64. Summer
Summer
The sand is cold under my bare feet. Jace’s hand is warm in mine.
Maya bolts toward the board rack, my board under her arm. Kai follows, a board under each arm—his and Jace’s. The others drift off, each in their own direction.
We come around the VW bus, parked crooked in front of the school.
Jace lets go of my hand and pushes open the gate, which doesn’t squeak anymore. We step into the yard.
In one smooth motion, he peels his wetsuit down to his waist. I copy him—with less grace. My soaked hair sticks to the back of my neck.
Jace heads to the school and comes back with two thick towels. He shakes one open, wraps me in it, rubs my shoulders. He dries off fast with his and leaves it around his neck.
Then he takes my hand again and pulls me toward the house, excited like a kid.
“I’ve got stuff to show you.”
I stop at the bottom of the three porch steps. The railing’s been carefully sanded, varnished, repainted the same blue as the shutters. One step’s been replaced.
I never had time to deal with it this summer.
I run my hand over the smooth wood.
“Nice work, Walker.”
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” he says, grinning.
His eyes light up. He climbs the steps. A row of flip-flops sits on the porch. With his foot, Jace nudges a pair toward me—glittery orange ones, probably Maya’s. He slips on a blue pair and opens the door.
Inside, it smells like wax and coffee.
I cross the living room. The couch is different now—my grandparents’ was falling apart. This one’s new, dark gray. Four Hawaiian-print pillows sit on it—red, coral, deep green, oversized flowers and pink flamingos that clash.
It should be ugly. It’s cheerful.
Plants have taken over the room. A pothos spills off the shelf, a bird of paradise stands tall by the window, a philodendron overflows a terra-cotta pot near the kitchen.
“Maya,” Jace says. “She says I water them wrong. She’s got a point.”
Light, off-white curtains. A floor lamp with a linen shade. A blanket folded over the armrest. Nothing fancy. Nothing that rings false.
My eyes sting. I keep going.
The shelf is different. It used to hold my grandparents’ faded photos and seashells. Now the lower shelves are sagging under books, and the top one is crowded with trophies.
I step closer. The trophies come in all sizes, most of them bright-colored plastic, Surf Girl Junior, with little figurines on top. Avery.
And in the center, taller than the rest, plainer, a polished metal trophy. Nothing like the others. The wooden base is engraved. I can make out the words World Surf League.
I know whose it is.
Tom Walker. His fourth title. His last.
“Is it okay?” Jace murmurs.
I turn around. He’s got a hand in his hair, trying to look casual.
“The trophies, I mean. Avery wanted them on display, but she can put them in her room if—”
“Of course it’s okay.”
I stroke his cheek. We smile at each other.
“You can ditch the books,” Jace says.
I run my finger along the colorful spines—all romance. I spot Stroke of Desire, worn soft from rereading.
“Maya won’t go for that,” I say.
“Neither will Miles.”
We laugh, then move on to the kitchen. Almost nothing’s changed. The fridge is new, but the same magnets are on the door.
There’s a whiteboard propped on the counter with a list of students and lesson times, in black marker, in handwriting I recognize—Jace’s.
“You work here, but you still sleep in your trailer,” I say.
He leans against the counter, shrugs one shoulder.
“I wanted to wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“You.”
He says it like it’s obvious.
I move closer and put my hand on his chest. His skin is cold.
“Show me the rest,” I say.
Downstairs, there’s also a bathroom and two bedrooms. The first is Avery’s—the smallest. Posters of pro surfers cover the walls.
On the dresser, an old framed photo—Tom and Maggie in the water, on the same board.
A wetsuit hangs over the back of a chair.
No mess. Avery’s on the road a lot. When she comes home, she barely has time to drop her stuff.
The second is a guest room. Double bed, off-white bedspread, not a single personal touch.
“I’d set it up for my mom,” Jace says.
“...who’s not coming.”
“Nope. Luke’s mom insisted on putting her up in the nonna’s room—she died two years ago. Nobody’d touched it since. ‘We had a spare room, it was ridiculous for her to pay rent somewhere else,’” Jace says, doing the Italian accent—badly.
I snort a laugh.
“Mostly Mrs. DeLuca took pity. Maggie never would’ve survived sharing a place with six young people...”
“Mom did look relieved, yeah. But she has dinner with us two or three times a week, when she’s not on the circuit with Avery. Noah comes by sometimes too.”
“He could’ve been one of the housemates. I told him I wouldn’t make him pay rent.”
“He says sleeping at the lodge is easier.” Jace doesn’t sound convinced.
“I hope he changes his mind. In the meantime, we’ve got a guest room.”
I brush my hand over the bedspread.
“Elena texted that she’d try to come for Thanksgiving, if she doesn’t have a competition then.”
“Seriously? That’s great!”
“I can’t believe you reached out to her,” I say, quieter.
“I did the right thing, didn’t I?”
“You have no idea...”
Jace pulls me upstairs. The staircase creaks—the same steps as before.
At the top, four closed doors—a bathroom and three bedrooms. Jace names them as we pass—Maya, Kai... and us, at the end of the hall.
Farther on, a narrow, steep staircase climbs to the attic. Miles has his room up there, with a tiny bathroom.
The door to our room is ajar; I push it open gently.
Flip is asleep on the bed. He opens one eye, spots me, springs up, and jumps on me. He plants his paws on my shoulders and licks my chin, whining.
“Hey, big guy. Mom’s home,” I say, laughing.
I hug him close.
“He sleeps there a lot,” Jace says behind me. “Don’t know why.”
I do. It’s our room.
Over Flip’s head, I look around. Nothing’s changed, except the window—it’s new. The old one never closed right.
“Come on,” Jace says. “There’s new stuff outside too. Maya and Kai gave me a hand.”
We head back down. He pushes open the door on the ocean side.
“This way,” Jace says.
He leads me left, into the space that opens up between the house wall and the property line with the surf school. It’s small, sheltered from the north wind by the wall, open due west to the ocean.
Two pallet benches, painted turquoise, mustard yellow, and coral pink, form an L against the wall.
Cream linen cushions cover the seats, with two throws folded in one corner.
Three pots sit against the house—cacti and succulents, the kind that can take the sea spray.
A string of lights runs between the plants and follows the roof’s overhang.
Off to the side, an overturned wooden crate serves as a little table for drinks.
And in the center, set on four short driftwood legs, a coffee table.
I step closer.
The top is long and narrow, sky blue, rounded along the sides, tapered at both ends. A black stripe runs the full length.
I kneel and trace the sanded, varnished surface with my finger. Near the tail, on the right rail—the shark bite.
It hasn’t been filled in. The shattered fiberglass has been sealed under a layer of clear resin, but the shape is intact, wider than both my open hands.
My stomach knots. I rest my palm on the ragged curve. The chewed rail is warm.
Jace crouches down beside me. He covers my hand with his and laces his fingers through mine.
“I didn’t know what to do with it. But I couldn’t throw it away.”
“You did the right thing, Jace.”
He smiles. Then he stands, goes to sit on the bench, pats the spot beside him. I join him.
He slips his arm around my shoulders and kisses my cheek. Our skin is cool, still salty, our hair damp.
In front of us, the ocean.
To the left, the Walker Surf School yard, on the other side of the low wall. Kai rinses a board; Maya sings in Spanish.
I’m finally home.