46. Summer
Summer
SUNDAY
Iwake in Jace’s arms, his hand on my stomach, his breath on the back of my neck, just like before I fell asleep. The light is gray, the sound of the sea distant.
We didn’t make love. We slept.
I turn over in his arms. He’s still asleep, mouth slightly open, hair every which way. He looks younger when he sleeps.
I shift a little, stretch. My right foot objects. Stiff, like every morning since the fracture that stopped everything. I wince and start working it with my thumb.
The bed shifts. Jace opens his eyes and takes a few seconds to register where he is. He sees me and gives a sleepy half-smile.
He goes to get up and his face changes. His hand drops to his left thigh. He rolls onto his side and pushes himself up, bracing on the mattress.
“You okay?” I whisper.
“Yeah. A little stiff.”
He sits on the edge of the bed and works his thigh through his shorts. His fingers press, release, press again, no fumbling.
His eyes drop to my hand clenched around my foot.
“Can I?”
A little self-conscious, I rest my foot on his right thigh—the good one. His hands close around it, warm and callused. He finds the spot without asking. The heel first, then the arch, then the base of the toes, where it pulls most in the morning.
I close my eyes. The pressure is slow, steady, not too hard, not too soft. His thumbs press up along the arch. The tension eases, little by little.
“Good?”
“Mm.”
No better word for it.
I let him. After a while he stops, and his hand goes back to his left thigh. He presses just above the knee. His jaw tightens.
“Can I see it?” I ask.
“No,” he says, not unkindly. “It’s really ugly, Summer.”
I take my foot off his thigh and pull my knees up to my chest.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Jace. It’s what happened to you.”
Just as he opens his mouth to answer, there’s a knock at the door. Three raps—Noah’s rhythm.
I get up, tug the T-shirt down on reflex, and cross the bungalow barefoot.
I open the door. Flip is lying in the doorway. Noah’s behind him, in shorts and a rumpled T-shirt, eyes still puffy with sleep. He’s pulled his sneakers on without socks.
His gaze drops to the Walker Surf School T-shirt, lifts, and travels over my shoulder—to Jace on the edge of the bed, shirtless. Flip gets up, shakes himself off, bolts inside, and jumps onto the mattress.
Noah raises an eyebrow.
“Right. Guess I’m running alone, then.”
“So, have a good night?” Jace says, scratching Flip’s belly.
He winks at Noah, who goes scarlet.
“Fuck off, Jace.”
I clench my fists. That brotherly ease, that locker-room tone... I picture them as teenagers, beers in hand, talking about me like that. Laughing at me.
I can’t stomach it.
“You coming with me, big guy?” Noah calls.
Flip wags his tail and lifts his nose toward Jace.
“Go on,” he says. “Don’t run him into the ground, and bring him back in one piece.”
Flip jumps off the bed and darts between Noah’s legs. Noah rolls his eyes.
“I’ll take him back to the school.”
“Okay,” Jace says.
Noah sets off at a jog, Flip on his heels. I close the door.
Jace stands, still a little stiff. He picks his T-shirt up off the floor, pulls it on, scans for his flip-flops.
“I gotta get going.”
“Now?”
The word comes out too fast.
“I’m heading to Santa Cruz,” he says, grabbing one from under the bed. “Junior Surf Contest. I’m taking two of my students. Avery’s competing too. My mom’s already up there with her—I’ll meet them there.”
“When do you get back?”
“Tuesday afternoon. With Avery and my mom.”
Tuesday. Two days.
“See you Tuesday night?” I say, casual.
Not casual at all.
Jace shakes his head.
“Wednesday’s better. Tuesday night, I’ve got PT. After that I’m wiped.”
“Okay. Wednesday, then.”
I force a smile. Jace steps in close and presses his lips to mine—a short kiss, soft. His overnight stubble scratches a little. I’m slow to kiss him back, too aware of the door behind him.
He’s leaving already.
He grabs his phone off the nightstand, crosses the room, and steps out of the bungalow. The door closes behind him.
Two days.
I can get a lot done in two days.