57. Jace
Jace
FRIDAY
Miles’s olive-green Jeep is parked along the hedge, dirty, stickers faded, top and doors off—that’s how it stays most of the year.
I throw my backpack onto the passenger seat, along with the bag of snacks Luke dropped off at the trailer at four.
Flip, tail high, has been circling my legs since I stepped outside, sure he’s coming with me.
Mom and Avery are already there. My sister looks like she just rolled out of bed—hair a mess, oversized sweatshirt, bare feet in unlaced sneakers. Mom puts a hand on my cheek, takes it away. She doesn’t say anything.
Kai and Maya walk up the path. She’s thrown a hoodie on over pajama shorts; he’s shirtless, a wetsuit pulled up to his waist.
Noah shows up last, a cigarette in his mouth. He’s wearing his khaki-green Crocs, shorts, and a too-tight T-shirt.
“Avy...”
She answers with a grunt and turns her back on him. He doesn’t push it.
Flip catches on. He plants his front paws on the running board, tries to climb into the Jeep. I nudge him away with my knee; he comes back.
“Come on, big guy.”
Kai steps in, slides his arms under his belly, lifts him. Flip protests while Maya pets him.
I scratch him between the ears, then settle in behind the wheel. I turn the key—the engine starts right up.
Avery steps up, squeezes my shoulder.
“Bring her back, Jace,” she says, her voice rough.
I nod. I shift into first and the Jeep rolls forward.
I pull out of the lot and onto Shoreline Drive. Coral Bay’s still asleep. I head north.
A sign appears in the headlights.
Now leaving Coral Bay
I realize I haven’t left California in six years.
I haven’t gone any farther than Palo Alto—and only for hospital checkups. Haven’t been on a plane in years. Since the accident, my world has fit inside this town, this beach, this school. I let it happen.
The Jeep passes the sign. I hit the gas.