Page 7 of Summer Love

“Hana’s grown up,” I say.

Yumi glances at the photos. Her face softens.

“She finishes school next May. Hospitality management, at UCLA. She’s got big plans.”

The pride in Yumi’s voice is obvious. And behind it, a shadow—worry, maybe.

I don’t push. It’s not my story.

“Right,” I say, after finishing my coffee. “I should go. The house isn’t going to sell itself.”

“That house has been waiting a long time for you,” Yumi says.

It’s not a reproach—but it stings anyway.

I head for the door, then stop.

“Yumi? It’s good to see you.”

She smiles. A real smile this time, lines crinkling, eyes shining.

“You too, Summer.”

I pick an old navy-blue cruiser with rusted handlebars and fat tires that have seen better days. The seat creaks when I sit down. The chain needs oil, the back brake is soft.

It’s perfect.

I roll down the lodge path and turn onto Shoreline Drive. The coastal road runs behind the beachfront properties, parallel to the boardwalk. It’s less exposed. Works for me this morning. The air is cool, washed clean by the night’s mist, and the sun isn’t high enough yet to burn. Under my wheels, the asphalt is cracked and edged with sand the wind carries up from the beach.

My legs keep pedaling and the memories come rushing back. Summers spent crisscrossing Coral Bay on a bike like this one—Crescent Beach, the surf school, the lodge, the skatepark, the pier, Luke’s market, the rides at Star Park. Hair in the wind and the taste of salt on my lips.

You’re not here for that, Summer.

Main Street. The real estate office. The house. The paperwork.

I pedal harder.

CHAPTER 3

Summer

Main Street hasn’t changed. It’s my first thought as I turn off the coastal road and Coral Bay’s main drag opens up in front of me, straight and lined with low storefronts. The same narrow sidewalks, the same wrought-iron streetlamps, the same flower boxes spilling over with lavender and bougainvillea. The same surf stickers slapped on the road signs, the ones nobody’s ever peeled off.

Everything’s just like I remember. Well, almost.

I slow down. On the right, between the old fabric shop and the florist, there’s a storefront I don’t recognize. Midnight-blue facade, window full of books, geraniums hanging on either side of the entrance. A sign announces, in hand-painted off-white letters:

Tide & Tales Bookshop

On the sidewalk, a display rack overflows with colorful paperbacks. The whole thing is styled for Instagram—driftwood, string lights, a chalkboard advertising a book club on Thursday nights.

That’s new.

My eyes linger a second too long. I’ve always loved to read. In New York, bookstores were my refuge.

If I get a chance, I’ll stop in.

No. I’m not here to fill a bookshelf. I’m here to empty a house.