Back for Summer

You took the last turn like you always did, sharp and a little too wide, just so you could see the whole stretch of the road at once.

The cove opened up in front of you. Same uneven gravel, same line of crooked mailboxes, same sliver of sea flashing between houses like it was winking. You rolled the window down with your wrist and let the air in. Salt, hot tar, somebody’s laundry detergent. It smelled like every summer you’d had before you learned words like “internship” and “career path.”

The Yoo house sat where it always sat, a little back from the road, paint faded to a soft blue-gray. Porch wrapped around the front like an arm. Three steps, a railing that dipped slightly on the left from years of leaning. There was still a stain on the front step where Minjeong had spilled blue paint when you were fourteen. You noticed it first, before the new potted plants or the repaired screen door.

Mrs. Yoo stood on the porch in a faded yellow cardigan and jean shorts. She had a mug in both hands and her hair pulled back with a scarf. She waved as you pulled up, a small lift of the wrist instead of a big arm swing.

“Jason,” she called over the engine, like she wasn’t completely sure you were real until she said your name.

You killed the engine and everything went quiet except for the waves and some kids yelling farther down the beach. You climbed out, stretched your back, and your knees popped louder than you wanted them to.

“Hey, Mrs. Yoo.” You tried for casual, but your throat felt thick. You were more tired than you’d admitted on the phone.

She came down the three steps and hugged you quick, one arm around your shoulders, one hand still holding the mug.

“You got taller,” she said automatically.

“I stopped in eleventh grade,” you said. “You just got shorter.”

She snorted. “Mm. Mouth still works.” She leaned back and looked you over properly. “You look good, Jay. Tired, but good.”

You shrugged one shoulder. “They still make coffee here?”

“Stronger than that swill in the city,” she said. “Come in. We’ll feed you.”

You popped the trunk and grabbed your duffel. The fabric scraped your palm the same way it had last summer, and the summer before that. The weight felt about right for a summer’s worth of clothes and unresolved decisions.

On your way up the path, you glanced past the house toward the dock.

Karina was there.

Barefoot, like always, toes gripping the warped planks. She had on an oversized black T-shirt with a band logo half rubbed off and a pair of cutoffs. Her hair was up in a messy knot, strands sticking out in every direction like she’d done it in a hurry or hadn’t bothered. There was a cigarette behind her ear and a plastic lighter in her hand that she flicked without actually lighting anything.

She saw you. Her mouth pulled into a crooked, knowing smile.

“Took you long enough,” she called, loud enough to be heard but not loud enough to be a show.

“Traffic,” you called back.

She snorted so hard you heard it. “Yeah? Did the cows form a union?”

You smiled despite yourself. The cows on the side road always wandered close to the fence; she’d gotten you to moo at them once when you were twelve.

The screen door creaked when you pushed it open. Inside, the house smelled exactly like it should: lemon oil on old wood, dish soap, something baking. Your fingers found the little notch on the banister where the wood had split and been sanded smooth, a notch you’d rubbed every summer without thinking.

Minjeong stepped out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her hair was down, straight and shiny, tucked behind one ear. She wore a tank top and soft-looking sweat shorts, and there was flour dusted across her left hip.

“You’re late,” she said, but her mouth slid into a smile halfway through.

“I’m right on time,” you said. “You moved the clocks, remember?”

She rolled her eyes. “We did that once.”

“Twice,” you said. “The summer we hid all the spoons.”

Her mouth twitched. “Okay, twice.”

She closed the distance between you in three quick steps and hugged you. Minjeong hugged differently than her mother—longer, both arms, chin against your shoulder for a second before she let go.

“You look… older,” she said, leaning back to squint at you. “In a good way. Less baby face. More… tired uncle.”

“Wow,” you said. “So flattering.”

She laughed properly at that. “Take your stuff up,” she said, turning back toward the kitchen. “Then come eat. I made bread. Mom made too much jam.”

“There’s no such thing,” you said.

“Tell that to our pantry,” she tossed over her shoulder.

You lugged the duffel up the stairs. They creaked in the same spots. Second step, fifth step. You could’ve done it blindfolded. Your room was at the end of the hall, still with the same scratched doorknob and the same slightly crooked frame.

Inside, almost nothing had changed. The twin bed with the faded blue quilt. The small dresser with the top drawer that stuck halfway. The narrow bookshelf with three paperbacks you’d left last summer still stacked sideways. The old fan on the ceiling ticked when you flipped the switch on.

You dropped the duffel at the foot of the bed and sat down. The mattress dipped under your weight like it remembered you. You took the air in through your nose—salt, dust, laundry detergent—and let it out slow.

You were here. Whatever you were supposed to figure out this summer—job, future, feelings you weren’t ready to name—could wait. For the first time in months, you had nowhere else to rush to.

“Jay!” Minjeong yelled from downstairs. “Food!”

You washed your hands in the tiny bathroom, watching the familiar rusty ring of the sink. The mirror still had that patch of silver missing in the corner. You’d once stuck a sticker there; the mark was still faint.

Back in the kitchen, the table was set with mismatched plates. A loaf of bread sat on a cutting board, still steaming at the ends. Three jars of jam in different shades of red and purple lined up like soldiers. Mrs. Yoo poured tea into mugs from a pot cozy that looked older than all of you.

Karina had wandered in. She leaned against the counter, hip cocked, cigarette now gone. Up close, she looked both exactly the same and not at all. Her eyeliner was smudged, like she’d put it on hours ago and hadn’t cared what happened after. There was a small hoop in her left ear you didn’t remember. Her eyes—dark, sharp—tracked you as you pulled out a chair.

She made a face. “Ugh, he’s really here.”

“Hi, Rina,” you said.

“Don’t call me that,” she shot back automatically.

“You called me Jay,” you said.

“Yeah, but it’s cute on you,” she said. “On me it sounds like a midlife crisis.”

Mrs. Yoo tsked. “Eat,” she said. “You two can insult each other after.”

You reached for the bread. Minjeong slapped your hand lightly with the knife.