62. Summer
Summer
Three months later…
My right foot wakes up. I don’t slow down.
I’ve slept two hours in the last twenty-four, I’m wiped, but I can’t sit still. Jace doesn’t know I’m coming—I wanted to surprise him. I can’t wait to see his face when I show up at Walker Surf School with my two suitcases…
“Summer!”
I jump and turn around. I spot Sierra Brooks: heart-shaped sunglasses on her nose, a pink feather boa around her neck, a crop top over high-waisted jeans. She’s waving a piece of cardboard over her head, where she’s written in glitter marker:
You tried to leave. Cute.
And underneath, smaller, a little crooked:
Coral Bay always wins
My eyes go wide. Next to her, hanging back a little, arms crossed… Noah.
It takes me a second to recognize him. He’s wearing the black NASA T-shirt—the one from the diner, the one from the run at Star Park.
Three months ago, it was splitting at the seams. Now it fits him.
He still has a bit of a belly, but his face has thinned out.
He’s shaved—not very close, sure—and his hair’s kept its rough cut.
He’s still got that scowl, but he’s here.
I let go of my suitcase handles and break into a run toward Sierra. She barely has time to drop the sign before I throw myself into her arms. Her rings are cold against the back of my neck, her little braids smell like coconut oil.
“Noah slept twenty minutes with his mouth open on the highway,” she whispers. “I’ve got photos. He doesn’t know yet.”
I laugh against her shoulder. She lets me go and holds me at arm’s length. Her heart sunglasses have slid down her nose.
“So how long are you back for this time?”
“For good.”
“About time. You finally figured it out.”
I take a step toward Noah, who uncrosses his arms. I stop in front of him.
“Hey, Summer,” he says, his voice rough.
I take another step. He flinches back, but I pull him into a hug. He goes still, then his fingers brush my back. He smells like cigarettes.
I let go before he has to.
“Hey, Noah. You’ve lost weight.”
“A little.”
He looks away.
“You can thank this guy,” Sierra says, picking up her sign. “He’s the one who called me yesterday, at four in the afternoon. ‘Sierra, I need you. I want to go get her, but I don’t have my license.’”
Noah runs a hand through his hair and stares at his sneakers.
“Jesus, Sierra. You’re such a pain.”
Three hours on the road from Coral Bay, plus the wait, plus the drive back. And he called Sierra to ask her for a favor. For me.
He pulls a plastic lighter out of his pocket and starts turning it over between his fingers.
I think about the voice memos I’ve been sending him for three months. One a day, sometimes two. I ramble about whatever: my day, my coworkers, my moods. My coming back, too, with strict orders not to tell Jace. In reply, I get an OK, a thumbs-up, an emoji.
It felt like talking to a polite wall. The wall was listening.
Last week, Jace told me on the phone that Noah had gone to see his therapist. Once—but he went.
Noah pockets his lighter, grabs the handle of the bigger suitcase.
“What’d you pack, a body?” he grumbles.
“Chopped up. And books, too.”
“Should’ve known.”
Sierra takes the other suitcase, starts wheeling it.
“What’d you bring besides the body?”
“Next to nothing. My life.”
“Twenty-three years in two suitcases? Nice.”
I give her a little shoulder bump. She hip-checks me back and keeps heading for the exit.
“Don’t worry, your real life’s waiting for you here.”
I know.
The automatic doors slide open. The cold air hits me. Early November in Northern California—it’s less brutal than New York, but it still bites.
The ground is wet and shining. The mist clings to the HOURLY PARKING sign above us and turns its light into a yellow halo. Sierra makes a beeline for the back row.
“Your chariot awaits,” she says, nodding toward an old purple Subaru Outback.
The bumper disappears under a cluster of stickers—a black-and-white one stands out, MY BODY MY CHOICE, peeling at the edges. A long scratch runs down the passenger door.
Sierra pulls out her keys, heads for the trunk. I slow down and turn around.
Noah walks behind us, eyes down, shoulders slightly hunched. The lighter’s back between his fingers. The yellow neon light falls on his badly cut hair, on the NASA T-shirt that doesn’t pull tight on him anymore.
He looks up, meets my eyes.
I smile at him. He manages a half-smile.
It’s not like before, but from a distance, it almost looks like it. The summers, the crew—and Jace at the end of the road.