Page 95 of Summer Love

The tears come, but it’s nothing like this morning, on the beach. Out there, it was violent, out of control. Here, they fall without a sound, as if they’d been saving themselves for this room. And sitting on my old bed, in the middle of everything I left behind, I cry.

Because I was seventeen and I believed Jace had chosen me. Because I never told anyone. Not my dad, not my sister, not the only therapist—useless—I saw at Columbia for two months, after my fracture. Because it’s been six years and I haven’t forgotten a thing.

I turn my head toward the window. Crescent Beach. The ocean. The afternoon sun on the water. Jace.

Same ocean. Same town. Same boy.

I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hand.

I’ll never forgive him.

I race down the stairs. In the hallway mirror, I catch sight of my red, swollen eyes. I look away and push the door open.

Outside, the air is too hot, the light too white. I squint and head for the gate. The dry grass crackles under my bare feet. Just one priority: get away from that room.

On the other side of the fence, in the surf school yard, Jace is waxing a board resting on sawhorses. His movements are slow and even.

He looks up at me and raises an eyebrow.

“Feeling better?” he says, his voice gruff.

He’s chalking it up to this morning.

“Perfect.”

Chin up, I walk past the fence and hurry toward the boardwalk.

The faster I get away, the better.

Behind me, footsteps draw closer across the sand. I speed up again, swipe at my cheeks.

Jace’s fingers close over my wrist. I freeze. My heart starts beating faster.

I look down at his hand, then back up to his face. He’s staring at the bracelet. The braided threads—blue, turquoise, white. The sliding knot. The faded colors.

His jaw tightens.

“Why are you wearing that?”

His voice is lower, harder.

“Is that a problem?”

His green eyes stay locked on mine. He doesn’t answer.

Then he drops my wrist. I don’t say anything else. I turn on my heel and walk off down the boardwalk without looking back.

Halfway to the lodge, I slow down. My fingers find the bracelet. My thumb strokes the braid.

I snatch my hand back. My wrist burns where Jace’s fingers touched it.

CHAPTER 32

Summer

TUESDAY

4:38 a.m. I know every crack in the ceiling of Bungalow 17 by heart. The fan turns, useless. The air doesn’t move.