Chapter 26 Summer
I’m jolted awake by the rapid strumming of an electric guitar.
The sound fills our pitch-black room at increasingly deafening decibels, whipping me into full consciousness.
An aggressive keyboard sound follows, which I recognize as the irritating tune of “Eye of the Tiger,” and before I can theorize about the unfathomable reasons why this particular song is being blasted before the break of dawn, a voice calls over the music.
“Rise and shine, Prescott.” Parker’s voice is thick with laughter and comes from somewhere near the corner of the room. I didn’t even feel him get out of bed. “You’ve got waves to surf and adulterers to humiliate.”
I blindly throw a pillow in his direction before flicking on my bedside lamp. It lands several feet short of where Parker is bent over in laughter.
I want to be mad. I really, really do.
But the big idiot is wearing the most hideous Hawaiian shirt, a truly horrific pattern of aquamarine pineapples and orange hibiscus flowers that drapes over his body and does absolutely nothing for his suntanned complexion. It puts a smile on my face, just like it always does.
Just like he wants it to.
Quickly, I drag a hand over my face to dislodge any crustiness. Run my fingers over my braids to tame them before he gets a good look at me. Casually, I lean back on a hand, and…
You dirty little harlot. Are you pushing out your tits?
Apparently, the stern lecture I stayed up giving myself last night was for nothing.
Once Parker drifted to sleep, apparently unperturbed by our near hookup while I stared at the dark ceiling resisting the urge to tuck into his side, I decided I was going to go with the flow, for once.
Unless otherwise discussed, last night was just a kiss.
Some casual heavy petting. A little kink exploration between old friends.
Nothing to overthink. I’m going to focus on surfing my best today.
Qualifying for the tour at the end of this series, getting my fresh start out of Oakwood.
Surfing the world. The endless adventure I’d always planned to have, with nothing tying me down.
Drawstrings included.
So, I force myself to hunch. Then Parker swipes at his phone, killing that abominable song before righting himself, and… Why hello, Mr. Woods.
I completely forgot about the glasses. He nudges them up his nose and, oh my God, I think I almost came just now.
Yep. You’re definitely pushing out your tits.
“Check it out.” Parker unbuttons his Hawaiian shirt to reveal a white T-shirt with the words TEAM SUMMER written in hot-pink glitter letters across the front. “What do you think?”
Those butterflies surge inside me—the dormant ones that came alive at the touch of Parker’s lips last night. “Did you make that?”
“Took some trial and error, and I’ll be finding glitter in my apartment until the end of time. But I think it turned out nice.”
I cannot stop smiling. “You look ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously hot.” Parker shuffles across the mattress. His dimples peek through. “Morning.”
Those damn butterflies flit and fly. “Hi.”
“I got you something.” He lifts a package wrapped in pink off his nightstand. There’s a mini paper airplane stuck to the front, and I unfold it to reveal Parker’s messy scrawl. Team Summer forever.
I tear into the package, head falling back with a laugh when it reveals a matching Hawaiian shirt. It’s atrocious, in a fabric that feels more like carpet than an article of clothing. “Parker, there’s no way I’m wearing this.”
“You have to. It’s our team colors. And it’ll score you extra style points.”
“There’s no such thing as style points.”
“Because they’ve never seen these shirts.” Parker motions to it, bathing me in the wattage from his smile. “Try it on.”
He looks so pleased with himself that I do what he says. It’s faint, but the shirt smells like him, pepper and safety, and I wonder how long it’s been sitting in his apartment waiting to be gifted.
“Smile.” Parker tucks me against him and holds out his phone for a selfie. My French braids are disheveled, hair sticking out at odd angles.
“Park, I look terrible.”
“You’re perfect.” He buries his face in the top of my head.
I don’t know whether he’s forgotten that there’s a front-facing camera pointing at us, putting his every move and expression on display.
Or if he simply doesn’t care that I see the way his eyes shut as he draws a breath, looking so intensely content with his face in my hair.
It makes me soften into his side. Makes me smile, and rest my head on his shoulder.
Gives me permission to pretend—just for this very second—that the paper plane, and matching shirts, and the photo that he immediately sets as the background on his phone, are his way of staking his claim on me for anyone to see.
Team Summer forever.
“Hey, Dad. Guess what—I’m at Rocky Ridge!
You wouldn’t believe how much they’ve changed the boardwalk here.
That ice cream shop we used to love—the one with the huge cow statue out front you’d always make us take a picture with?
Do you remember? I went to find it but it…
it’s gone now. Made me a bit sad, you know?
We had so many good times there, and… it’s really weird being here without you, Dad.
I really miss you. Anyway. Wish me luck. ”
The beach is alive with spectators even this early in the morning; they’re laughing and chattering over the music blaring from speakers.
It’s a steel drum tune that, coupled with the rushing sounds of the ocean and abundant smell of sunscreen, makes me feel as though I should be sipping on a poolside daiquiri.
Instead, I hover to the side of the competitors’ registration tent, failing miserably at talking myself through meditative breaths.
That was my dad’s job, back when I’d compete.
He’d take me by the shoulders and then breathe with me.
Big breath in, Sunshine. I love you no matter what. I’ll be right here waiting for you.
Until he stopped showing up.
My lungs fill with nostalgia, rather than air, which does nothing to loosen the tightness in my shoulders. In my earliest competition days, I’d have a small village of people there to support me. A whole family, given and chosen.
A flash of color in my periphery has me looking around at Parker, who stands at the registration tent.
He offered to sign me in to save me from facing Danica, my old volunteer-mate sitting behind the registration table.
The wind blows his Hawaiian shirt wide open, revealing the glitter letters on his T-shirt.
“Summer?”
The smile that had crept onto my face at the sight of those glitter letters dies.
Denny strides across the beach toward me.
For weeks, I refused to linger on what it might be like to see him again, but that was clearly a mistake—I should’ve prepared for the sight of him, the easy smile he shoots me.
As though we’re simply old friends reuniting, and I haven’t spent the weeks since I last saw him trying to maintain a semblance of the confidence he did his best to shred.
Not everyone’s wife material.
You’ve been following around this guy Parker your whole life, and not even he wants you that way.
“Figured I might see you here.” Denny props his surfboard against the side of the registration tent, like he’s settling in for a lengthy catch-up.
“What makes you say that?” I’m grateful that my voice is level, even though I swing my board around so that it partially shields me from him.
Denny gestures vaguely at the tent. “You talked about this volunteer thing all the time.”
“I’m not volunteering. I’m competing. Hence the board.”
Denny contemplates my pink wetsuit and the Hawaiian shirt over it. He shakes his head. “You’re not competing.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Come on, Summer. Okay, so you can stay upright on a surfboard, but compete?” I’m no longer an old friend of his.
Denny now looks at me like I’m a pitiful, desperate woman he’s been trying to get rid of for years.
“If this is some kind of effort to see me, or get back at me for your feelings getting hurt…”
Fury races through me. “This has nothing to do with—”
“Do my eyes deceive me? Summer Prescott in a wetsuit, board in hand?”
My eyes close in relief. Even without looking, I know it’s Harriet Young approaching, one of the series’ judges. I recognize her easy drawl, can practically feel Denny straightening at my side.
I plant my board into the sand as she reaches us, taking my unspent anger at Denny out on the beach. “Hey, Harriet, I’m—”
“Harriet.” Denny feeds her that happy smile, the one he’d blinded me with for weeks, and sticks out his hand for her. “Denny McCoy. Great to see you again.”
My knees give a dangerous wobble. He told me his last name was Peterson.
I am such a fucking idiot.
Harriet gives Denny’s hand a quick shake. “Denny, you’re in for a real treat if all this means Summer’s competing again—I’ve watched her dominate the water since she was a kid. It was a travesty she ever stopped.”
Her singing my praises to Denny should have me smiling. Instead, I pray to the surf gods to get me through at least one barrel today. “I am competing. It feels great to be back.”
“And will it be the one event? Or am I seeing you all the way through the series?”
I feel Denny’s eyes on me. “All the way through. And then hopefully onto the tour. And then the Masters Tour after that.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” She sets her sunglasses on top of her head and smiles at my board. “I have to say, I’m more than a little envious. My years on tour were some of the best of my life.”
“How long did you compete?”