Page 91 of Summer Love

I know it before I open my eyes: the bed is empty and cold beside me.

The light is pale. It’s early. The sheet is rumpled on his side, shoved down to the foot of the bed. The pillow still holds the shape of his head.

Jace is gone.

I don’t panic. I’m disappointed, that’s all. He could have stayed. Or woken me and taken me with him.

He’s gone surfing. That’s what Jace does in the morning. Even after our first night.

I reach for the empty pillow. Jace’s scent is still on it.

I get up, pull on denim shorts and a tank top, then head downstairs.

Dad’s in the living room, standing in front of the TV, a cup of coffee in his hand.

Morning light comes through the big windows, white and soft. On the local news channel, an anchor speaks in a flat voice, a map of the coast displayed behind her.

I go into the kitchen. I grab a glass, fill it with water from the tap. The anchor’s voice follows me.

“A great white shark was spotted early this morning off the coast of Monterey. Authorities are urging caution all along the coastline. Swimmers and surfers are asked to…”

Monterey’s far. Well… not really. But it’s not here.

I finish my water. The phone rings. Dad sets down his cup, answers. He listens. His face darkens.

“Summer, turn the TV down, please.”

I look for the remote, mute the sound. The anchor goes on talking in silence, her lips moving. The map of the coast disappears.

Dad paces the living room. He talks fast. I only catch fragments: everywhere… insurance… ceiling… damage…

He hangs up.

“That was Mrs. Patterson,” he says. “Her washing machine gave out. The water came through the ceiling. The super let himself into our place with the key—it’s flooded.”

Mrs. Patterson. The neighbor upstairs. New York.

“Flooded how?” I ask.

“The living room, the hallway, my bedroom, the bathroom.”

He sits down at the table, in front of his laptop.

“We have to go home, Summer.”

“Now?” I blurt.

He doesn’t answer. His fingers tap at the keyboard. An airline website, the garish colors of the promo banners. San Francisco–New York. He scrolls through the schedules, clicks, goes back, clicks again.

Arms hanging at my sides, I wait in the middle of the room.

“There’s a flight at two,” Dad says without looking up. “If we leave in half an hour, we’ll get to the airport with time to spare.”

He closes the laptop, stands up. Then he opens the hallway closet, pulls out a suitcase.

“Pack your things, Summer.”

Jace.