Page 4 of Summer Love

A smile escapes me. Miles Bennett. His pink hair and that soft, bright energy that followed him everywhere.

Silence falls. The road unspools in the headlight beams—curves, redwoods standing in the night like columns, and now and then, through gaps in the brush, the absolute black of the ocean under a moonless sky.

I could ask. It would be normal, right? Checking in on everyone.

But the two names that matter stay stuck in my throat, and I do nothing to dislodge them. One is going from one competition to the next on the pro surf circuit—the life he always dreamed of. The other is studying medicine, far from here. That’s what I’ve been telling myself for six years, and I don’t want Evan to correct me.

Or confirm it. I don’t know which would be worse.

“Not much has changed around here,” Evan says, turning his attention back to the road.

There’s a note in his voice I can’t quite catch. Irony? Weariness?

“It’s Coral Bay,” I murmur.

Around a bend, lights appear, clustered along the coast.

Coral Bay. Three thousand year-round residents, triple that in summer. One main street, a crescent beach, a lodge, a surf school—and everyone knows everyone.

A sudden nausea rises in my throat.

You sell. You sign. You leave.

The police car comes to a stop in front of the High Tide Lodge a little after ten. The main building is dark, except for one light above the entrance. Evan gets out first, comes around the car, and lets me out.

“Front desk closes at eight,” he tells me as I climb out with my bag.

“I’ve got a code for the bungalow.”

He nods, but doesn’t get back in right away. His hand stays on the open door.

“Thanks for everything, Evan.”

“No problem. I’ll text you in the morning about the tow.”

I give him my number and save his in my phone, which got its signal back once we hit town.

“Summer… Coral Bay’s small. You’re going to run into people.”

His voice stays even, but I catch something like a warning in it.

“Goodnight, Evan.”

He shuts the door, gets back in front, and the car backs out. Its taillights disappear at the end of the drive.

I’m alone.

I push the door open. It isn’t locked. The lodge smells like waxed wood. A nightlight above the front desk fills the lobby with a warm glow that softens everything—the rattan armchairs, the little coffee tables, the vintage surfboards mounted on the reclaimed-wood walls.

My eyes catch on one of them. White, worn, with a logo the years haven’t erased—the stylized W of the Walker Surf School. I look away.

Behind the picture window, the pool is a smooth black surface, ringed by folded lounge chairs. Farther off, the bar opens onto the night, its empty stools lined up along the counter. Some nights the place is packed—tourists, music, colorful cocktails, surf films projected on a sheet strung between two palm trees. Tonight it’s deserted.

I cross the lobby quickly and go out the back door.

A gravel path winds between the bungalows, lined with succulents and solar lanterns. My footsteps crunch in the silence. The breeze off the ocean is lighter here, and brings the sound of the waves.

Bungalow 14… 15… 16…