Jace
Three hours earlier…
The water’s cold. Fifty-four, fifty-five degrees maybe. In the first few seconds my muscles seize, my breathing speeds up. Then my body adjusts. All that’s left is the clean bite of the ocean, strong enough to drown out everything else. Exactly what I need.
I’ve been surfing alone for half an hour. The lineup’s empty. Just the water, the sky, and me. The sun just broke the horizon. Crescent Beach is still quiet—nobody on the sand, nobody in the water.
This morning, stepping out of the trailer, I looked at the Hayes house. The downstairs shutters were open for the first time in six years. And upstairs, a light snapped off.
I didn’t look up a second time. I grabbed my board and went out.
Except I’ve been paddling for thirty minutes, catching waves, wearing myself out trying to drown what’s eating at me—and it’s still there. Her blue eyes. Her blonde hair. That fucking “Jace” out of her mouth like it cost her something to say it.
Stop.
I paddle toward the next set. The wetsuit clings to my skin. My arms burn.
Paddle, wait, read the wave, stand up.
A figure appears on my left. Longboard, paddling a little stiff, careful posture. Luke. He sets up near the shore, on the small inside waves. He watches the ocean instead of trusting it.
I move closer—what I do every time he comes out. We’ve never said it out loud, but that’s how it’s been since his accident. He surfs, I keep watch.
Kai shows up soon after, his long black hair tied low. His paddling is calm, precise. Today, instead of heading outside, he stays inside with us.
Sitting on our boards, legs in the cold water, the three of us wait for the next set.
“Summer came by the Market yesterday,” Luke says, not looking at me.
He stares at the horizon, hands flat on his board.
“I screwed up. At first I didn’t recognize her.”
I clench my fists.
“She took it pretty hard, I think. I apologized after, but it was too late.”
I don’t answer.
“I remember she used to hang around with us in the summer,” Luke goes on. “Beach bonfires, the skatepark, jumping off the pier... I know she was there. But her face... it’s a blur.”
He runs a hand through his wet curls.
“Did she really matter?”
Twelve summers. One night that changed everything. A girl who wrecked me when she left. And Luke asking if she mattered.
I paddle for my next wave.
“Interesting,” Kai says from his board.
I don’t turn around. The wave comes, I stand up, and I stop thinking about anything.
Luke gets out first—the store opens at eight. Kai follows close behind, heading for the surf school yard to set up the gear. I stay out alone, catching the last waves of the set.
When I come back up the beach, the sun’s already hitting harder and Flip’s waiting for me at the water’s edge, tail wagging, muzzle full of sand. He circles me while I unstrap my leash, shoves his wet nose into my hand, barks at nothing.
“Easy, big guy.”
He doesn’t settle. He never settles.
At nine, the groups show up. Maya takes her little ones—the five- and six-year-olds, shrimp in swimsuits with their moms cheering from the beach. She sets them up at the water’s edge on foam boards, feet in the whitewash. In under a minute, they’re all laughing.
A little farther down, Kai takes the teenagers, more serious, already competing over who’ll stand up first. I get the seven- to nine-year-olds—six kids who can’t hold still.
I line them up in front of the racks and hand out the wetsuits—too big, like always.
One little redhead disappears into his. Another puts his arms through the legs.
The parents settle in on the beach with cups of coffee and towels.
Eighteen wired kids on Crescent Beach at nine in the morning—not exactly the quiet residential setting buyers are looking for.
“Okay, everybody in a line. Feet in the sand. No—feet, not knees. There you go.”
They all stare at me. Some act tough, others look nervous. The redhead won’t stop jumping in place.
“Who can swim?”
Everybody raises a hand. The redhead raises both.
“Okay. Who’s scared of the water? Nobody? Liars.”
Three nervous laughs and an “Am not!” from the redhead. The other two glance at each other, biting their lips.
“Good. Before we get in the water, we’re going to do a quick test. One at a time.”
I start with the redhead. I move behind him.
“I’m going to give you a push from behind. Not hard. You won’t fall. You’ll just step forward. Okay?”
He nods. I push. His left foot steps forward.
“Regular. You put your left foot forward on the board. Easy.”
I move to the next one, a dark-haired girl with pigtails. I push, her right foot steps forward.
“Goofy. Right foot forward.”
Like Summer.
And I’m thrown back eighteen years—on this same beach, my dad, Noah, and me.
I was six, Noah four, my dad still alive.
A little blonde girl had come out of the yard next door.
I’d handed her a foam board, my dad had given her the test. Goofy.
I’d told her, “You’re not normal, you know that? ” She’d laughed.
I shake my head and move on to the next kid.
“Who’s the lady next door?”
The redhead points over the fence, toward the Hayes yard.
I look up. Summer’s on her knees in the yard, work gloves on. She’s tearing out weeds clump by clump, methodical, stubborn. Her hair’s tied up in a high ponytail and she’s got dirt on her arms.
My jaw tightens.
“We don’t worry about the neighbors. We focus on our boards. Which foot did I say?”
“Left!”
“Good. Show me.”
The lesson picks back up. The kids lie down on the boards spread out on the sand and practice the pop-up, the move to get to their feet. I correct positions, hands, feet. I do it on autopilot.
Just as well. My head’s on the other side of the fence.
Summer finally goes back inside. A dull thudding comes from upstairs: a heavy rug being shaken out the window. Dust flies in the sun.
I grab the Bluetooth speaker. I turn up the volume, change the music. The first notes of “Miserlou” blast through the yard—the Pulp Fiction riff, sharp, distorted, aggressive. Pure surf rock.
The volume’s louder than usual, enough to cover the sound of the rug. It’s not background music. It’s a challenge.
I go back to my lesson and fix the dark-haired girl’s position.
“Hands farther back. No, back, not to the side. There. Perfect.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Kai cross the yard, a longboard under each arm. His eyes go from the Hayes house to my speaker, then to me.
“Funny timing,” he says, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
“She’s not staying long.”
The words come out too fast. Kai doesn’t answer and heads off toward the water. Past the fence, the noise has stopped. The music keeps going.
She’s not staying long.