Chapter Three
—NOA
I wipe the sweat off my brow with the inside of my wrist, my gloves sticky with fresh tar and covered in bits of wood and roofing material.
This was an obviously bad idea. Aside from the risking-my-life part, it’s incredibly hot up here—the sun relentless as it heats up the shingles and metal flashings.
Balancing precariously on the ladder below, Shawn hands me the hammer, her blond hair tucked underneath a dirty red bandana.
“I’m not trying to gaslight you,” she assures me. “But you look pretty boss right now.” Her voice rings in that easy confidence that’s a bit contagious, but I also know she’s full of shit.
“You are definitely gaslighting me,” I reply with a tight laugh.
I dig my fingers into the shingles, knowing full well that if I slip off this sloped roof, it’s a long way to the grass below.
And maybe I wouldn’t die, but I’d definitely break or twist something, and I’m not really in the mood to spend my afternoon at the urgent care. Especially not on a rare day off.
Paradise Beach is always closed after a hurricane.
It’s sort of a rule. Not because anyone told us to, but because the ocean turns mean.
Angry, even. The water is still rough, and between the possibility of chemical runoff or sharks lurking in the shallows, the shoreline is too dangerous for outdoor adventuring.
“How was the old Shack looking this morning?” Shawn asks as I pound in a few nails, securing a shingle to the roof.
“She survived,” I say. “Barely.” While the Surf Shack held up okay, our dock took the brunt of the storm with splintered planks and gaps like missing teeth.
“But we lost the Destiny tour boat,” I add, handing the hammer back to Shawn.
She slips it through her belt loop. “It’s probably halfway to Miami by now, not to mention The Tarpon is literally dead in the water. ”
Sometime in the night, lightning struck my father’s salvage boat, frying all the electronics onboard. Considering that’s the bulk of our income, the hurricane has nearly wiped us out financially. Not that we had much to spare to begin with.
“We’ll rally,” Shawn says with a determined shake of her head. But I can tell she doesn’t believe it either.
At this point, the Surf Shack is a sinking ship that we’re all trying to save, bailing out ocean water as we go down. But what’s the alternative? It’s also my home.
Still, when Tech said his family needed help, I didn’t hesitate.
The roof of his house, already battered in the last storm, finally gave out.
And there’s no insurance in a flood zone.
Instead, you get a group of beach kids with a death wish.
Which is why I climbed up here in the first place, as if I knew what the hell I was doing.
I peek over the edge of the roof, a quick glance that makes my stomach dip before I straighten up again. Yeah, it’s higher than it looked from the yard. But I’m here because Tech asked. Because he’s Tech.
Tech Mendez is family—we grew up together.
Our mothers were best friends, and it was only natural that we’d be the same.
He may have that calm way about him, like nothing can shake him, but I know better.
Inside, his mind is always spinning, thinking too deeply about how to fix things he didn’t break.
And I know that when Tech shows up with a plan, we’re probably about to do something unhinged. I don’t always mind that, though. Being occasionally reckless feels a lot better than the crushing weight of endless responsibility.
A cloud shifts, casting a shadow, and I glace up at the sky.
Aside from that one rogue cloud… it’s perfect.
The perfect shade of blue. God, it’s beautiful.
Then my eyes drift down and I realize I can see the extent of the damage to our town from here: fallen sheds, broken trees, overturned fences.
Costs and repairs no one can afford, not in this part of Cape Hope.
This entire neighborhood used to be marshland, now home to the locals who were pushed out of their beachfront properties. There are no Smoothie Kings or boardwalk kiosks here, just muddy roads and a bait shop in the corner of the gas station. And all of it is slowly sinking into the marsh.
“Tech,” Shawn calls down to him from the ladder. “Can you hurry it up? I have a date later.”
He laughs but doesn’t look up from the buzz saw where he’s been cutting planks on the grass in front of his house.
I offered to switch places with him, wanting to take back my “I volunteer as tribute” moment that landed me on the roof in the first place.
But Tech claimed he knew how to use the buzz saw better.
Which was a lie. He’s barely gotten through five cuts at this point.
Shawn smiles as the sun glistens off the coconut sunscreen on her freckled skin, the bruises faded to a soft green on her inner arm.
She’s wearing a Surf Shack tank top with short-shorts and knee-high gym socks and sneakers.
On her wrist, she has a tattoo of a little boat—something she drew as a child, which symbolizes her love of the water.
I nod to get her attention. “Do you really have a date?” I ask, curious. She hasn’t mentioned anyone new. She shrugs.
“Not yet.”
I snort a laugh. Shawn is the queen of dating apps—an instant yes to every girl… who she will later ghost. Paradise Beach is littered with the hearts of lovelorn tourists who thought they had a chance with her. She’s an icon.
Shawn hangs dramatically off the ladder with one hand, calling to Tech again.
I hear the screen door slam, and look down to see Tech’s mom step onto the front porch. I smile instantly. Angela is carrying a tray of icy drinks and a plate of sliders that I know are going to be spicy as fuck—just the way we like them.
“I made you all a little something to keep you going,” she calls, her voice warm.
My smile fades slightly when I notice how tired she looks, how worn down.
Angela has been a second mother to me, especially when I needed her most. But lately, I can see the toll the storms—and the changes in Cape Hope—are taking on her.
I swear, her hair is a little grayer each day.
When I was a kid, Angela would show up at the beach in a red bikini, pull on a wet suit, and paddle out like she owned the tide, my mother confidently at her side.
They’d spend the day surfing while Tech and I built sandcastles outside the Surf Shack, our dads having beers on the dock.
She was always cooking, always laughing, and occasionally singing during our late-night bonfires on the beach.
I would give anything to go back to that. To hear my mom singing off-key, see my dad laughing. Watching my brother and his friend Felix steal a beer when they thought no one was looking. The world was different then. We were different.
But then my mom got sick. She… died. She died and it cracked us straight down the middle.
I didn’t think I’d make it through that.
Honestly, some days I still don’t. But Angela was there to help us, cooking when none of us had the will, singing softly when I couldn’t lift my head off the pillow.
Even after she lost everything, she kept checking on us. Especially when Ellis left.
I look again at the plate of food, sliced up and garnished like we’re still sitting oceanside on her restaurant patio, minus the side of fried plantains. She’s always been the best cook in town.
At the thought, I’m struck with the familiar sadness.
Familiar anger. Because although Angela’s restaurant survived hurricanes, it couldn’t survive the resort investors.
The Collective pushed her out, piece by piece.
Higher taxes, fines, health inspections that were falsified.
Eventually she had no choice but to close down and move inland.
Now she cooks from her house off the books, selling to the locals who can still afford it. Or giving it away to those who can’t.
“Thank you, Angela,” I call down to her. “You didn’t have to make all that.”
She laughs. “Who are you kidding, Noa?” she asks. “You would eat these all yourself if I let you. Oh,” she says, looking back at the house. “I forgot the hot sauce.”
She disappears inside, and just then, the sound of tires sloshing over the muddy road cuts through the otherwise quiet morning. I glance over as a souped-up white Jeep pulls to the edge of the yard. When I recognize the occupants, my heart starts beating faster.
What are they doing here? They never come out this far.
Shawn’s the first to break the silence, her voice filled with a mix of surprise and concern. “What the fuck do you want?” she calls to them.
In the backseat, Mike Treble stands up like he’s going to do something. He’s big and kind of goofy looking, but I know he’s just a henchman. The real piece of shit is Creed Hutchins, sitting behind the wheel. They’re part of the Collective—the worst ones. The one who thrive on cruelty.
I brace myself on the roof, holding steady as my nerves ratchet up.
“What do I want?” Creed replies. His voice is slightly slurred, and I’m sure that he’s been drinking. “I want you and all your trash friends out of Cape Hope,” he says with a sneer. “You’re stinking up the place.”
“Pretty sure that’s just your upper lip, babe,” Shawn calls back, casually lethal.
I blurt out a laugh before I can stop myself, loud enough to make Creed flinch. Immediately, I can see that his pride is wounded. His eyes darken as he zeroes in on me.
His look scares me a little, and I adjust my stance on the roof again, making sure I have a good foothold. But what’s he going to do? Climb up here and get me?
Creed turns to reach into the backseat of his Jeep, and for a second, I think he’s grabbing a towel or something. Maybe a breath mint. But when he cocks back his arm, glass catches the sunlight as he launches a bottle at me.