Page 35 of Summer Love

We laugh like six years never had the chance to come between us.

“It’s good to see you again, Miles.”

“Same, Summer. Even if you’re covered in dust.”

The shade of the palm trees stretches across the deck. A kid jumps into the pool with a yell. The music changes. A slow track I don’t recognize.

I finish my curry and stretch. Captain opens one eye, registers that there’s nothing left to eat, and goes back to sleep.

For the first time since I got here, I’m not counting down the hours until I leave. Which is dangerous. I came to sell a house, pay off a loan, and leave.

Coral Bay is a trap. A warm, salty, sunlit trap.

And I’ve already got one foot in it.

CHAPTER 13

Summer

The sun’s way too strong as I bike home, a whole plate of curry sitting in my stomach. Passing the surf school, I hear the Bluetooth speaker blasting “California Gurls” by Katy Perry, obscenely loud. Kids laughing. A whistle. Maya’s voice correcting a stance.

I don’t look.

I go in through the front door, drop my bag, and get back to work in the living room—the boxes, the dust, the sorting.

Except twenty minutes in, nature catches up with me: I have to pee. I stare down the hall to the bathroom, then close my eyes.

I forgot the water jugs.

I should’ve asked for them at the lodge over lunch, and instead I sat there eating with Miles like I was on vacation.

No water. No flush. No fix.

Okay. Plan B.

I step out into the yard facing the beach. The dunes are right there, and if I go a little ways toward the rocks…

Jace is in the water. Far out, thirty yards or so, sitting on his board in the middle of four students, his back to me. The ocean is impossibly blue.

Look away.

He lies down on his board and paddles toward a student who’s drifted too far. His arms pull with that ease I hate—he has this way of moving through the water, like it’s his element.

Look away.

He shouts something I can’t make out, but I see the gesture—arm up, finger pointed at the wave. Even from this far, he takes up too much space.

Look away, Summer.

A bark makes me jump. Flip.

He comes barreling out of the surf school yard and lands on me with all the grace of a cannonball. His tail whips the air, his nose is caked with sand, and he circles me like I’ve got a steak hidden in my pocket.

“No. No, Flip. Go away. Please.”

He barks louder. Then he sits, tongue lolling, and looks at me like I just made his whole day.

So much for discretion in the dunes. I retreat to the garage. The room is dark, cluttered, and smells like damp cardboard. I shove aside a rusty grill, step over a crate of Christmas decorations, and find what I’m after: a dented bucket, its handle barely hanging on.