Page 8 of Summer Love

I push harder on the pedals.

Farther down, on the left, the Lighthouse Diner. I can see the red booths through the window. I look away.

Then comes the Coral Bay Market. The storefront’s been freshened up—a more modern sage green in place of the old bottle green. Crates of fruit sit out front, and the smell of fresh coffee drifts out the open door. Above it, the sign in slightly faded gold letters:

DeLuca’s—since 1976

Luke. My hands tighten on the handlebars.

I could go in, say hi like nothing ever happened. But Luke knows. He laughed behind my back.

I keep going.

Farther on, the little medical center. Across from it, a hair salon and a wine bar, the Salt Vine. Neither existed six years ago.

The police station. Small, squat, an American flag on its pole, two patrol cars parked out front. Evan might be in there, behind the lowered blinds, filling out a report about a flat tire and a girl who threw herself into his arms in the middle of the night. Officer Carter. I’m still not used to it.

City hall. A pale-stone building with a columned porch, modest but well-kept.

And between two buildings, a gap—the skatepark, the blue of the ocean, the pier reaching out into the water. Beyond it, the dark mass of the redwoods, the cliffs… and rusted skeletons. The rides at Pacific Star Park.

I brake. The park closed? News to me.

The agency’s at the end of the street, on the corner. Caldwell Realty—gold letters on black, not a smudge on the window, Venetian blinds half-closed. The storefront stands out a little on Main Street. Too clean, too polished, like a suit and tie at a beach barbecue.

And out front, parked along the curb, a silver-gray Porsche Boxster, top down. I saw it before—six years ago. Nobody in Coral Bay drives a seventy-thousand-dollar convertible. Nobody except the Caldwell kid. Two years older than me, private school in Carmel, pressed shirts, spotless shoes even on the sand. He didn’t hang out with the surfers; the surfers didn’t try to get to know him.

I lean my bike against the agency wall—no lock, nobody uses one here—and push the door open.

Inside, it’s air-conditioned, too cold. After the heat outside, the contrast is unpleasant—it feels like walking into a Manhattan office transplanted onto this wild stretch of coast. Dark-wood furniture, thick carpet, property photos on the walls—houses with ocean views, empty lots sold as “exceptional opportunities.” Everything neat, aligned, controlled.

Ryan Caldwell sits behind the desk at the back. He stands, and six years collide.

Taller than I remember—or maybe it’s the ramrod-straight posture, shoulders back, that does it. Ash-blond hair combed back, thin metal-framed glasses, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up over tanned forearms, and a Rolex on his left wrist. His steel-gray eyes size me up. The smile comes after.

“Well. Summer Hayes.”

He comes around the desk and opens his arms like he’s going to pull me in, then thinks better of it and turns the gesture into a firm handshake, a little too long.

“Ryan? You’re the one handling the sale?”

“The agency’s family-run. Everything goes through me now,” he says with studied nonchalance.

Twenty-five years old, and the family agency’s already his.

He gestures to a chair in front of his desk.

“Have a seat. Want a coffee?”

“No thanks. I just had one.”

I settle into the leather chair. Ryan sits back down, folds his hands and takes me in with a focus that makes me uneasy. Not hostile—pointed.

“I wondered if you’d ever come back,” he says.

“I’m not staying long.”

“Your house was supposed to go fast, too. Six months later, it’s still sitting there.”