Page 77 of Summer Love

Luke’s wearing one too.

“Bend your knees, look straight ahead. You already know your sneakers,” he says to a little girl wobbling forward on her board.

She bursts out laughing; so does Luke.

The smell of grilled meat drifts over. The music has changed—California pop, more upbeat now, the kind that makes you want to dance. Kids run between the booths with half-melted ice cream; people sit in the sand where there was no one this morning.

I cut through the crowd, hoping not to run into Jace—which is no small feat. But he’s busy, talking with Cole, Evan’s fellow cop.

I recognize him by the broken nose and the very short crew cut. Out of uniform, he looks almost like someone else—a little kid tucked against him, held in place by one sure arm—but the eyes are the same: dark, too steady.

Maya’s still in the water with Kai. A row of kids floats between them on foam boards. She waves from a distance; I raise a hand back.

Miles passes behind me with a tray of cups.

“Summer! You came back!”

“I was in the neighborhood,” I say.

He laughs, keeps moving toward the drink stand.

I was in the neighborhood. At an event almost no one knows I organized.

I make the rounds. I talk to people whose names don’t stick. A woman who runs a bed-and-breakfast on the edge of town. A physical therapist. An old surfer with a white beard and a faded Endless Summer T-shirt who tells me he used to come here back when Jace’s grandfather still ran the place. A couple of tourists from San Jose who came down for the day after stumbling on an Instagram post.

Mine.

I don’t say anything.

By the darts booth, I spot a woman in a navy dress, short graying hair, shaking everyone’s hand with campaign-trail efficiency. Evan’s beside her, arms crossed, sunglasses on. The resemblance is striking—same jaw, same posture, same calm. Diane Carter, Evan’s mother—and the mayor of Coral Bay. Ryan told me as much at the Salt Vine, between sips of sauvignon blanc.

I don’t go over. I have nothing to say to her. But I note that she’s here, that she’s smiling, that she’s posing for a photo with Yumi by the poke bowl stand.

The whole town is here.

It’s Maya who finds me, twenty minutes later.

She’s traded her wetsuit for denim shorts and a rust-colored tank top. Her hair’s soaked, twisted into a messy bun that’s holding on by some miracle.

“Look who’s back!” she says, laying a hand on my arm.

Her skin’s cool, still wet. On her forearm, I notice three pale marks, long and thin, too clean to be scratches.

Beside her stands a girl I’ve never seen before.

Blonde, with short messy hair, in a tank cut from a loose T-shirt, boardshorts, barefoot. A braided shell choker sits snug at her throat. Her shoulders are broad and golden, her hands rough. Surfer.

“Summer, this is Harper Quinn,” Maya says. “She surfs the qualifying circuit. She’s nineteen, from Australia—the Gold Coast.”

Harper holds out her hand. Her eyes are blue, direct, unfiltered.

“Hey,” she says.

“Nice to meet you,” I say. “I used to surf. Just not in the last six years.”

Harper raises an eyebrow.

“What happened?”