Page 27 of Summer Love

I watch a few more seconds, then I set my jaw and close the window.

I have a house to sell.

I leave my grandparents’ room and head back downstairs.

Every white sheet I pull off kicks up a cloud of dust, revealing an old piece of furniture I know by heart: the floral couch, the coffee table, the shelves…

I cough, sneeze, cough again. The air in the house is thick despite the open windows, heavy with six years of dust. I sweep up the gray dust bunnies in the corners. Upstairs, the floorboards creak under my feet. The house protests, like it doesn’t want to be woken up.

I tackle the furniture. I open the drawers, the cabinets, the bins. I sort what I find into boxes.

The first one: things to keep. Grandma’s mug is already in it. I add a framed photo: Grandpa and Grandma on the deck, a summer evening, tanned, smiling, a glass of wine in hand. The photo’s yellowed, but their faces are intact. Then a record, found in the living room cabinet. Pet Sounds by the Beach Boys, the album Grandpa played over and over on Sunday mornings, barefoot in the kitchen, making his scrambled eggs.

My fingers linger on the sleeve. The Beach Boys… This morning’s song. Jace’s song.

I set the record in the box. Some memories refuse to be thrown out.

The other boxes: everything else. Broken knickknacks, old magazines, things with no value, no memory.

After an hour, I try to rinse my sponge under the kitchen faucet. It coughs, spits air. No water. I’d forgotten.

Shit.

My water bottle’s already empty. I’ll have to ask the lodge for water jugs this afternoon. In the meantime, I make do with what I have—which isn’t much.

The dust has won. My arms are gray to the elbows, my T-shirt’s gray with dust, and I’ve sneezed more times in two hours than in a year in New York. I lean the broom against the wall and decide I need some fresh air.

The yard.

Outside, the sun’s climbed higher. I tug on my gloves, kneel in the overgrown grass, and start pulling weeds.

The earth is damp under my knees. The roots resist, then give. My gloves get stained. Sweat runs down the back of my neck. It’s primitive, thankless—and it feels incredible. Every clump pulled is a piece of yard reclaimed from neglect. My hands work and my head goes quiet.

Almost.

Because Walker Surf School is right there, and the morning sounds reach me over the fence—voices, boards, the VW bus engine. Jace must be back. The day’s starting, the first students arrive, the school comes alive.

And I’m pulling weeds.

“You’ve got a whole operation going here.”

I look up. The sun blinds me for a second.

Maya’s standing on the other side of the fence. In each hand she holds a reusable cup with the High Tide Lodge logo, printed in green on cream. She’s wearing a long-sleeve rash guard, and her smile is as bright as it was yesterday.

Jace’s girlfriend.

“Figured you could use this,” she says, holding a cup out over the fence.

The smell reaches me—the same coffee as Yumi’s.

“You didn’t have to⁠—”

“I know. But you look like a girl who needs caffeine, no?”

I peel off a glove, take the cup. The first sip is bitter, scalding, perfect.

“Thanks.”