Summer's Kiss (The Boys of Ocean Beach 1)

He breaks into the most glorious smile and among the kitchen noises, video games and shouting kids, I lean in and kiss him.

It’s not quite a make-out and it’s definitely PG, but his lips are soft and salty from the fries and I lick them for the taste. It’s a moment I can’t describe, probably caught in time; the thunderstorm outside, the blinking lights from the game. I feel like a normal girl kissing a normal guy in the middle of summer vacation.

It’s the best feeling I’ve had in a long, long time.

* * *

The rain is long gone the next day when I stand idly to the side while my mother signs a book. Mrs. Green, #172, invited us over for tea (the cold, sweetened kind) and homemade snickerdoodles. Just when I thought we could escape, she pulled out four of my mom’s recent books for her to autograph. This delighted Julia, of course, and sent her into a spiral of story after story about each one. I’m one second from slipping off to beg Justin to leave work early and come save me when she wraps it up with, “I’ll be sure to send you a copy of my new book, about Donald Gaskins, when it comes out.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of talking about it?” I ask on the way back to the camper. The rain from last night blew away and we’re back to the same sweltering heat.

“Talking about what?” she asks.

“Murders and murderers. It’s depressing.”

Mom steps over a hose lying in the pathway. “There are stories of triumph in there, too. Those who fought back. The people who put them in jail.”

“I guess,” I say.

“Who’s that?” Mom asks, nodding to our camper.

I stop short when I see who she’s talking about. To my shock, Mason stands under our canopy. Mason in his plaid short-sleeved shirt and jeans, despite the heat. I can’t help but notice his beard has grown in full and his square hipster glasses are new. And he’s here. He’s right here.

“Summer?” my mom asks, touching my arm. My hands start to tremble. “Do you know him?”

“That’s umm…” My teacher? Boyfriend? Ex? I have no idea where to start because I haven’t even told her he exists.

Tired of waiting for me to explain, she starts toward him, leaving me alone on the gravel path. “Looking for someone?”

Her question is enough to spring me to action. I rush forward, tripping over the rocky driveway, in the process.

“Summer!” Mason calls, rushing over to me, bypassing my mother entirely. “Are you okay?” He lifts me off the ground.

“I’m fine,” I say, pushing him off. My mother makes an impatient gesture implying she wants an introduction. I sigh and rub my forehead. “Mason this is my mother, Julia Barnes. Mom, this is Mason Lowery, someone I know from, uh, back home.”

“Nice to meet you, Mason,” she says, offering her hand. I can see the wheels turning as she takes in the scene. Nancy Drew, remember? I try to see it through her eyes and it doesn’t look good. Why is a twenty-four-year-old man driving to the coast of South Carolina to visit an eighteen-year-old? A man she has never heard of before.

“You too, ma’am. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

I feel like vomiting. My whole life, the secret I’ve been keeping. The lies I’ve told. They’re crashing down. “Mom, can Mason and I have a minute?”

“Of course,” she says, but I already know my days as a secret keeper are over. The next time she and I come face-to-face I’m going to be the one spilling my life stories. Before she can even close the camper door, I say to Mason, “Follow me.”

He does, dutifully, which is a surprise. At one point I would have sold my soul for him to show up at my house during the light of day and meet my mother. That was never an option for us, with his reputation and job on the line, and obviously more, but now, as he walks down the boardwalk to the shore, I realize I don’t want all of him to taint this world. Not this place.

Once we’re away from the campers, I face him. His skin seems so pale out here in the warm summer sun. “What are you doing here?”

“You look beautiful,” he says. “You’re tan and your hair looks a shade lighter, and god, you’re almost glowing.”

He reaches for my face, to touch the skin he’s so fascinated with, and I block his reach.

“What are you doing here?” I ask again.

“I came to get you,” he says with confidence.

“What?”

“For France.”