22. Summer
Summer
Iopen the little bungalow closet and wince.
On one side, the work clothes—stained jeans and shorts, T-shirts sacrificed to the renovations, white Converse that aren’t white anymore.
On the other, dresses too formal for anything I have planned here.
The blue dress from the other night is balled up in the back, and the sight of it takes me back to Salt Vine, to the heels that crushed my foot, to that version of me that didn’t feel like me.
Not tonight.
I go with a short yellow dress, light cotton, thin straps. A swipe of mascara, flat sandals, my hair down. No heels, no armor.
Just me.
Arms full of the snacks and drinks I picked up, I head up the gravel path to the main building. The evening air is warm, heavy with jasmine, the waves breaking faintly in the distance. Solar lanterns flicker on one by one along the path.
The gym is lit up.
I spot Noah on the rowing machine, back hunched, arms pulling and releasing, never quite finding the rhythm. He’s still in his coveralls—he didn’t bother to change. His hair sticks to his temples and he’s breathing hard, mouth open.
He’s struggling, but at least he’s here. I smile in spite of myself.
I walk past without stopping. He doesn’t look up.
At the front desk, Miles is leaning against the counter, a blue cooler at his feet. He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt open over a white T-shirt, his pink hair a mess.
“Oh. The yellow dress,” he says. “Pulling out all the stops, Hayes.”
“It’s a book club, Miles. Not a gala.”
I look at the cooler.
“Wait. You’re coming?”
“Obviously I’m coming.”
“I thought men weren’t allowed.”
Maya pops up behind me, a canvas bag over her shoulder. She’s in denim shorts and a terracotta tank top. A little sun tattoo peeks out from under the strap.
“Sí, but he doesn’t count,” she says, elbowing Miles.
“I’m an administrative exception... And more to the point, I supply the cocktails. Non-alcoholic,” he adds, lifting the cooler.
“But very good,” Maya adds.
Miles’s Jeep is parked in the lodge lot, wedged between a dust-covered pickup and an old Subaru wagon loaded with surfboards.
It’s an olive-green Wrangler, top off, doors removed.
On the rear bumper, a rainbow sticker half-peeled by the sun sits next to a Save the Ocean decal with turquoise lettering.
I plant a foot on the running board and pull myself up into the passenger seat. Maya settles in the back, next to the cooler.
Miles turns the key. The engine coughs, finally catches, and sets the whole Jeep rattling.
Then he starts the music. A fast, sunny beat, carried by a voice that slides from low to falsetto with insane confidence. The sound fills the open air and mixes with the evening wind.
“What is this?” I ask.
“‘Tití Me Preguntó,’ by Bad Bunny.”
I shake my head.
“Never heard of it.”
Miles shoots me a scandalized look.
“Un Verano Sin Ti. The album. It’s reggaeton. Well... his version of it. He goes all over the place, switches up the beat every thirty seconds.”
A summer without you.
Six years of summers without him. This one too. My throat tightens.
“And what’s it about?”
“A guy everybody keeps asking why he goes through so many girls. He plays it up, but you get the feeling he’s hiding something.”
Maya leans between the seats.
“His Super Bowl show? Ay... Best of all time. Te juro.”
Miles nods, emphatic.
“Listen to the whole album. Preferably in the car, windows down... it’s made for it.”
He turns it up. The bass thumps in my chest, the wind rushes into the Jeep, tangles my hair and whips my face.
Maya sings along in Spanish, the words she knows by heart. I don’t understand any of it, but it doesn’t matter. My feet are up on the dash, my hand pressed flat against my dress to keep it from riding up.
Miles drums the beat on the wheel and takes the turn onto Main Street. Coral Bay streams past on either side—lit-up signs, palm trees black against the orange sky, a girl in a wetsuit crossing the street, board under her arm.
It’s heady—like a drink downed too fast on an empty stomach.
Miles brakes in front of Tide so does the music. My ears are still ringing.
Maya jumps out of the Jeep first.
“Ready?” she says.
I’m not sure what for, exactly, but I say yes.
Inside, it smells of paper and incense. The bookstore is bigger than I imagined—light-wood shelves, a new-releases table in the center, colorful patchwork armchairs.
The book club meets in the back room. A circle has formed on the floor, among rugs, mismatched cushions, and little velvet armchairs. String lights run along the beams. Rice-paper lamps cast a golden light through the room.
A coffee table is buried under food: quiches, cookies, banana bread, lemonade in a glass bowl. Books fill the shelves or sit stacked near the cushions.
It’s all women.
Teenage girls—fifteen, sixteen—mix with women in their thirties and forties. In a corner by the window, two old ladies share a throw.
“Summer!”
Sierra gets up from her cushion and comes over. She hasn’t changed much. Curvier than I remember, gorgeous as ever, with her caramel skin, her little braids, and handmade rings on almost every finger. Her eyes are the same: direct, with a hint of amusement.
She pulls me into a hug and squeezes the air out of me. Then she looks me over, taking her time. Her smile widens.
“You’ve changed... for the better. I had a crush on you, you know.”
What?
“I... I didn’t know.”
Sierra bursts out laughing.
“I know. It was Jace you were looking at.”
I force a smile.
“That was a long time ago.”
Sierra doesn’t push it. She loops her arm through mine and pulls me toward the circle.
“Come on. Ages fifteen to ninety-nine. Everyone’s welcome.”
“Except men,” Miles puts in, setting his cooler on the corner of a table.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
I add what I brought to the spread and sit down between Maya and a woman in her forties I don’t know. The mood is cheerful, a little loud, full of overlapping conversations. Miles hands out his cocktails—colorful glasses, non-alcoholic, with lemon slices.
“What is it?” one of the teens asks.
“Trade secret,” Miles answers with a wink.
Maya hands me a glass. I take a sip. It’s really good. Cool, tart, with a hint of ginger underneath.
A young woman comes in, a tray in her hands. She has brown hair, gold hoop earrings, and a huge smile. It takes me a few seconds to recognize Chiara DeLuca, Luke’s little sister.
The last time I saw her, she was twelve, with scraped knees and a ponytail that never stayed put. Now she’s eighteen. The resemblance to Luke is striking—same brown eyes, same golden skin, same way of talking with her hands.
“Tonight it’s cannoli,” she announces, setting the tray in the center of the table.
A murmur of approval ripples through the room.
“Did Luke make them?” Sierra asks.
Chiara shrugs.
“Like always. I just carried them.”
“Your brother cooks like a chef,” Maya says. “Such a shame he’s a grocer and not a cook.”
“What he really wants is to fix bikes and skateboards,” Chiara answers. “He’s always tinkering.”
“That young man can do anything with his hands,” one of the old ladies says.
She exchanges a knowing look with her neighbor and starts to giggle.
Chiara frowns and goes to sit next to the teens. I hold back a laugh.
Another old lady shows up with a big Tupperware. White hair cropped short, leather pants, studded belt, Doc Martens, tattooed arms.
“Sorry I’m late,” she says.
She sets her plastic container down next to Chiara’s cannoli.
“Hey, Ruby,” Maya says.
She leans in toward me.
“She was at the garage, with her biker.”
Right. Hank, the mechanic.
He dropped my car off at the lodge lot Tuesday, tire changed.
“I brought a brownie,” Ruby announces. “But careful... adults only. It’s a little special.”
“Special how?” I ask.
Sierra sets the brownie on a plate and starts cutting pieces.
“Let’s say it’s very relaxing.”
Miles raises his hand.
“I want some!”
“Ay Dios. So I’m driving home, then,” Maya sighs, deflated. “Not fair.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I can drive. I’m not planning to have any.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“You’re my hero, Summer Hayes.”
She grabs a piece of the special brownie and devours it, eyes closed.
The book club starts.
Sierra settles in the center of the circle, Stroke of Desire resting on her lap. Dani Heart. Breathless series, book one. The same copy Maya lent me Tuesday, the one I tore through in two days.
“Okay. Xander and Daisy... can we talk about them?”
The next twenty minutes are a mix of laughter, half-finished sentences, and clashing opinions about the swimmer character. The teens blush at certain passages. The forty-something women don’t blush. The two grandmas in the back comment with a detachment I find admirable.
I join in. I loved this book. I didn’t expect to, but it’s a fact: I turned the pages without stopping, I stared at the ceiling at the end of chapter seven, and I thought things I won’t be saying out loud in this room.
“The locker-room scene...” a red-haired woman sighs. “The one with the towel...”
General murmurs of approval.
“I’d love for my husband to read it,” another woman adds. “Take notes, especially. If he did half of what Xander does in that scene, I’d have the best night of my life.”
Ruby pulls a little flask from her pocket, unscrews the cap, and pours a splash into her glass.
“All I’m saying is, a swimmer like that should come settle down here,” she says.
Laughter goes around the circle.
“We already have surfers,” a teen points out. “Isn’t that enough?”
“Honey, surfers are nice. But an Olympic swimmer with shoulders like that? That’s something else.”
Miles gives a silent thumbs-up from the corner, where he nibbles his brownie, eyes half-closed.
The conversation drifts from books to real life. Someone mentions the summer season kicking off, the tourists, the events coming up.
Sierra turns to Maya.
“Do you and Kai need help with the fundraiser Sunday?”
“Honestly? Yes,” Maya sighs. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“A fundraiser... for what?” I ask, intrigued.
“For the surf school,” Sierra explains. “They do one every year. Bake sale, barbecue, raffle, intro surf lessons for the kids, games, stuff to sell. It lasts all day.”
“The school doesn’t have much money,” Maya says. “We get by, but barely. This day helps us hang on.”
I get it. The sandy yard, the worn-out boards, the trailer, the old VW bus... none of it screams prosperity.
“And Jace is okay with this?”
Maya winces.
“Asking people for money? Jace hates it. But... he knows we don’t have a choice.”
“Did you announce the event on Instagram?”
“No. We put up posters. In the shops, at the lodge, on the beach. It works pretty well.”
“Okay. But you at least have an account for the school?”
Maya shakes her head. I blink.
“Wait. You don’t even have an Insta account for the surf school?”
“We have a Facebook page. But I think Jace lost the password.”
It’s worse than I thought.
“Okay. So no social media, no email list, no digital flyer for the tourists spending the weekend on the coast.”
Nobody answers.
“And partnerships? A local business sponsoring a booth in exchange for visibility? Luke could sell his cannoli for a percentage of the proceeds. The bookstore could set up a book table with—”
“Wait,” Sierra cuts in. “What do you do for a living?”
“I work at a digital marketing agency in New York. I got my bachelor’s in economics from Columbia, with a minor in communications.”
Sierra lets out an admiring whistle.
“I’m not saying what you’re doing is wrong,” I add. “But there’s huge potential here. Instagram, a real visual identity, targeted marketing, storytelling around the school... I can help, if you want.”
“?En serio?” Maya cries, eyes shining.
“It’s my field,” I say.
“You know if the school goes under, it’ll help sell your house,” Miles calls from the back of the room.
He blinks, suspiciously slow. The brownie’s starting to kick in.
“I want to sell the house, not shut down the school,” I shoot back.
Miles gives a thumbs-up. Maya claps her hands.
“Okay. Anyone who’s free, tomorrow night at the lodge. We’ll meet to plan.”
“I’ll bring food,” Sierra announces.
Miles raises his hand from his cushion.
“I’ll supply the cocktails.”
“And I’ll bring the ideas,” I say.
Maya smiles at me, and so does Sierra. Chiara claps. The brownie grandma lifts her cup my way.
On the way back, I’m the one behind the wheel of Miles’s Jeep. He’s in the back, head tipped back, eyes closed. A loose smile lingers on his lips. Maya’s in the passenger seat, feet on the dash, eyelids heavy. She hums a tune in Spanish I don’t recognize.
Night has fallen. Main Street is nearly empty—a few lit windows, a flickering sign, a cat crossing the street in no hurry. The Jeep has no top, no doors, and the night air is cool on my bare arms.
I take the turn toward the lodge. To my left, the ocean is a dark mass, barely visible. Maya murmurs, eyes closed.
“You’re really gonna help us, no?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks, Summer. You’re a real friend.”
I keep my eyes on the road. Friend. The word came out too fast.
I just offered to help save Jace’s surf school. The school that’s keeping the house from selling. The school whose owner covered me in chalk two days ago... and humiliated me six years ago.
My fingers tighten on the wheel.
Smart move, Summer.