Page 63 of Summer Love

“But very good,” Maya adds.

Miles’s Jeep is parked in the lodge lot, wedged between a dust-covered pickup and an old Subaru wagon loaded with surfboards. It’s an olive-green Wrangler, top off, doors removed. On the rear bumper, a rainbow sticker half-peeled by the sun sits next to a Save the Ocean decal with turquoise lettering.

I plant a foot on the running board and pull myself up into the passenger seat. Maya settles in the back, next to the cooler.

Miles turns the key. The engine coughs, finally catches, and sets the whole Jeep rattling.

Then he starts the music. A fast, sunny beat, carried by a voice that slides from low to falsetto with insane confidence. The sound fills the open air and mixes with the evening wind.

“What is this?” I ask.

“‘Tití Me Preguntó,’ by Bad Bunny.”

I shake my head.

“Never heard of it.”

Miles shoots me a scandalized look.

“Un Verano Sin Ti. The album. It’s reggaeton. Well... his version of it. He goes all over the place, switches up the beat every thirty seconds.”

A summer without you.

Six years of summers without him. This one too. My throat tightens.

“And what’s it about?”

“A guy everybody keeps asking why he goes through so many girls. He plays it up, but you get the feeling he’s hiding something.”

Maya leans between the seats.

“His Super Bowl show? Ay... Best of all time. Te juro.”

Miles nods, emphatic.

“Listen to the whole album. Preferably in the car, windows down... it’s made for it.”

He turns it up. The bass thumps in my chest, the wind rushes into the Jeep, tangles my hair and whips my face.

Maya sings along in Spanish, the words she knows by heart. I don’t understand any of it, but it doesn’t matter. My feet are up on the dash, my hand pressed flat against my dress to keep it from riding up.

Miles drums the beat on the wheel and takes the turn onto Main Street. Coral Bay streams past on either side—lit-up signs, palm trees black against the orange sky, a girl in a wetsuit crossing the street, board under her arm.

It’s heady—like a drink downed too fast on an empty stomach.

Miles brakes in front of Tide & Tales Bookshop. The window glows warm, and inside I can make out figures, movement, color.

The engine cuts out; so does the music. My ears are still ringing.

Maya jumps out of the Jeep first.

“Ready?” she says.

I’m not sure what for, exactly, but I say yes.

Inside, it smells of paper and incense. The bookstore is bigger than I imagined—light-wood shelves, a new-releases table in the center, colorful patchwork armchairs.

The book club meets in the back room. A circle has formed on the floor, among rugs, mismatched cushions, and little velvet armchairs. String lights run along the beams. Rice-paper lamps cast a golden light through the room.