Page 194 of Summer Love

“I’ve got stuff to show you.”

I stop at the bottom of the three porch steps. The railing’s been carefully sanded, varnished, repainted the same blue as the shutters. One step’s been replaced.

I never had time to deal with it this summer.

I run my hand over the smooth wood.

“Nice work, Walker.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” he says, grinning.

His eyes light up. He climbs the steps. A row of flip-flops sits on the porch. With his foot, Jace nudges a pair toward me—glittery orange ones, probably Maya’s. He slips on a blue pair and opens the door.

Inside, it smells like wax and coffee.

I cross the living room. The couch is different now—my grandparents’ was falling apart. This one’s new, dark gray. Four Hawaiian-print pillows sit on it—red, coral, deep green, oversized flowers and pink flamingos that clash.

It should be ugly. It’s cheerful.

Plants have taken over the room. A pothos spills off the shelf, a bird of paradise stands tall by the window, a philodendron overflows a terra-cotta pot near the kitchen.

“Maya,” Jace says. “She says I water them wrong. She’s got a point.”

Light, off-white curtains. A floor lamp with a linen shade. A blanket folded over the armrest. Nothing fancy. Nothing that rings false.

My eyes sting. I keep going.

The shelf is different. It used to hold my grandparents’ faded photos and seashells. Now the lower shelves are sagging under books, and the top one is crowded with trophies.

I step closer. The trophies come in all sizes, most of them bright-colored plastic, Surf Girl Junior, with little figurines on top. Avery.

And in the center, taller than the rest, plainer, a polished metal trophy. Nothing like the others. The wooden base is engraved. I can make out the words World Surf League.

I know whose it is.

Tom Walker. His fourth title. His last.

“Is it okay?” Jace murmurs.

I turn around. He’s got a hand in his hair, trying to look casual.

“The trophies, I mean. Avery wanted them on display, but she can put them in her room if⁠—”

“Of course it’s okay.”

I stroke his cheek. We smile at each other.

“You can ditch the books,” Jace says.

I run my finger along the colorful spines—all romance. I spot Stroke of Desire, worn soft from rereading.

“Maya won’t go for that,” I say.

“Neither will Miles.”

We laugh, then move on to the kitchen. Almost nothing’s changed. The fridge is new, but the same magnets are on the door.

There’s a whiteboard propped on the counter with a list of students and lesson times, in black marker, in handwriting I recognize—Jace’s.