Page 69 of Summer Love

“North Shore. Junior Under-18 competition.”

North Shore. Hawaii. Kai’s fingers tighten on the rail of his board. He doesn’t say anything.

“She’s one of the youngest in her division,” I add. “Mom’s with her. She’ll video-call me so I can watch the heat.”

“Your sister’s going to pass you one day…”

“Already has,” I say, smiling.

And I mean it. Avery’s better than me. At sixteen, she carries Dad’s dream on a surfboard—Mom’s, mine—and she doesn’t shake.

Dad would have loved to see her out there.

When Avery surfs, it’s always him I think of. The Coral Bay cemetery, the summer I was ten. The red earth. The sun too bright for a funeral. Beside me, Noah, eight years old, his face shut down, arms at his sides. And Summer crying. Summer pulling me into her arms, hard, too hard, and I don’t cry because she’s crying for both of us.

A few days later, the paddle out. The tribute. That morning, the ocean was almost flat. The Coral Bay surfers formed a circle beyond the waves. Flowers floated on the water. Noah was on a board for the last time in his life. He was shaking too hard to let go of the rail. Summer was on my board, behind me, her hands on my shoulders.

She was there.

So why wasn’t she there after my accident?

A set comes in. I take the first wave and stop thinking about it.

The session wraps up around eight.

“Grab a drink tonight?” I ask.

Miles has water in his ear and tilts his head, hopping on one foot like a kid.

“Can’t. We’re putting something together for Sunday.”

The fundraiser.

“Don’t remind me,” I grumble.

Miles and Maya trade a look. They laugh a little too much. Those damn brownies again.

I peel off the top of my wetsuit, rinse my board, and roll straight into the first lesson of the morning. Six tourists, two who stay on their feet, four who get a mouthful of ocean. The usual.

Around ten, I head back up toward the school. The sun’s already beating down. I’ve got sand in my hair, salt on my arms, and a fierce need for coffee.

I glance over at the Hayes house.

Five boxes are lined up along the fence, on the beach side—right where my students cut through to get down to the water. Lamps, dishes, knickknacks… and in the middle, a cardboard sign written in marker:

Help yourself

Summer’s in the yard, hoeing the soil around a flower bed that hasn’t seen anyone in six years. She’s wearing a wide straw hat and gardening gloves too big for her hands.

“You can’t put that there,” I say.

She doesn’t bother to look up.

“Why?”

“It’s in the way of my lessons.”

“The beach belongs to everyone,” she fires back.