Page 41 of Summer Love

Second time he’s paid for me in two days.

Finally, we step out of the wine bar. The evening air is mild, and the coolness feels good after the warmth inside. Main Street is deserted.

Ryan’s gray convertible is parked right nearby, top down. On this street of surf shops and wooden storefronts, it looks like a very expensive lapse in taste.

“I’ll drive you back,” he says.

My right foot begs me to accept. The lodge is only a fifteen-minute walk, but in heels, in this state, that may as well be an hour.

“Okay. Thanks.”

He puts his hand at the small of my back to steer me toward his car. His palm is warm through the fabric of my dress. I shift a step away. He doesn’t take his hand back; he lets it slide, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I get in. The leather is cool. Ryan settles in, turns the ignition, and the car starts with a low purr.

He doesn’t turn toward the lodge. He goes right, toward the hills.

“We’ll take a little detour. The view’s insane from up there, even at night.”

It’s not a question. I don’t remember agreeing to a detour. But the car is already climbing, and the houses of Main Street shrink in the rearview mirror.

The road winds through the hills. The night air comes in through the open top, ruffles my hair. At the next bend, I recognize Coral Bay’s public high school. The main building is dark, the lot empty, the football field bleachers barely visible under the yellow streetlights.

The high school where Jace, Noah, Luke, Miles, Evan, and Sierra spent four years. Not me. I had the summers—a month at first, then three weeks, then two, then nothing. And Jace was that tan, easygoing boy, always barefoot, who had no logical reason to be interested in an ordinary girl like me. The textbook cool guy.

Except he didn’t play it up. He was polite, he listened when you talked to him, he was kind.

Or… that’s what I believed.

The car passes the high school. Ryan doesn’t look at me—he watches the road, one hand on the wheel, relaxed, in control. His other hand leaves the gearshift and settles on my knee—warm, self-assured, like my leg belongs to him.

“You’ve always been a lot more interesting than the girls around here,” Ryan says, low.

I flinch. A car I’m not driving, a road I didn’t choose, a hand I didn’t invite onto my knee.

I pull my leg away. The movement isn’t sharp, but it’s clear.

“Thanks,” I say. “That’s sweet.”

“That’s sweet” is the most polite wall I know.

Ryan puts his hand back on the wheel. His smile doesn’t change. He heads down toward the coast.

The lodge appears at the end of the drive, its string lights glowing in the palm trees. Ryan parks and cuts the engine.

“That was nice. We should do it again.”

“Have a good night, Ryan,” I say, opening the door.

I set my right foot on the gravel and the pain drills up my ankle to my knee. I grit my teeth. I climb out of the car and slam the door.

“Good night, Summer,” Ryan answers from the driver’s seat.

My first name, in his mouth, feels too intimate.

Back straight, I walk off toward the lodge entrance. Every step hurts. I start up the steps without looking back.

Tonight was a monumental mistake.