Page 196 of Summer Love

“Hey, big guy. Mom’s home,” I say, laughing.

I hug him close.

“He sleeps there a lot,” Jace says behind me. “Don’t know why.”

I do. It’s our room.

Over Flip’s head, I look around. Nothing’s changed, except the window—it’s new. The old one never closed right.

“Come on,” Jace says. “There’s new stuff outside too. Maya and Kai gave me a hand.”

We head back down. He pushes open the door on the ocean side.

“This way,” Jace says.

He leads me left, into the space that opens up between the house wall and the property line with the surf school. It’s small, sheltered from the north wind by the wall, open due west to the ocean.

Two pallet benches, painted turquoise, mustard yellow, and coral pink, form an L against the wall. Cream linen cushions cover the seats, with two throws folded in one corner. Three pots sit against the house—cacti and succulents, the kind that can take the sea spray. A string of lights runs between the plants and follows the roof’s overhang. Off to the side, an overturned wooden crate serves as a little table for drinks.

And in the center, set on four short driftwood legs, a coffee table.

I step closer.

The top is long and narrow, sky blue, rounded along the sides, tapered at both ends. A black stripe runs the full length.

I kneel and trace the sanded, varnished surface with my finger. Near the tail, on the right rail—the shark bite.

It hasn’t been filled in. The shattered fiberglass has been sealed under a layer of clear resin, but the shape is intact, wider than both my open hands.

My stomach knots. I rest my palm on the ragged curve. The chewed rail is warm.

Jace crouches down beside me. He covers my hand with his and laces his fingers through mine.

“I didn’t know what to do with it. But I couldn’t throw it away.”

“You did the right thing, Jace.”

He smiles. Then he stands, goes to sit on the bench, pats the spot beside him. I join him.

He slips his arm around my shoulders and kisses my cheek. Our skin is cool, still salty, our hair damp.

In front of us, the ocean.

To the left, the Walker Surf School yard, on the other side of the low wall. Kai rinses a board; Maya sings in Spanish.

I’m finally home.

Epilogue: Noah

JUNE

Seven months later…

The golden evening light falls over the lodge pool. Two tourists, drinks in hand, talk in the water. Farther off, another dozes on a lounge chair.

On the deck, two tables have been pushed together. Glasses, notebooks, a pitcher of lemon water, tortilla chips, guacamole, and a bowl of olives fight for space with Summer’s laptop. It’s a meeting that looks like happy hour, or happy hour that looks like a meeting. At Walker Surf School, that line’s never been very clear.

Like always, I took the seat farthest away.