The Summer we Never Spoke

I didn’t expect the beach house to smell the same.

Salt in the air. Damp wood. That faint trace of sunscreen and coconut lotion that clung to everything in summer, like it had seeped into the walls years ago and never left. It was the scent of late nights on the porch and mornings that felt too early, of sandy feet tracking across the kitchen tiles.

I’d been gone three years, but standing there on the warped porch steps, it felt like last summer had ended only yesterday.

The boards under my sneakers gave a long, groaning creak. I froze.

Back then, I would’ve laughed, nudged the boy next to me, whispered, “Shh,” while we tiptoed toward the door after curfew.

Back then, the boy would’ve been Ethan.

Now, the sound felt loud. Heavy. Like the house was warning me.

I shifted my duffel bag higher on my hip and dug the spare key out of my pocket, bracing myself for what I’d find inside, dust sheets, peeling wallpaper, maybe the old couch sagging in the middle like it always did. I was already rehearsing my sighs for when I emailed my parents about their long “fix it yourself” list.

I wasn’t rehearsing for him.

The door swung open before I could even put the key in the lock.

He was there: barefoot, paint roller in hand, standing right in the middle of the living room as if he owned it.

Ethan Reid.

My ex–best friend. My neighbor. My mistake.

“You’re kidding me,” he said. The words landed flat, but I could hear the spark under them.

For a second, my brain forgot how to work.

“What...” My voice cracked, and I hated that. “What are you doing here?”

He looked exactly the same and completely different all at once. His hair was longer now, curling a little over his forehead. His shoulders were broader, the kind of change you only notice when you haven’t been around to see it happen slowly. But his expression that infuriating calm, like nothing ever got to him was exactly as I remembered.

“Fixing your mess, apparently,” he said, turning back to the wall and rolling another stroke of white paint.

“My mess?”

“The house.” He still wasn’t looking at me. “It’s falling apart. Didn’t you notice?”

Three years. Three years without a single real conversation, and now he was acting like we’d just picked up from last week. I’d avoided him at the grocery store, ducked behind racks at the hardware shop, taken the long way home just to steer clear of his street.

“I wasn’t told you’d be here,” I said sharply.

“And I wasn’t told you’d show up early,” he replied, cool as ever. “Guess we’re both disappointed.”

The words landed harder than they should have. Once upon a time, we could’ve talked for hours, never running out of things to say. Now, every sentence between us felt like stepping on a mine I didn’t remember planting.

“I’ll save us both the pain and go stay at the inn,” I muttered, grabbing my bag.

Two car doors slammed outside. My stomach sank before I even turned toward the porch.

My parents and his were walking up the steps together, chatting and smiling like they’d just cracked the world’s greatest plan.

“Lila, sweetheart!” Mom beamed and pulled me into a hug. “Oh, good, you’ve seen Ethan.”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice flat. “I’ve seen him.”

His mom stepped inside, clapping her hands. “Perfect! You two can get started right away.”

“Started on what?” I asked, already bracing myself.

Dad grinned like he’d been waiting to deliver the punchline. “We’ve decided to let you two handle the renovations. Contractors will handle the big stuff, but everything else painting, fixing, cleaning, you’ll do together.”

“Together?”

Ethan leaned his roller against the wall. “This is going to be fun.”

“It’s the only way to get it done before August,” Mom chimed in. “We’ll check in on weekends, but you’ll be staying here. Full-time.”

I blinked. “Wait, you’re leaving us here?”

“Exactly!” his mom said cheerfully. “It’ll be like old times.”

Old times.

Right. Old times when I hadn’t yet learned what he was capable of saying in anger.

Old times when I didn’t know how much it hurt to lose someone you thought you’d have forever.

“I don’t think this is...” I started, but they were already halfway out the door.

“Love you!” Mom called over her shoulder.

The screen door slammed, and the silence they left behind felt thicker than the humid summer air.

“This is not happening,” I said, turning to Ethan.

“Oh, it’s happening,” he replied, heading for the staircase. “You can take the downstairs room.”

“I am taking the downstairs room,” I shot back, storming toward the hall.

The house looked the same but tired, chipped floorboards, sun-faded curtains, those same uneven picture frames I’d straightened a hundred times as a kid. My sneakers squeaked on the warped wood as I reached my old bedroom.

I grabbed the doorknob.

It didn’t turn.

Rattle.

Nothing.

I looked down. A padlock. On the outside.

“What the...?”

Ethan leaned on the banister, arms crossed. “Contractors needed it for storage.”

“Storage? This is my room.”

He shrugged. “Guess that means you’ll have to share the one upstairs.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The smirk he gave me said otherwise. And worse, he was enjoying this.

I stepped closer, narrowing my eyes. “There’s no way I’m sharing a room with you.”

For just a second, his gaze caught mine and I knew he was remembering the same thing I was. A night years ago, after a storm knocked out the power, when we’d both ended up here, under the same blanket, whispering until the sun came up.

I shoved the memory away.

“Fine,” I said tightly. “Then I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, disappearing up the stairs. “It’s your back pain, not mine.”

I dropped my bag on the couch and sank into it, my body remembering exactly how it used to mold around me on lazy afternoons. Back then, the silence between us had been easy. Comfortable.

Now, every creak of the floor upstairs made my shoulders tense.

Through the open window, the sound of waves rolled in steady, constant, familiar. The same ocean that had been the backdrop to every summer of my life.

I told myself I could survive one summer in this house.

I just didn’t realize it would be the summer that ruined me or saved me.