Page 60 of Summer Love

Flip’s not in the yard.

I stop. He’s always here. Lying against the trailer wall, or gnawing on a surf bootie he swiped from the rental gear. But the yard’s empty.

“Flip?”

Nothing.

“Big guy?”

I circle the trailer. Nothing. Behind the van. Nothing. Not in the board shed either.

My stomach knots.

The last time Flip disappeared, he was stuck in the lodge’s trash room. Noah had locked him in by accident. I found him howling behind the door. When I opened it, he was shaking too hard to walk.

Flip can’t stand being shut in.

I found him as a puppy in a cardboard box, two and a half years ago, on my way out of Steph’s. A Lab-shepherd mix, I think.

Somebody had hit him—one eye swollen, one ear crooked. He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t even whimpering anymore. I scooped him up and walked over to the Coral Bay Market to buy a can of puppy food and two bowls. Then I brought him back to the trailer.

That same night, he slept on my bed, pressed against me. Now he’s the size of a small calf and he still sleeps on my bed.

The first night, I closed the door. He cried for an hour. Not a yelp—a low, steady sound, like he was begging without believing it would work. I opened it again. He went quiet.

I left the door cracked. Eventually he learned to open it himself—a paw on the handle, a nudge of his nose, and he’s out.

But he always comes back.

I look under the trailer. Nothing. When I straighten up… there’s a Post-it stuck at eye level on the door frame. Round handwriting, black pen.

Flip prefers my company. Sorry.

I rip the paper off, read it a second time.

Very funny, Hayes.

Except it’s not funny at all. She took him and shut him inside the house.

The bike. Fuck. I forgot the bike.

I go around the trailer, grab the beach cruiser, and haul it back into the yard in three strides. The gate bangs shut behind me. I set the bike against the fence, in the exact spot it was this morning.

Then I head for the house. The front door’s ajar. I push it open.

The smell of fresh paint stings my nose. The living room’s a work in progress—drop cloths on the floor, a folding ladder, paint cans lined up by the window.

Summer’s standing at the back wall, a brush in her hand. She’s wearing an old stained T-shirt, cutoff denim shorts, and Converse, the white canvas gone light blue. The wall behind her is half-painted, pale blue.

Flip’s sitting next to her, tongue out, tail thumping the floor with every brushstroke. There’s a streak of blue paint in the fur along his side.

And he’s looking at her like she’s the most important person in the universe.

On a box, I spot an open bag of dog treats. The brand Luke sells at the Market.

Of course.

Treats, scratches—she’s run a whole operation.