2. Summer
Summer
MONDAY
The heat wakes me. Not a gentle warmth—a clammy, sticky heat that’s worked its way under the sheets and won’t let go. The fan’s running, but it just pushes the warm air around, cooling nothing. The back of my neck is soaked. My T-shirt clings to my back like a second skin.
I open my eyes.
The ceiling is pale wood, cut by a blade of white light slipping through the gap in the curtains. It takes me three seconds to realize where I am. Bungalow 17. The lodge. Coral Bay.
Shit.
I’m sore all over, my mouth dry and cottony. The mattress is too soft, and I slept in a dip that wrecked my back. If you can call it sleeping—I barely closed my eyes.
I went to bed around midnight, and the concert started up. The crickets first—a high-pitched buzz that won’t quit. Then the wind through the branches, in uneven gusts. The creak of wood shifting, expanding, contracting. And always, the waves.
In New York, I sleep in noise. Traffic on the avenue, sirens, the dull hum of the city vibrating through the walls. A dirty, constant, human noise I’d eventually learned to sleep through. Here, the silence between sounds is too vast. The slightest creak makes me jump.
I sit up and put my feet on the floor.
The right one protests right away. Not a sharp pain, more a dull stiffness deep in the bones of my foot. I flex my toes. My foot resists a little, then loosens. I run my fingers along the arch. A quick, automatic press, like every morning for years.
In New York, between wearing heels at the agency and spending nights on my feet at the diner, it’s worse. Here, barefoot on the warm floorboards, it’s nothing.
I stand and yank the curtains open. The brightness blinds me.
The ocean fills the frame, a blue so deep it looks painted. The mist has burned off, and the sun already hits the water. Below, Crescent Beach traces its pale curve between two rocky points, and the sand glitters in the morning light.
Last night, in the dark, I could pretend. This morning, I can’t.
You’re in Coral Bay. For real.
I let go of the curtain, grab my toiletry bag, and shut myself in the bathroom.
I take a quick shower, almost cold—the hot water takes forever and I don’t have the patience. I pull on jeans, a tank top, and my white Converse. A brush through my hair, I grab my bag and head out of the bungalow.
In daylight, the lodge is nothing like the empty stage it was the night before. Solar lanterns line the path. Succulents spill out of terracotta pots. An orange cat sleeps on the low wall by the pool, tail dangling, indifferent to me.
The door to the main building is open. The smell of coffee drifts from the deck, mixed with warm wood and salt air. Dishes clink somewhere in the kitchen. The sun beats down on the deck boards and lights up the tables, still damp with dew.
I walk up to the front desk.
Yumi’s behind the counter, smaller than I remember—more stooped, too. Her hair has gone silver-gray, pulled into a low bun, and the lines around her eyes have deepened.
“Yumi.”
She looks up. Her gaze lands on me—dark, soft, attentive. For a second, nothing moves on her face. Then a slow smile appears and widens as she really recognizes me.
“Summer Hayes! Look who’s back!”
She comes out from behind the counter, a dish towel tucked into the waist of her apron.
She lays a hand on my forearm—a thin hand, marked by decades of cooking and work.
“You look like hell,” she adds.
A laugh escapes me—the first since I set foot in California.
“Thanks, Yumi. Always a pleasure.”
“Rough night?”
“The crickets. The wind. The mattress.”
And a face I refuse to let in.
“Bungalow 17,” Yumi says, nodding. “The mattress is old. I’ll see what I can do. You want to eat? I’ve got rice from this morning, and I can make you—”
“Just a coffee, if that’s okay. My stomach’s not awake yet.”
She studies me for a moment—that grandmotherly look weighing whether you’re eating enough—but she doesn’t push. She disappears into the back kitchen and comes back with a steaming mug, holding it out to me.
The warmth feels good. The smell too—strong, black, bitter coffee, a world away from Manhattan flat whites.
“Evan called me this morning,” Yumi says, slipping back behind the counter. “He’s handling the tow truck. Your car will be waiting in the lot tomorrow.”
“Thanks. In the meantime, I—”
“There are bikes. Behind the building, under the awning. Take one and bring it back whenever.”
I have one, technically. An old beach cruiser, in the garage at the house. Pale pink, fat tires, a wicker basket on the front. Grandpa gave it to me the summer I turned fourteen. The house is a five-minute walk away, but I’m not ready to go there yet.
“Okay. Thanks.”
I take a sip of coffee. My eyes drift to the back wall, where Yumi has always hung photos—guests, surfers, sunsets taken from the deck. Most are old, a little yellowed by the years and the damp.
Two frames sit on a shelf. In the first, a little girl of seven or eight, sitting on the lodge steps. Straight black hair, a shy smile, an oversized T-shirt, Yumi’s dark eyes.
Hana.
The second photo is more recent. The same girl, but transformed. Platinum-blonde hair, black roots showing. Careful makeup, a structured blazer. She poses in front of what looks like a hotel lobby—not the High Tide Lodge, somewhere bigger, newer, colder. She looks to be in her early twenties.
I’d never have connected the two photos if they weren’t side by side.
Hana Nakamura. Yumi’s granddaughter, who used to hang around the lodge in the summers. She was always a little apart from the group, quiet, absorbed in her phone. I never took the time to get to know her.
In the recent photo, she looks like she decided to become someone else. A total identity overhaul—the kind I see every day on the feeds of the brands I manage.
“Hana’s grown up,” I say.
Yumi glances at the photos. Her face softens.
“She finishes school next May. Hospitality management, at UCLA. She’s got big plans.”
The pride in Yumi’s voice is obvious. And behind it, a shadow—worry, maybe.
I don’t push. It’s not my story.
“Right,” I say, after finishing my coffee. “I should go. The house isn’t going to sell itself.”
“That house has been waiting a long time for you,” Yumi says.
It’s not a reproach—but it stings anyway.
I head for the door, then stop.
“Yumi? It’s good to see you.”
She smiles. A real smile this time, lines crinkling, eyes shining.
“You too, Summer.”
I pick an old navy-blue cruiser with rusted handlebars and fat tires that have seen better days. The seat creaks when I sit down. The chain needs oil, the back brake is soft.
It’s perfect.
I roll down the lodge path and turn onto Shoreline Drive.
The coastal road runs behind the beachfront properties, parallel to the boardwalk.
It’s less exposed. Works for me this morning.
The air is cool, washed clean by the night’s mist, and the sun isn’t high enough yet to burn.
Under my wheels, the asphalt is cracked and edged with sand the wind carries up from the beach.
My legs keep pedaling and the memories come rushing back. Summers spent crisscrossing Coral Bay on a bike like this one—Crescent Beach, the surf school, the lodge, the skatepark, the pier, Luke’s market, the rides at Star Park. Hair in the wind and the taste of salt on my lips.
You’re not here for that, Summer.
Main Street. The real estate office. The house. The paperwork.
I pedal harder.