30. Summer
Summer
Iwake up disoriented, my mouth dry, unable to tell what time it is.
The bungalow is quiet. The ceiling fan turns overhead, slow, useless. The light has changed since I lay down—brighter, warmer. Early afternoon, maybe.
I’m not hungry. This morning’s exhaustion has faded, replaced by a strange calm.
I stay still for a few minutes. Then I get up and go out.
I take the path to the house. The ground is warm under my bare feet. I’m not thinking about anything.
That’s a lie. I’ve only been thinking about one thing since I came back to Coral Bay: the one room I avoid.
My room.
On the deck, I find my clothes and sandals, left there this morning.
I push open the door to the house. The smell of fresh paint hangs in the entryway. I head for the stairs.
The wood creaks under my bare feet. One step tilts under my weight, another cracks near the wall.
On the landing, I don’t look at the other doors. I go to the one that’s ajar. I push it open with my fingertips.
The shutters are closed. I can only make out dark shapes.
I cross the room by feel. My fingers find the latch; I push the shutters open.
Light floods in. The floral curtains sway in the draft—faded, a little stiff, the fabric yellowed with age.
The bed is made, the blanket pulled tight, the pillows flat.
The pale wood nightstand hasn’t moved. Neither has the lamp, though its shade has turned yellow.
I look up at the poster of Surya Bonaly, the skater I wanted to be like at fourteen—not my mother.
One corner has peeled away, but the rest is still pinned up.
On the floor, a pair of white Converse, too small now, lies near the bed. My Converse from that summer.
It’s not a child’s room. It’s a seventeen-year-old girl’s room, frozen on the morning she left.
I take a few steps across the warm floorboards and feel something under my right foot.
I look down. A bracelet pokes out from under the bed. Braided threads—blue, turquoise, white—with a sliding knot to tighten it.
I bend down and pick it up. I frown.
What is this?
It’s not mine. I’ve never seen it before. It’s pretty—the blue has faded, the white has gone cream, but the weave still holds.
I slip it onto my wrist. The thread is soft against my skin. I move to the bed and sit down.
The mattress sinks under me, in the same spot as before.
My hand slides over the pillow on the left side—the one I didn’t sleep on. The one where someone else’s head had rested, one night, six years ago.
The fabric is cold. There’s nothing left, but my hand searches anyway.
And I remember the morning I left.
I know it before I open my eyes: the bed is empty and cold beside me.
The light is pale. It’s early. The sheet is rumpled on his side, shoved down to the foot of the bed. The pillow still holds the shape of his head.
Jace is gone.
I don’t panic. I’m disappointed, that’s all. He could have stayed. Or woken me and taken me with him.
He’s gone surfing. That’s what Jace does in the morning. Even after our first night.
I reach for the empty pillow. Jace’s scent is still on it.
I get up, pull on denim shorts and a tank top, then head downstairs.
Dad’s in the living room, standing in front of the TV, a cup of coffee in his hand.
Morning light comes through the big windows, white and soft. On the local news channel, an anchor speaks in a flat voice, a map of the coast displayed behind her.
I go into the kitchen. I grab a glass, fill it with water from the tap. The anchor’s voice follows me.
“A great white shark was spotted early this morning off the coast of Monterey. Authorities are urging caution all along the coastline. Swimmers and surfers are asked to…”
Monterey’s far. Well… not really. But it’s not here.
I finish my water. The phone rings. Dad sets down his cup, answers. He listens. His face darkens.
“Summer, turn the TV down, please.”
I look for the remote, mute the sound. The anchor goes on talking in silence, her lips moving. The map of the coast disappears.
Dad paces the living room. He talks fast. I only catch fragments: everywhere… insurance… ceiling… damage…
He hangs up.
“That was Mrs. Patterson,” he says. “Her washing machine gave out. The water came through the ceiling. The super let himself into our place with the key—it’s flooded.”
Mrs. Patterson. The neighbor upstairs. New York.
“Flooded how?” I ask.
“The living room, the hallway, my bedroom, the bathroom.”
He sits down at the table, in front of his laptop.
“We have to go home, Summer.”
“Now?” I blurt.
He doesn’t answer. His fingers tap at the keyboard. An airline website, the garish colors of the promo banners. San Francisco–New York. He scrolls through the schedules, clicks, goes back, clicks again.
Arms hanging at my sides, I wait in the middle of the room.
“There’s a flight at two,” Dad says without looking up. “If we leave in half an hour, we’ll get to the airport with time to spare.”
He closes the laptop, stands up. Then he opens the hallway closet, pulls out a suitcase.
“Pack your things, Summer.”
Jace.
I didn’t say goodbye to him. I didn’t say anything to him.
“Dad, I have to tell Jace first! I need to—”
Dad studies me, raises an eyebrow.
“Go ahead,” he says. “I’ll pack your bag. Hurry.”
I call Jace right away. It rings. Voicemail.
I call again. Voicemail.
I call Noah. It rings. Voicemail.
I try Noah again. Nothing. I try Jace again. Nothing.
My thumb trembles on the screen. I shove the phone into my shorts pocket and run out.
The beach in front of the house is empty. No Jace.
I turn around and take off down the boardwalk, barefoot on the warm concrete.
The Lighthouse Diner is a ten-minute walk at a good pace. I make it in six. My lungs are burning.
Out of breath, I stop in front of the storefront. Noah works here in the mornings, it’s his summer job. If anyone knows where Jace is, it’s him.
I push open the glass door. The smell of coffee hits me, mixed with scrambled eggs and bacon. I catch sight of the vinyl booths, the stainless steel counter…
I stop dead. Ryan Caldwell is sitting at the counter, ramrod straight, a cup in front of him.
This guy has always made me uncomfortable. The way his eyes linger, especially.
I step back. I slip behind the rotating pastry case near the entrance. A lemon tart, a carrot cake, and some brownies circle past me on a loop. I stay hidden.
Noah’s behind the counter, his apron tied over an oversized NASA T-shirt, his brown hair a mess. He’s drying a glass. Luke’s across from him, sitting on a stool, his skateboard propped beside him. They haven’t seen me.
No one has seen me.
“So?” Luke says. “Did Jace win his bet or not?”
His voice carries—he’s never known how to whisper.
Noah snorts.
“You know him. Dumbass bets are his thing.”
Ryan turns toward them, with cold curiosity.
“What’s this bet about?”
“None of your business,” Noah says without looking up.
“Does it have something to do with the little blonde?” Ryan presses. “The one who follows him around?”
Luke winces.
“Dude, seriously?”
“The one who doesn’t even have enough to fill out a swimsuit?” Ryan goes on.
“Shut up, Ryan,” Noah snaps.
Ryan raises his hands, palms open.
“I’m just asking,” he says, smiling.
Noah sets down the glass and the towel, exchanges a look with Luke.
“He bet a hundred bucks he’d take her virginity,” he says.
My legs give out. I catch myself on the edge of the case. If I let go, I’ll fall.
Ryan’s eyes go wide.
“What? So did he?”
Noah shrugs. His mouth twists.
“Pfft… Too easy.”
Luke bursts out laughing. So does Noah.
Luke’s laugh is high, too loud. Noah’s is shorter, drier. It’s Noah’s that destroys me. Not Ryan’s words.
Noah. My best friend. The one who sends me ten-minute voice messages to tell me about his day.
I run my tongue over the wire on my braces. I know it by heart. The cold metal presses against my lip.
Of course.
I have no chest. I have no hips. I have no butt. I’m seventeen, but my body looks like a thirteen-year-old’s. I haven’t even gotten my period yet—my mother says that’s normal for an athlete, that it’s even an advantage.
A guy like Jace couldn’t want me.
Tall. Gorgeous. A surfer. Dark hair, green eyes. Every girl in Coral Bay at his feet without him lifting a finger.
And me… Plain, flat, braces, a nerd.
What was I thinking?
Ryan says something else, but I don’t hear it anymore. My ears are ringing. Luke’s still laughing. Noah pours someone a cup of coffee.
I don’t cry.
There’s nothing to cry about. Last night doesn’t count anymore. His hands, his mouth, the way he said my name, his breathing slowing as he fell asleep against me.
All that for a hundred dollars.
I let go of the case and step back. The glass door opens behind me. The bell jingles.
No one turns around.
I walk down Main Street. I don’t need to run, because there’s no one left to find. The asphalt must be hot under my bare feet. I can’t feel it.
I head back up to the house. The gate. The yard. The door.
Dad’s in the living room. Both suitcases are zipped shut, set side by side. All the shutters are closed.
“Did you get to say goodbye?” Dad says, sliding the passports into his laptop bag.
“Yes,” I say, keeping my voice as flat as I can.
He doesn’t push it. He shuts off the water and the power, then grabs the keys to the rental car.
We go out. The gravel crunches under our feet. I drag my suitcase behind me. Dad opens the trunk.
I get in on the passenger side and buckle my seatbelt.
We leave.
The road follows the coast. The cliffs, the pines, the blue of the sky and the ocean.
I stare out the window without seeing anything.
Just as we pass the Now leaving Coral Bay sign, the sound of a rotor tears through the air. Above us, a white helicopter banks south, toward the cliffs. Behind us, sirens go off—two, maybe three.
Dad slows down. He half-turns in his seat to follow the helicopter through the rear window.
“They must’ve found the girl,” he murmurs.
I don’t answer.
“The one who went missing at Star Park two days ago.”
He shakes his head.
“I hope she’s alive. Still…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He speeds up. The helicopter shrinks in the mirror; the sirens fade.
In my pocket, my phone buzzes. A call.
Noah.
My thumb slides across the screen. Not to the green button.
Contacts. Noah Walker. Block this number.
I confirm.
Contacts. Jace Walker. Block this number.
I confirm.
The screen goes black again. I turn it face down against my thigh.
I rest my forehead against the window. The landscape rolls by. A tear slides down my cheek. I wipe it away with my thumb before it can go any further. Dad doesn’t see it—his eyes are fixed on the road. I don’t say a word.