Chapter 3 Summer
“Team, we’ve got about two more months to pull off the best Surf’s Up series the country’s ever seen. Who’s with me?”
Grant, the head volunteer for Surf’s Up—a qualifying series within the World Surf Organization held annually in and around Oakwood Bay—claps his hands together in a way I’m sure is meant to galvanize the group around the cluttered table at the Pine Point community center.
It seems only half of us were paying attention, because the other volunteers startle at the sound, guiltily looking up from the phones they’d been covertly using under the table.
The murmur of agreement is vague, hardly enthusiastic, but in typical early-thirties surfer dude fashion, Grant circulates an unfazed grin around the table.
He gives an extra nod of approval when he lands on me beside him, with my pen still poised over my notebook, then launches into an animated project update.
I’ve been a frequent inhabitant of this room since I retired from competitive surfing and took up this volunteer work.
Surf’s Up is a three-event competition series spread out over the summer, bringing in seasoned surfers from along the coast who hope to qualify for the WSO’s Champions Tour, which surfs some of the world’s most elite waves over the course of a year.
As far as growing up in a small town goes, Oakwood’s proximity to the ocean and prime surf spots is one of its few highlights.
The waves in this part of the country aren’t as colossal as you’d find on the West Coast or abroad, but, as a competitive-turned-hobby surfer myself, I know just how challenging they can be, requiring athletes to show off major endurance and skill.
The delinquent texters return to their phones, all smiling or silently giggling at their private conversations. I tap my own phone to life. Not a single awaiting message.
Swallowing my disappointment, I return my focus to Grant. Across the table, Tristan Thomas stifles a snort at his screen. I slide my phone closer and fire off a text to my dad as discreetly as possible.
SUMMER: Are we still on for family dinner this Sunday?
Minutes later, it sits unanswered below two similar texts I sent earlier in the week.
Dad’s a general surgeon at his local hospital and is always tending to some emergency, which makes seeing him a luxury, especially after he fled Oakwood in my late teens.
These days, my best bet is the monthly family dinners with him, my stepmom, and twin toddler half-brothers—whenever they don’t get canceled.
To Dad’s credit, I haven’t heard from my mom in years.
I give it a minute before firing off another text, this time to my friend Shy.
SUMMER: Still up for our shopping date on Saturday?
Her reply, at least, comes quick.
SHY: Sum, I’m SO sorry. Rosie just came down with something and doubt it’ll clear up by then. Rain check?
SUMMER: Totally! Let me know when you’re free and give Rosie-Wosie a big kiss from me.
I can’t help sinking in my seat a little. Grant catches my eye and gives my phone a pointed look as someone runs through their subcommittee update. “Everything okay?”
“Totally fine!” I whisper back. My phone lights up several minutes later with another reply that has my heart sinking.
DAD: The boys caught a bug at day care. Sorry, Sunshine. Gonna have to cancel dinner.
SUMMER: No worries, I hear there’s something going around!
SUMMER: Should we reschedule for next week?
I stare at my screen for several long seconds, even knowing I won’t hear back for a while.
I know I shouldn’t take it personally; that the world doesn’t revolve around me.
My dad, my friends, they’re all perfectly entitled to have other priorities.
But it’d be nice to have just one person whose attention I don’t have to constantly compete for, only to come up second, or fifth, or tenth in line.
Which is why this matchmaking has to work.
This plan with Parker isn’t about finding me a boyfriend for the sake of it. It’s about finding someone who can’t live without me just as much as I can’t live without him. Who’d think I’m the best part of his day, like he’d be the best part of mine.
I scramble for my phone when it lights up again, this time with a text from Parker.
PARKER: Is there such a thing as human exterminators? Some kind of pest control for humans?
I snort a laugh that has Grant looking over again. Parker’s been in a particularly foul mood all week, since his parents showed up unannounced and made themselves right at home in his two-bedroom apartment.
Caroline and Brian Woods have always been eccentric at best, chaotic at worst, and a nightmare for someone like Parker, who needs routine and structure to keep things straight.
They’re nomads to their core and sold their family home in Oakwood years ago to travel the country in an RV, making pit stops in town whenever the mood strikes.
SUMMER: I believe human exterminators are called hitmen, and I’d advise you to stop leaving a paper trail if you sincerely intend on hiring one.
PARKER: I don’t need a hitman. Just someone who can get unwanted human inhabitants the hell off my premises.
SUMMER: Alive?
PARKER: Yes.
SUMMER: Are you only saying that because of the paper trail?
PARKER: Maybe.
“Summer?” Grant’s voice pulls me away from my phone. This time, every pair of eyes around the table is fixed on me. “What’s the status on the local business market?”
With a pang of guilt, I bounce to my feet to deliver my subcommittee update. “It’s moving along as planned! We’ll be opening registration this week, and we expect the highest numbers to date, given last year’s success. Most of the businesses sold out of their stock, as you know.”
I sweep a loose sheet on top of my notebook, indicating the wrap-up figures from last year.
A couple of years ago, I convinced Grant to let me take over half the parking lot at each Surf’s Up event, inviting small businesses around Oakwood Bay to set up shop for the day.
The local business market has become a staple of the series since.
People love browsing through the farmstands and kitschy boutiques, and businesses eagerly fight over the few spots we’re able to offer.
It’s the highlight of my year—I love seeing the locals I’ve known all my life thrive, love that I had a hand in it.
Movement in my periphery draws my attention to the door, where a familiar tall woman with long, sun-bleached hair and a deep tan has appeared.
Harriet Young, the lead judge for Surf’s Up, lifts her sunglasses on top of her head.
She leans against the wall, grinning when she catches me looking.
We first met way back when I competed in the junior division, but in recent years our interactions have centered around my volunteer work.
Waving at her, I return my attention to my fellow volunteers.
“I was thinking, though, that this year we could charge a small entrance fee to help raise funds for the repairs to Sheffield’s Diner.
” I look over the smiling faces around the table.
Last fall, a rough storm had a tree collapsing onto an incoming car, sending it crashing into Oakwood’s beloved diner.
“Most of you will know that Wynn Sheffield’s had trouble with his insurance, and…
Well, seeing as the local business market is all about community to begin with, I thought it might make sense! Thoughts?”
“Excellent idea.” Grant makes a note in his notebook. I can barely keep myself from preening under his praise. “I assume you’ll want to lead this part of the project, on top of everything else you’re running?”
There’s a laugh around the table. Across me, Danica Klein, who I’ve been friendly with since we started volunteering around the same time, shoots me a teasing look. Possibly, I might’ve spent the past few years participating in… all the planning activities.
But I like it. It keeps me busy, when the alternative is hanging out at home alone, or encroaching on my friends’ time. And there’s always been something so magical to me about Surf’s Up.
“If you insist,” I joke with a sigh. “I already took the liberty of running the idea by a few locals, who seemed supportive of an entrance fee.”
“Of course, you did.” Grant smiles down at his notes. “Your zest truly is contagious, Summer.”
I take a moment to bask in the murmurs of agreement. This is why I love Oakwood Bay, the reason I could never bring myself to leave it. After my parents shipped out of town, this group’s support has meant the world.
Eventually, Grant breaks us into our various subcommittees and waves Harriet over for their private meeting. She touches my shoulder as she passes me.
“You’re quite the star planner, Prescott.” She smiles in a way I can’t decipher, tipping down her chin to bring us eye to eye. “But there’s one thing I know you’re even better at.”
Her words are meant to be kind. But my smile falters anyway.
By the time the meeting is done, Dad still hasn’t replied.