Page 31 of Summer Love

Just as well. My head’s on the other side of the fence.

Summer finally goes back inside. A dull thudding comes from upstairs: a heavy rug being shaken out the window. Dust flies in the sun.

I grab the Bluetooth speaker. I turn up the volume, change the music. The first notes of “Miserlou” blast through the yard—the Pulp Fiction riff, sharp, distorted, aggressive. Pure surf rock.

The volume’s louder than usual, enough to cover the sound of the rug. It’s not background music. It’s a challenge.

I go back to my lesson and fix the dark-haired girl’s position.

“Hands farther back. No, back, not to the side. There. Perfect.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Kai cross the yard, a longboard under each arm. His eyes go from the Hayes house to my speaker, then to me.

“Funny timing,” he says, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

“She’s not staying long.”

The words come out too fast. Kai doesn’t answer and heads off toward the water. Past the fence, the noise has stopped. The music keeps going.

She’s not staying long.

CHAPTER 12

Summer

Seven hours of cleaning, dust, pulled weeds, and boxes dragged down the hall. My T-shirt’s gone beige, my jeans are wrecked, and I’ve got dirt under every nail. But two rooms are more or less clean and sorted, the yard’s coming along, and the house looks a little less like a real-estate crime scene.

Next stop, the garage.

The room smells of motor oil and rubber. All the way at the back, I spot my beach cruiser, leaning against the wall between a rusted lawnmower and a box of old flowerpots.

The pink has faded, almost salmon now. The seat’s dusty, the handlebars are sticky, and the tires are flat. But the frame’s still solid. So is the front basket, even with its wicker coming a little loose.

I find a pump hanging on the wall, behind Grandpa’s tools. After a few minutes, the tires firm up again. The bike is ugly, dirty, pink—but it still rolls, and it’s mine.

I wipe the seat with my hand and pedal toward the lodge.

A couple minutes later, it appears at the end of the drive. The shade of the palm trees, the sound of the pool, the soft music… My fingers loosen on the handlebars. The day feels a little less heavy.

As I pass the front desk, I catch sight of a chalkboard hanging by the door. Someone’s written in chalk:

Lunch 11:30 a.m.–2 p.m.

I check my phone. 1:52 p.m.

Shit.

No time to shower, change, and come back. I need to get to the bar now and talk my way into ten more minutes.

I cross the lodge deck in long strides. The pool glitters under the afternoon sun. A few tourists read on lounge chairs. The smell of spiced food drifts through the air.

The bar is open, semicircular, with its blond-wood counter and tall stools. Behind it, the bottles lined up, the glasses hanging, the beer fridge… and a guy with pale pink hair, slim, not very tall, drying a glass with his back to me. Miles.

He turns around and our eyes meet. He stares at me, then his blue eyes go wide.

“No. No way!”

He sets the glass down, comes around the bar, and pulls me into a hug before I can step back. A tight, genuine hug, no hesitation.