Page 71 of Summer Love

An orange extension cord snakes through the grass. Summer’s standing in the middle of the yard, a corded electric hedge trimmer in her hands. She’s wearing denim cutoffs and a white spaghetti-strap tank, smudged with paint and dust. As if the tool itself is the problem, she turns it over, pulls the trigger to no effect, lifts it up in front of her to inspect the blade.

The hedge trimmer’s huge compared to her.

I shouldn’t be looking. I look anyway.

Her skin’s gone golden from five days of California sun. One strap of the tank has slipped off her shoulder. Her arms are raised, her back arched under the weight of the machine.

I clear my throat.

“You blew the power.”

She doesn’t look up.

“I’m fixing it.”

“It’s not the tool. You cut the cord.”

She lowers the trimmer and follows my gaze. The orange cord is cut clean through.

“Oh,” Summer sighs.

“That’s why the breaker tripped. Unplug everything. The trimmer, the cord…”

“I’ve got it.”

“Not from the look of that cord.”

She shoots me a glare, but she sets the trimmer down and unplugs the cord from the outdoor outlet. I turn back toward the old electrical panel the two properties share, mounted on a post between the house and the school. I open the gray box. The main breaker’s flipped down; I reset it with one motion. The power comes back.

I walk back into the yard.

“It’s a hedge trimmer, not a chainsaw,” I say. “And the blade cuts what’s in front of it, not the cord behind it.”

“Thanks for the lesson. I watched a tutorial on YouTube first.”

“Maybe you should’ve watched the whole thing.”

“You want me to show you what I can do with a hedge trimmer, Walker?”

I raise my hands and turn to go.

“Thanks anyway,” she murmurs.

I stop and turn around. Summer’s got her arms crossed. The tank’s back in place.

“Without you, I’d still be standing here wondering why it stopped working.”

“It’s not help. It’s collective survival.”

I head off, for good this time.

When I open the gate, Flip shoots past me at a gallop.

He crosses the yard, dodges the branches of the half-trimmed hedge, and lies down at Summer’s feet. On his side, front paws stretched out. The same position he takes when he sprawls across my feet at the trailer.

Summer crouches down beside him and starts scratching him between the ears. Flip closes his eyes.

“Traitor,” I grumble.