26. Summer
Summer
When I get back, there are twice as many people as this morning.
I spent two hours at the lodge. The pool was empty—all of Coral Bay is at the surf school.
I swam, lap after lap, without counting, until my arms burned, until I stopped seeing the yellow board on its rack every time I closed my eyes.
Then I lay down on the bungalow bed and stared at the fan. Sleep didn’t come.
I didn’t have to come back. And yet here I am.
The lot is overflowing onto the shoulder of Shoreline Drive: dusty pickups, too-clean SUVs, two camper vans, a huge RV parked at an angle.
Right in the middle, Luke has marked off a rectangle of asphalt with four orange cones. A sign in marker reads:
Skate Intro—$5
Helmet required
Luke’s wearing one too.
“Bend your knees, look straight ahead. You already know your sneakers,” he says to a little girl wobbling forward on her board.
She bursts out laughing; so does Luke.
The smell of grilled meat drifts over. The music has changed—California pop, more upbeat now, the kind that makes you want to dance. Kids run between the booths with half-melted ice cream; people sit in the sand where there was no one this morning.
I cut through the crowd, hoping not to run into Jace—which is no small feat. But he’s busy, talking with Cole, Evan’s fellow cop.
I recognize him by the broken nose and the very short crew cut. Out of uniform, he looks almost like someone else—a little kid tucked against him, held in place by one sure arm—but the eyes are the same: dark, too steady.
Maya’s still in the water with Kai. A row of kids floats between them on foam boards. She waves from a distance; I raise a hand back.
Miles passes behind me with a tray of cups.
“Summer! You came back!”
“I was in the neighborhood,” I say.
He laughs, keeps moving toward the drink stand.
I was in the neighborhood. At an event almost no one knows I organized.
I make the rounds. I talk to people whose names don’t stick.
A woman who runs a bed-and-breakfast on the edge of town.
A physical therapist. An old surfer with a white beard and a faded Endless Summer T-shirt who tells me he used to come here back when Jace’s grandfather still ran the place.
A couple of tourists from San Jose who came down for the day after stumbling on an Instagram post.
Mine.
I don’t say anything.
By the darts booth, I spot a woman in a navy dress, short graying hair, shaking everyone’s hand with campaign-trail efficiency.
Evan’s beside her, arms crossed, sunglasses on.
The resemblance is striking—same jaw, same posture, same calm.
Diane Carter, Evan’s mother—and the mayor of Coral Bay.
Ryan told me as much at the Salt Vine, between sips of sauvignon blanc.
I don’t go over. I have nothing to say to her. But I note that she’s here, that she’s smiling, that she’s posing for a photo with Yumi by the poke bowl stand.
The whole town is here.
It’s Maya who finds me, twenty minutes later.
She’s traded her wetsuit for denim shorts and a rust-colored tank top. Her hair’s soaked, twisted into a messy bun that’s holding on by some miracle.
“Look who’s back!” she says, laying a hand on my arm.
Her skin’s cool, still wet. On her forearm, I notice three pale marks, long and thin, too clean to be scratches.
Beside her stands a girl I’ve never seen before.
Blonde, with short messy hair, in a tank cut from a loose T-shirt, boardshorts, barefoot. A braided shell choker sits snug at her throat. Her shoulders are broad and golden, her hands rough. Surfer.
“Summer, this is Harper Quinn,” Maya says. “She surfs the qualifying circuit. She’s nineteen, from Australia—the Gold Coast.”
Harper holds out her hand. Her eyes are blue, direct, unfiltered.
“Hey,” she says.
“Nice to meet you,” I say. “I used to surf. Just not in the last six years.”
Harper raises an eyebrow.
“What happened?”
I catch a flash of metal when she opens her mouth—a tongue piercing.
“Life.”
She studies me for a second, then smiles.
“Six years is nothing,” she says. “Your body doesn’t forget.”
I don’t answer.
“I’m here to train,” she adds. “Reckon there’s some good sections here. And The Last Ride, when conditions are right.”
The afternoon wears on, the sun dropping. The shadows of the booths stretch across the sand.
The focaccia stand is closed. Yumi’s almost out of poke bowls. Ruby’s giving running commentary on Hank’s dart throws from her folding chair, her little flask in hand. Sierra’s at the raffle, ticket book out, selling the last few with a smile that never wavers.
Someone’s put on “Better Together” by Jack Johnson—soft guitar, easy vocals, a California feel. The perfect end-of-day song.
I should leave, but I stay.
I listen, I talk. A woman wants to know if I’m Frank and Helen Hayes’s granddaughter—yes, that’s me. A teenager points to the poster taped to the pole behind him and asks who did the surf school’s new design—I tell him I have no idea.
I also talk with S?ren, the hairdresser who set up shop in town not long ago. Norwegian, he tells me, in near-perfect English with a faint accent. Ash-blond hair, very pale eyes. He’s cute—and he looks at me like he’s already deciding what he’d change about my haircut.
The old surfer with the white beard comes back to find me. He tells me shark attacks are rare in Coral Bay, but the risk is never zero.
“Back in ’97,” he says, “a great white killed a surfer fifty yards from shore. Cut clean in half! And five or six years ago, the kid ran into another one. He got luckier. When the seals move in near the spot, the sharks follow. That’s just how it is.”
I have no clue which kid he means, but I nod.
Coral Bay, nibbling away at me. Grain of sand after grain of sand.
Noah’s at the flip-flop toss.
I catch sight of him across the crowd. He’s taken off his apron, his gray T-shirt pulling at the shoulders, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. A beer in his left hand, a flip-flop in his right, and he’s laughing a little too loud.
Around him: Miles, Dylan, and two guys I don’t know. Miles is working the booth like he’s found his life’s calling.
Noah steps up. He eyes the shoe like he’s competing in the Olympic javelin throw. He squints, sets his stance, and lets it fly.
The flip-flop veers left and lands ten feet from the target. Miles cracks up.
“Thanks, Noah. That was spectacular.”
Noah takes two steps back, stumbles, and collapses into the sand. The cigarette drops from his lips. Half the beer spills.
A few steps away, Jace sighs, arms crossed. The look he gives Noah is tired, resigned.
“Who’s that?” Harper asks.
“Noah. Jace’s brother.”
“He’s cute, that one. Even wasted…”
I don’t answer. I look at Noah in the sand, eyes half-closed, a vague smile on his lips. And I think of the boy I used to know. The one who wanted to be a doctor. The one with the best grades in all of Coral Bay.
It’s not the same smile.
“Summer.”
I jump, enough to slosh a little lemonade over my fingers. That voice…
I turn around.
Ryan. White shirt, sleeves rolled, light beige pants. Leather shoes, a Rolex on his wrist.
We’re on a beach, Ryan.
I’ve only been alone for five minutes. Harper went to grab a hot dog. Maya’s talking with Kai a few feet away.
He saw his opening. He’s standing too close, like he always does.
“You didn’t answer my message,” he says, his tone light, almost teasing.
But his gray eyes aren’t laughing.
I got the text two days ago—an invitation to his place.
I’ve got a terrace with a view of the bay. You should come see it.
I read it, set the phone down, and forgot—or pretended to.
“I’ve been busy,” I say.
“With this fundraiser?”
He keeps the polished smile, but the contempt slips through on the word fundraiser. I don’t answer.
“You’ve put a lot into it, from what I hear.”
My fingers tighten around the cup.
He’s not supposed to know that.
“The invitation still stands,” he says, taking a step closer. “The view’s worth the trip. And I’ve got a very good white chilling.”
His hand settles at the small of my back. I pull away. With him, I’m always the one who has to give ground.
“Ryan…”
“It’s just a drink, Summer.”
I open my mouth to turn him down when a voice rings out behind me:
“Summer! Finally! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
Harper.
She comes running over and throws an arm around my shoulders like we’ve known each other for ten years. Her skin’s warm; her arm is firm. Her piercing glints when she smiles at Ryan.
“You going to introduce us?” she says, not taking her eyes off him.
Ryan looks her over, head to toe. Bare feet, boardshorts, the cut-up T-shirt. His expression stays smooth, polite—but he’s already decided which box to put her in.
“Ryan Caldwell,” he says, holding out his hand.
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Harper Quinn,” she says, and ignores his hand. “Anyway—Summer, you’ve got to come see something. Maya needs you. Urgent!”
It’s an obvious lie. Maya doesn’t need anyone. But Harper’s already pulling me away by the shoulder, and we head off while Ryan stays planted in the sand.
Once we’re far enough away, Harper lets go.
“Bit of a pain, yeah?”
“That’s putting it mildly…”
“No worries—I’ve got a radar for that,” she says with a wink.
“Thanks,” I breathe.
No speech, no questions. She saw, she acted, she moves on.
I like this girl.