6. Summer
Summer
For a moment, neither of us moves. The wind, the waves, the kids’ shouting—it all goes distant, muffled. There are thirty feet of sand between us, Flip circling him and yapping, and six years of silence.
His name slips out before I can stop it.
“Jace…”
His jaw tightens. His eyes stay locked on mine—but what I read in them has nothing to do with what I saw there at seventeen. No warmth, no softness. Just a wall.
“Well,” he says. “You’re not dead.”
Three words that break me a little more.
I don’t get why his voice is so cold. Why he’s looking at me like I’m something the tide dragged in. I’m the one with reasons to be angry, after everything…
A hand settles on Jace’s shoulder. He doesn’t flinch. The curly-haired instructor—the one I saw from the window, out in the water with the kids.
The gesture is easy, like she’s done it a hundred times.
“Jefe, can you go grab the first-aid kit? Kai’s got a kid who split his knee open.”
Her voice is warm, direct. She calls him something in Spanish I don’t understand.
Of course she’s got a pet name for him.
Up close, she’s smaller than I thought—all muscle, tan skin, an easy smile.
She’s his girlfriend.
The thought lands—blunt, stupid, shameful. I’m not supposed to feel this. Not after six years. Not after what he did to me.
Jace looks down. He sets his board in the sand, too hard for a guy who takes care of his gear. Then he unclips the leash from his ankle and walks off toward the surf school yard without a backward glance.
Flip hesitates, takes a step toward me, whines. Jace lets out a short, commanding whistle. Flip flattens his ears and takes off after him.
She turns to me. Her smile is open, nothing calculated in it—she has no idea.
“?Hola! I’m Maya,” she says, holding out her hand.
I shake it. Her palm is callused, warm, and firm. No polish, no rings. Surfer’s hands.
“Summer.”
“And that’s Kai over there.”
She tips her chin toward the tattooed guy crouched beside a boy sitting in the sand, one knee hugged to his chest. Kai lifts two fingers our way, then turns back to the kid.
“You a friend of Jace’s?” Maya asks.
“I was.”
The words come out on their own, too fast. Maya doesn’t blink. Her eyes slide over me for a second, then come back with the same kindness.
“Are you here for surf lessons?”
“No. I’m here to sell the house.”
I gesture vaguely toward the yard behind me. Maya glances over my shoulder and nods.
“I should go,” I say, a little too fast.
“Vale. Nice to meet you, Summer.”
She says it with a sincerity that makes me want to throw up. She’s already trotting back toward Kai and the boy.
I bend down, grab my shoes, and bolt toward the lodge.
The beach stretches on forever. I walk across the burning sand. Every step takes me farther from the gate, from Jace, from Maya—but not fast enough: I still have to pass the surf school yard.
I don’t turn my head. I look straight ahead.
The lodge finally comes into view, its wooden deck, its turquoise pool.
“Cruel Summer” by Taylor Swift drifts out of the bar speakers—of course.
Tourists in swimsuits sip colorful cocktails on the lounge chairs, in the shade of the palm trees.
A kid jumps into the water, shrieking. It’s the height of summer. Everything feels light—except me.
I head up the path to the bungalows, legs like lead.
The bike. It’s back there, behind the house, over by the redwoods. Shit.
I’ll get it later.
The door to Bungalow 17 slams behind me. The silence settles back in. I throw my Converse at the foot of the bed. They bounce off the hardwood. The fan spins overhead, useless. The air in this damn bungalow is hot, heavy, still.
I lean back against the door. My hands are shaking, my knees buckling.
Breathe, Summer.
I’ve forgotten how.
“You’re not dead.”
His voice. His green eyes. His clenched jaw.
“You’re not dead.”
I’m the one who gets to be angry. I’m the one who…
I slide down the door and sit on the floor, my back against the wood, knees pulled up to my chest. Beach sand sticks to my feet, works its way between my toes. Flip’s smell is still on my fingers—salt, seaweed, wet fur.
Jace is here.
Not across an ocean on the other side of the world. Here, in Coral Bay, a hundred feet from my grandparents’ house. He runs the surf school. And he’s got a girl who rests her hand on his shoulder like he’s hers—and he probably is.
My fingers grip the pendant. I squeeze so hard the little gold wave bites into my palm.
You’re not going to cry.
A tear rolls down my cheek. Just one. I wipe it away with the back of my hand—the same furious motion I made as a kid when Mom told me crying was pointless.
She was right.
I let go of the pendant and lay my palms flat on the warm floorboards.
Jace Walker is still in Coral Bay.