He got my purse out of the seat of the bike.
I always had trouble packing for the beach house.
Always.
But today, for the first time ever, it had been easy. I threw a bunch of empty canvas totes into my purse along with my wallet and phone charger, and that was that. We were only here to start clearing things out, and I was sure we’d come across stuff we wanted to keep and take home (hence all the empty tote bags).
Wrapping my hand around the handle of my purse, I was horrified to find my eyes prickling. We hadn’t evenstartedyet, I hadn’t even gotteninside,and I was already getting emotional.
Today was going to be difficult, I knew. I’d barely slept last night, trying to work out what to do about everything—Dad suddenly having a dating life, college….At least today I only had to deal with one thing: saying goodbye to the beach house.
So much for a fun final summer of freedom before college.
My hand found Noah’s as we headed up the porch steps. The white paint peeled and the bench by the door looked even sorrier than it had last year. It always felt like it would break the second you sat on it—although it hadn’t failed us yet. The sand on the worn floorboards crunched under our feet.
The beach house was, in all honesty, a little cramped and kind of old. In contrast to the Flynn house—with its classy furniture, the on-trend colors of the walls and kitchen cabinets, the spacious, sprawling rooms—the beach house was packed full of mismatched furniture, and everything was faded. Hinges creaked, hairline cracks ran through the paintwork…
But, just like the Flynn house, it felt like home.
I could already imagine, a little bitterly, how it would be described in the listing by the realtor:charming, full of character, compact.
Resentment bubbled through me as I imagined realtors combing through our beloved beach house, finding the flaws in this place we had all cherished for years.
“We’re here,” Noah called as we stepped inside.
His mom popped her head out of the kitchen. Her hair was piled up in a clip, untidy but practical, and she was wearing a pair of old jeans and a pink T-shirt. “Oh, great! Perfect. Noah, your dad’s cleaning up outside. Go give him a hand, would you? Elle, Lee’s made a start on your room. You should probably go help him out.”
Instructions doled out, she vanished back into the kitchen. Pans clattered and cabinet doors banged shut.
Noah gave me a brief kiss on the cheek and sighed as he drew away. “Guess we’d better get to work.”
“Guess so.”
I walked down the hallway, my eyes skimming over the photos cluttering the walls. I was so used to them that I’d barely noticed them the last few years, but now I drank in every one. June always printed the photos she hung here in black-and-white—making them possibly the fanciest-looking things in the whole beach house.
It hurt to realize she hadn’t hung up any new ones this year, from our last summer at the beach house. Most of the photos were of me, Lee, and Noah, but there were a few of all five of us. I inched down the hallway, remembering the moment we’d taken every photograph. Every dinner outside, every day on the beach…that year we were fourteen and Lee got sunburned all over his arms, the first year Noah had tried to help his dad out with the barbecue and burnedeverythingbut we’d all eaten it anyway so he didn’t feel bad. That first year I’d hadboobsand had covered them up with a T-shirt the whole summer, but Lee had stuffed a bikini top with tissue and walked around the beach wearing it for an entire day, trying to make me feel better. The last summer before Noah started middle school, where he looked so scrawny and gangly he was almost unrecognizable.
I watched us get smaller and younger and no less crazy or fun.
There was a photo, near the top of the gallery wall at the far end, of me with my mom and dad on the beach. Mom was a few months pregnant in it.
She kinda looked like me, I thought. Darker skin, darker hair, rounder hips, and my brown eyes. Brad got her eyes, too. And her curls.
We looked so happy.
I suddenly felt grateful that I wouldn’t have to see a picture of Dad and mystery woman Linda playing happy families on the wall one day.
Tearing myself away, I strode past Noah’s bedroom door, past the bathroom between our rooms, to the open door of mine and Lee’s room.
Apparently I was not allowed to share a room with Noah here, but Lee and I hadalwaysshared a room at the beach house. It would’ve been weird not to share with him last summer.
I guessed it wouldn’t even be a thing this year, since they wereselling the place.
“Hey.”
“Oh, hey,” Lee replied from a pile of towels and clothes in front of his dresser, sounding dejected. His voice was small and flat and he peered up at me with wide eyes. That puppy-dog face that (almost) never worked on me. “I didn’t hear you guys come in.”
“Where’s Rachel?”
