Page 190 of Summer Love

He’s still got that scowl, but he’s here.

I let go of my suitcase handles and break into a run toward Sierra. She barely has time to drop the sign before I throw myself into her arms. Her rings are cold against the back of my neck, her little braids smell like coconut oil.

“Noah slept twenty minutes with his mouth open on the highway,” she whispers. “I’ve got photos. He doesn’t know yet.”

I laugh against her shoulder. She lets me go and holds me at arm’s length. Her heart sunglasses have slid down her nose.

“So how long are you back for this time?”

“For good.”

“About time. You finally figured it out.”

I take a step toward Noah, who uncrosses his arms. I stop in front of him.

“Hey, Summer,” he says, his voice rough.

I take another step. He flinches back, but I pull him into a hug. He goes still, then his fingers brush my back. He smells like cigarettes.

I let go before he has to.

“Hey, Noah. You’ve lost weight.”

“A little.”

He looks away.

“You can thank this guy,” Sierra says, picking up her sign. “He’s the one who called me yesterday, at four in the afternoon. ‘Sierra, I need you. I want to go get her, but I don’t have my license.’”

Noah runs a hand through his hair and stares at his sneakers.

“Jesus, Sierra. You’re such a pain.”

Three hours on the road from Coral Bay, plus the wait, plus the drive back. And he called Sierra to ask her for a favor. For me.

He pulls a plastic lighter out of his pocket and starts turning it over between his fingers.

I think about the voice memos I’ve been sending him for three months. One a day, sometimes two. I ramble about whatever: my day, my coworkers, my moods. My coming back, too, with strict orders not to tell Jace. In reply, I get an OK, a thumbs-up, an emoji.

It felt like talking to a polite wall. The wall was listening.

Last week, Jace told me on the phone that Noah had gone to see his therapist. Once—but he went.

Noah pockets his lighter, grabs the handle of the bigger suitcase.

“What’d you pack, a body?” he grumbles.

“Chopped up. And books, too.”

“Should’ve known.”

Sierra takes the other suitcase, starts wheeling it.

“What’d you bring besides the body?”

“Next to nothing. My life.”

“Twenty-three years in two suitcases? Nice.”