Page 5 of Summer Love

Bungalow 17. Of course.

I was seventeen that summer. On July 17, I found out the most important night of my life had been nothing but a fucking bet. Three years later, on a March 17, my foot gave out on the landing of a badly entered triple lutz. A dull crack—my career and my future had just shattered along with my right foot.

There’s no such thing as chance. Or if there is, it’s got a shitty sense of humor.

A small wooden deck leads to the door, like the one in front of every other bungalow. The boards creak under my feet as I step up to the keypad, next to the handle. I find the code in the booking email and punch it in. The beep rings out in the night, almost obscene in the middle of all this nature.

The door opens. The inside of the bungalow is simple: pale wood, a double bed with white sheets, a cramped bathroom, and a ceiling fan turning slowly overhead. But I notice only one thing: the window—or rather, what’s behind it.

The ocean.

Black, vast, almost invisible under the stars. A few pale reflections shiver on the water, lost in the fog. The sound of the waves comes in through the half-open window, closer now, almost intimate.

I set down my bag and move toward the window. The salt air rushes into my lungs.

Below, the beach. Crescent Beach, with its gentle curve and pale sand. And then, of course, the surf school. Invisible, but there. My fingers close around my pendant.

I’m back in Coral Bay.

CHAPTER 2

Summer

MONDAY

The heat wakes me. Not a gentle warmth—a clammy, sticky heat that’s worked its way under the sheets and won’t let go. The fan’s running, but it just pushes the warm air around, cooling nothing. The back of my neck is soaked. My T-shirt clings to my back like a second skin.

I open my eyes.

The ceiling is pale wood, cut by a blade of white light slipping through the gap in the curtains. It takes me three seconds to realize where I am. Bungalow 17. The lodge. Coral Bay.

Shit.

I’m sore all over, my mouth dry and cottony. The mattress is too soft, and I slept in a dip that wrecked my back. If you can call it sleeping—I barely closed my eyes.

I went to bed around midnight, and the concert started up. The crickets first—a high-pitched buzz that won’t quit. Then the wind through the branches, in uneven gusts. The creak of wood shifting, expanding, contracting. And always, the waves.

In New York, I sleep in noise. Traffic on the avenue, sirens, the dull hum of the city vibrating through the walls. A dirty, constant, human noise I’d eventually learned to sleep through. Here, the silence between sounds is too vast. The slightest creak makes me jump.

I sit up and put my feet on the floor.

The right one protests right away. Not a sharp pain, more a dull stiffness deep in the bones of my foot. I flex my toes. My foot resists a little, then loosens. I run my fingers along the arch. A quick, automatic press, like every morning for years.

In New York, between wearing heels at the agency and spending nights on my feet at the diner, it’s worse. Here, barefoot on the warm floorboards, it’s nothing.

I stand and yank the curtains open. The brightness blinds me.

The ocean fills the frame, a blue so deep it looks painted. The mist has burned off, and the sun already hits the water. Below, Crescent Beach traces its pale curve between two rocky points, and the sand glitters in the morning light.

Last night, in the dark, I could pretend. This morning, I can’t.

You’re in Coral Bay. For real.

I let go of the curtain, grab my toiletry bag, and shut myself in the bathroom.

I take a quick shower, almost cold—the hot water takes forever and I don’t have the patience. I pull on jeans, a tank top, and my white Converse. A brush through my hair, I grab my bag and head out of the bungalow.

In daylight, the lodge is nothing like the empty stage it was the night before. Solar lanterns line the path. Succulents spill out of terracotta pots. An orange cat sleeps on the low wall by the pool, tail dangling, indifferent to me.