8. Summer
Summer
The bungalow is stifling. The ceiling fan turns overhead, slow, useless.
I sit down on the bed, sandals still on, the taste of the barely-touched burger in my mouth.
My father’s spending the summer there—a research program at the university, Victorian or Romantic literature, I forget which.
He taught in New York for a long time; more recently he’s been a professor in Boston, where he also met his new partner.
She followed him to Oxford this summer. I’ve met her twice, she seems nice, we have nothing to say to each other.
Dad picks up on the third ring.
“Summer?”
His voice is soft, a little weary—end of the day over there. I hear a door, then the sound shifts, less muffled. He’s stepped out onto the balcony.
“Hey, Dad. Did I wake you?”
“No, no, I was reading. How are you? How’s Coral Bay?”
How’s Coral Bay. I watch the fan spin. What’s there to say?
“The house is in rough shape. The agency’s only had one offer in six months, for a hundred thousand dollars. Nobody wants to buy because of the noise—the surf school.”
Silence. My father’s not good with numbers, and even worse with real estate.
“A hundred thousand, that’s... really low, isn’t it?”
“It’s insulting, honestly.”
“And the agency, do they have a solution?”
“The agent’s offering to buy it himself for three hundred thousand. Says the market’s only going to drop.”
“Three hundred thousand... that’s less than half.”
“I know. But the shutters are falling apart, the yard’s a jungle, everything smells musty. Before I sell to anyone, I’d at least have to repaint and clean.”
“Summer, do you want me to send you some money? For the paint, the repairs... Would a thousand dollars—”
“Keep your money, Dad. You need it for your new place.”
He doesn’t argue.
“And how are you, though?”
The real question, even if he can guess the answer.
“I’m okay,” I say, voice flat.
“Summer...”
“I’ve got it, I promise.”
A motorcycle passes below his balcony. When the quiet returns, his voice has changed.
“This house—your grandparents left it to you. Not to a real estate agent. Do what you can, but don’t let anyone decide for you.”
My hand tightens around the phone.
“Okay, Dad.”
“Call me if you need to. Even in the middle of the night.”
“Promise.”
I hang up. The quiet settles back over the bungalow, barely broken by the sound of the waves.
“This house—your grandparents left it to you.”
I drop my head into my hands and stay still. Then the anger rises—cold, hard, the kind that makes me want to move.
No.
I’m not giving my grandparents’ house away.
Not to Ryan Caldwell, not to Jace Walker—especially not him—not to anyone.
The house needs work, so I’ll do it. Weed, scrub, air it out, sand, repaint. My hands, my time, my energy. It’s the only capital I have, and the only kind I need.
I get up, strip off the shorts, the tank top, and the sandals, then pull on old jeans, a gray T-shirt, and my sand-filled Converse.
Work mode.
I cut through the little stand of redwoods. The lodge bike is where I left it this morning, propped against the back wall of the house. I grab it and head for Main Street.
Next stop: Coral Bay Market.
The only real general store in town, where you can find anything and everything: groceries, cleaning supplies, toiletries, with a hardware aisle wedged between the fishing bait and the beach towels.
The bell above the door jingles when I push it open.
Inside smells like focaccia and coffee. White fluorescents light up aisles packed a little too tight, where canned goods sit next to plastic flip-flops and five-dollar sunglasses.
A glass-front fridge hums against the left wall, beside a huge poster advertising a sale on sun-protective swimwear.
A curvy redheaded surfer poses fresh out of the water, board under her arm, in a long-sleeve rash guard unzipped lower than necessary.
The place is nearly empty. A couple of tourists linger in front of the craft beers. A woman in a sarong compares two sunscreens.
And from the back, a voice:
“I’m telling you, Ed! There’s some critter swiping my stuff!”
The voice is warm, fast-talking. Deeper than before—older, rougher—but I’d know it anywhere.
“Last night it went through three more bags of beef jerky and a box of donuts. Three bags, Ed! This crap’s costing me sixty bucks a week in merchandise!”
A gravelly laugh—an old man in a faded baseball cap, a cup of coffee in his hand.
“You sure it’s not you eating those donuts at night?”
“Ed, seriously! Look at the claw marks on the box. No human did that.”
“Must be Bigfoot,” Ed deadpans, without looking up from his coffee.
My heart picks up as I move down the center aisle.
Luke DeLuca is bent over a torn-open box, holding it up to the customer like a piece of evidence.
He’s grown—filled out, really, jaw squarer, shoulders broader.
His brown curls are the same, messy, and the gold chain still glints at his throat.
He’s wearing an apron over a T-shirt and khaki shorts full of pockets, a box cutter and a key ring sticking out of them.
His hands fly when he talks—the same expressive gestures as when he was a teenager.
I move closer; the old man walks off laughing. Luke looks up.
“Hey,” I say.
His brown eyes land on me with a shopkeeper’s politeness.
“Hey! Can I help you?”
I wait for him to smile, to frown, to say my name. Nothing.
“Luke?”
He studies my face.
“Sorry, I... Do we know each other?”
I freeze. Okay, I’ve changed. The braces are gone, and my body’s nothing like the lean, flat figure of the skater I was at seventeen.
But twelve summers, Luke. Twelve summers eating ice cream together on the pier, shoving each other into the lodge pool, throwing barbecues on the beach. You don’t forget that.
Or you pretend you have.
Last night, Evan was distant. This morning, Jace and his “You’re not dead.” Now Luke. “Do we know each other?”
Of course they blame me. Even Luke, the nicest of the bunch, won’t even bother to recognize me.
“No, it’s... nothing. Sorry.”
Luke opens his mouth to answer, but I’ve already turned on my heel.
I grab a plastic basket and fill it with cold fury. Sponges. Rubber gloves. Bleach. Trash bags, XXL. Pruning shears. Scrub brush. Sandpaper.
“Do we know each other?”
I toss a roller and a pack of brushes into the basket.
Twelve summers—and he looks at me like I’m some tourist passing through.
I look for paint. There’s interior paint—white, cream, beige—but nothing for the shutters.
They blame me for my silence—and they’re right. For six years, I didn’t call. I erased them from my life.
I pass the glass-front fridge again and grab a bottle of water. My throat’s dry.
But they heard Jace’s version that summer. They picked his side.
The basket weighs a ton. I get in line.
Two people ahead of me. Luke rings them up fast, focused, a word for every customer. A woman pays for milk and bananas. A teenager buys a bar of surf wax. Then it’s my turn.
Luke starts scanning my items—an automatic motion, repeated a thousand times. He lifts his head and really looks at me. I flush. He sets down the pruning shears he was holding.
“Summer?” he says, eyes going wide. “Summer Hayes?”
“Yeah, Luke. It’s me.”
He closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them, he looks nothing like the guy who was joking with Ed.
“Shit. I’m sorry. I—”
He runs a hand through his curls—the same gesture as at sixteen—and shakes his head.
“It’s not what you think. I had an accident a few years back. A skate trick, no helmet...”
He pushes the hair off his forehead and reveals a long scar—a clean white line running up into his hairline.
“Traumatic brain injury. Left me with memory gaps. I even had to relearn how to read. Some things come back, others don’t. Doctors say it’s... random.”
He lets his hair fall back with a tired smile.
“Miles says I look like Harry Potter. Can’t see it myself.”
A nervous laugh slips out. So it wasn’t rejection, and it wasn’t resentment.
“Luke, I’m sorry... I didn’t know.”
“Don’t worry about it. People think I’m ignoring them when really it’s my head acting up.”
He taps his temple with a fingertip.
Does he remember that summer? What Jace did to me? What everyone knew except me?
No. If Luke has memory gaps, he won’t be the one to give me answers.
Behind me, the line’s grown. Luke glances over my shoulder.
“Sorry, I’ve got to—”
“Yeah, of course.”
He goes back to scanning. The plan for my next few days fits entirely on this counter.
“You planning to fix up the house?” he asks.
“Somebody’s got to... You have any exterior paint, for the shutters?”
“Not in stock, but I can order some. Two, three days. What color do you want?”
“Navy blue.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“That’s not the original color.”
“No.”
He waits for an explanation. I don’t give one.
“Five cans should do it,” he says, writing it down on a scrap of paper in a slow, careful hand.
He slides my purchases into well-stuffed kraft paper bags.
“I’m glad to see you again, Summer. Really. Even if my brain took a minute.”
His smile is back—the same as before, warm, the one that put everyone at ease.
“We’ll run into each other,” he adds. “Coral Bay’s small.”
It’s what everyone’s been telling me since last night.
I nod and gather my bags—three of them, easily ten pounds each, which I’ll have to balance on a rusty beach cruiser.
The bike’s waiting out front of the store. I wedge the first bag into the basket, balance the second on top. The third I pin against me with one hand. This is never going to hold. I’ll lose one at the first turn.
You’ve got this, Summer.
I climb onto the bike. Everything wobbles. The basket tips, the top bag slides. I catch it just in time, reposition the third against me, and pedal.
Next stop: home.