Page 54 of Summer Love

Six years ago, back when we surfed together, I was the one pretending not to look for her.

I tug at the hem of my boardshorts. The fabric slides a little over my thigh, covers what it needs to cover. I do it again thirty seconds later.

“Back straight,” I call to a kid rounding his shoulders. “Engage your core.”

I step into the squat rack and get under the bar. My eyes drift on their own. Summer’s watching me.

Lying on the bench, a bar across her hips, feet planted on the floor, she drives her hips up. She catches my eye, realizes she’s been caught. Her face hardens. She stares at the sheet-metal ceiling and powers the bar up with an energy that has nothing to do with the exercise anymore.

I fight back a smile. She was checking me out.

I know it’s dumb, that it doesn’t mean anything. This girl came back to sell the house and leave with the money, not to watch me do squats on a rubber-matted patio.

But still.

I finish my set, wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, adjust my shorts.

“Coach?”

Dylan, again. His eyes move from my face to my boardshorts.

“What?”

“Nothing. You look… tense.”

“Fewer questions, more reps.”

He raises his hands in surrender and goes back to his bar. I tug at my shorts. Again.

Across the patio, Noah sits on the bench at the pulldown station, rag in hand. He’s not pulling anything. He looks at Summer, looks at me, then rolls his eyes and shakes his head. He knows me too well.

I ignore him.

The session goes on. Squats. Pull-ups. Planks. I correct, I encourage, I count sets, I knock out a few myself.

Summer launches into her third set of hip thrusts. Her cheeks are flushed. A strand has slipped loose from her hair tie and sticks to her temple. She breathes hard with every rep. She’s not looking at me anymore.

Or she’s just hiding it better.

I pass the rack of Olympic bars. The chalk bucket sits right next to it, open, half full. The powder you rub on your palms before you lift iron.

Summer’s lying on her back, feet flat, knees bent, the bar balanced across her hips.

No. I wouldn’t.

Oh, I would.

I grab the bucket, dig my hand in, and toss a good handful of chalk at her head.

The white powder rains down over her face, into her hair, down her neck. Summer coughs, sneezes, coughs again.

Behind me, Dylan’s the first to crack up. The others follow, unable to hold it in.

“Shit, look at her face,” Dylan gets out between gasps.

I set the bucket back down, pretty pleased with myself. Evan, leaning against one of the patio posts, pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t say anything.

Summer shoves the bar away, pulls free, and springs off the bench. Her hair’s white, her face and tank top too. She looks like a furious ghost straight out of an attic.