’s a jungle, everything smells musty. Before I sell to anyone, I’d at least have to repaint and clean.”

“Summer, do you want me to send you some money? For the paint, the repairs... Would a thousand dollars⁠—”

“Keep your money, Dad. You need it for your new place.”

He doesn’t argue.

“And how are you, though?”

The real question, even if he can guess the answer.

“I’m okay,” I say, voice flat.

“Summer...”

“I’ve got it, I promise.”

A motorcycle passes below his balcony. When the quiet returns, his voice has changed.