Page 62 of Summer Love

She doesn’t care.

Or she doesn’t know.

No. She doesn’t care.

I settle Flip against my chest and cross the living room with my teeth clenched. The hallway’s long. I control every step, lean harder on my right leg. My gait’s stiff, but not lopsided. I shove the half-open front door wide with my foot and the sun blinds me.

Flip rests his head on my shoulder and sighs, like he’s the one who just went through something hard.

The last time I went through that door, I was eighteen. I was leaving to do something reckless that wrecked my life and my family’s.

I’d never made the connection before.

I swallow.

I cross the yard, set Flip down in the sand, and slam the gate behind me.

CHAPTER 22

Summer

Iopen the little bungalow closet and wince. On one side, the work clothes—stained jeans and shorts, T-shirts sacrificed to the renovations, white Converse that aren’t white anymore. On the other, dresses too formal for anything I have planned here. The blue dress from the other night is balled up in the back, and the sight of it takes me back to Salt Vine, to the heels that crushed my foot, to that version of me that didn’t feel like me.

Not tonight.

I go with a short yellow dress, light cotton, thin straps. A swipe of mascara, flat sandals, my hair down. No heels, no armor.

Just me.

Arms full of the snacks and drinks I picked up, I head up the gravel path to the main building. The evening air is warm, heavy with jasmine, the waves breaking faintly in the distance. Solar lanterns flicker on one by one along the path.

The gym is lit up.

I spot Noah on the rowing machine, back hunched, arms pulling and releasing, never quite finding the rhythm. He’s still in his coveralls—he didn’t bother to change. His hair sticks to his temples and he’s breathing hard, mouth open.

He’s struggling, but at least he’s here. I smile in spite of myself.

I walk past without stopping. He doesn’t look up.

At the front desk, Miles is leaning against the counter, a blue cooler at his feet. He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt open over a white T-shirt, his pink hair a mess.

“Oh. The yellow dress,” he says. “Pulling out all the stops, Hayes.”

“It’s a book club, Miles. Not a gala.”

I look at the cooler.

“Wait. You’re coming?”

“Obviously I’m coming.”

“I thought men weren’t allowed.”

Maya pops up behind me, a canvas bag over her shoulder. She’s in denim shorts and a terracotta tank top. A little sun tattoo peeks out from under the strap.

“Sí, but he doesn’t count,” she says, elbowing Miles.

“I’m an administrative exception... And more to the point, I supply the cocktails. Non-alcoholic,” he adds, lifting the cooler.