Free The Summer of Lost Wishes by Jessa Gabrielle

propped up against the side of the building, and most
of the cars are parked out in a lot of sand. Rooks pulls into the
closest open spot and parks his truck.
    “It’s not exactly high-end,” he says,
motioning around the sandy mess of a makeshift parking lot.
    This reminds me of the kind of places where
my friends and I would hang out back home. We’d find an open field
and park everyone’s cars and trucks in a circle, tailgates down,
music blaring. This is about as close as I’ll get to an open field
here.
    “You know, I kind of like it,” I say. I grab
my bag out of his truck, because I don’t dare leave the evidence
from the wall alone, and I follow him to the entrance.
    “See, I knew you were going to be cool,”
Rooks says, holding the door open for me.
    Surf Bar might just be my favorite place in
Coral Sands, and I’ve barely even stepped inside. The interior
walls are the same seafoam green color as the outside, but it’s
unique in a way that’s reminiscent of my Delilah. An actual cow
skull hangs on the wall, next to a chalkboard version of a
surfboard with today’s specials written on it.
    The counter at the bar is shaped like a
surfboard as well. Twinkle lights hang around the room, and bright
pink barstools are perched in front of the surfboard bar. It’s like
a watercolor canvas of originality with a splash of hippie vibes.
Music plays softly in the background – some kind of ukulele sound –
and people lounge around talking and laughing while sipping on
fruity drinks. It’s just beachy bliss, and I love it.
    “Carter!” Hector shouts out, waving at us
from a corner table.
    I follow Rooks to the back table and sit
next to him, diagonal to Hector. Rooks is quick to be the good
host, asking if I’d like anything, but between the sea legs and
twisty knots in my stomach from Shark Island, I don’t think I could
stomach anything right now.
    “So, what brings you back to Coral Sands?”
Hector asks over his bottle of what he probably wishes was an
actual beer and not root beer. “Is it your dad’s ‘two weeks of
summer’ or whatever?”
    Rooks shakes his head. “I’m here all summer,
actually,” he says. “Mom’s still chasing biker guys, and I don’t
exactly suck up to them like she wants me to. So Dad’s been forced
to take me in for the next few months.”
    Hector glances at me, but he doesn’t say
anything. I feel like I’m under some magic spell where everyone is
aware of my presence, but I’m still invisible, so they all linger
awkwardly wondering if it’s safe to speak or if I’m standing close
by.
    “I’m glad you’re here, man,” Hector says. He
picks up his bottle but doesn’t sip. “I’ve gotta have someone to
hang out with to get a break from all this fifty-year anniversary
bullshit. Natalie’s mom is going overboard with the memorial plans,
and Nat’s right there in the middle of it. If I have to help plan
one more party or ask Abuela if we can borrow tables from her
restaurant, I may seriously flip my shit.”
    All of the beachy bliss I felt when I
stepped into the Surf Bar has evaporated with the ocean air
outside. I get it – Hector doesn’t like the tragedy. Hector’s
girlfriend’s family is linked to a victim. He probably hears about
it all the time. But does this mean I’m automatically disliked by
association?
    “I’m sorry,” Hector says, catching my gaze.
“I don’t mean to be an ass about it. I know you’re living in the
Calloways’ house now, so this is probably weird. It’s just, Nat’s
mom is the mayor, and she’s the niece of Eileen Baker, so whenever
I’m at Nat’s house, it’s never-ending talk about memorial services
and candlelight vigils. Sometimes, I just want to hang out and not
have it in my face.”
    I shake my head and shrug it away. “It’s
cool,” I lie. “I don’t want to be known as the girl who moved into
the Calloway Cottage. It’s just a house.”
    “Tell you what,” Hector says. He chugs some
of the