I’M SITTING AT THE KITCHEN bar with three cups of coffee in front of me as I wait for my parents to come downstairs.
Bash dropped me off about twenty minutes ago, wishing me luck before he drove back home. He didn’t wait around to see if I’d ask him to stay. Just like on Christmas, he knows this is something I need to do alone and knowing he supports me makes facing Mom and Dad a little easier.
I’ve been actively avoiding my parents since Christmas, only talking to them when necessary. Like when Nori was here and convinced them to let me go out.
No one has ever given me an award for being mature.
They’re so shocked to see me as they come down the stairs, they pause at the base of them.
“I’m ready to talk if you are.”
They share a look before walking toward me and accepting the peace offering of coffee that I’ve made for them.
Coffee holds magic in this household.
After letting them take a couple of sips, I begin. “First, I want to say that I never did this to intentionally hurt you or spite you.”
My parents are watching me intently, letting my words fill the kitchen. They stand across from me and I shift around in my seat.
“And I didn’t realize how affected you two were over this until I saw your reactions. We haven’t talked about it since that year.” It’s always been a topic we’ve slid under the rug, brushed by, and stepped around, but never picked up.
And it’s not from being shameful. It’s from fear. We’ve all been living, pretending to be fine, that what happened never changed our lives. We’ve tried to live the same when everything around us is different, when the secrets become the realities we choose to hide.
“Do you know I’ve never shown anyone my scars since then?” I don’t mention showing them to Bash recently, it’s probably better they don’t know. Or the context in which he’s been seeing them. “I haven’t worn shorts—haven’t bought shorts in years. I never got to play with the crop top trend. I’ve practically lived in a wetsuit.”
“Em, we’ve noticed, but when we used to bring it up, you’d brush us off. Get angry and yell that you were fine or wanted to be left alone,” Mom reminds me, gently.
That entire year I didn’t surf, I was a different person. A changed person. Someone who was learning how to become whole again after losing the one constant in their life.
“Yeah, but after that year you just stopped talking about it. We still haven’t talked about it.” We’ve yelled about it. We’ve ignored it.
“We’ve been waiting for you to be ready,” Dad says. “We honestly had no idea you’ve still been surfing for this long. Em, I’ve seen what shark attacks can do to people, and while they’re rare, you got lucky. And despite my anger, I’m so proud of you for not letting it control your life. But that still doesn’t make what you did okay.”
“Ren,” Mom says, but Dad shakes his head.
“I need to say this—”
“I don’t want to hear it.” I stand from the chair, my hands braced against the cool counter top. The tiny, logical part of me screamed to sit back down, but again, no award for maturity. “Unless you want to say you forgive me, I’ll wait. I don’t—I can’t listen to you say how disappointed you are in me. There’s nothing I can do to change that. You said you’re proud of me. Don’t take that away right now.”
I thought I wanted to talk, but what I really want, my parents aren’t ready to give me.
I leave the kitchen, walking through the house and slipping out the back door.
I’m a coward, but at least I’m starting to feel whole.
Leaving my house, I have my comfort in mind. Walking to the ocean is quick enough. It’s a short trip along the side of Ocean Avenue until I’m able to cut through the trees where the grass yields to sand. A soft surface to meet my bare feet.
This morning the waves were constant, set after set. Now the ocean is calm, a contrast to my wild heart.
Telling the truth doesn’t mean it’s easy to escape the lies. And I’m still fighting my way out of the ones I’ve told.
I plant my ass in the sand, close enough to the water that the froth can kiss my toes. I wrap my arms around my knees and squint out to the horizon.
Emotionally, I see where my dad is coming from.
Objectively, I do not.
What happened to me is no different than someone getting in a car accident, or someone getting bucked off a horse. All very different circumstances, but all could end with a similar result.
But you don’t tell a cowboy not to get back in the saddle after falling off a horse. You tell them to suck it up and keep getting on until they aren’t afraid of falling anymore.
I was five when my dad started teaching me how to surf on my own, no more riding the board with him. At first I didn’t stand up. Dad wouldn’t let me. Instead, he had me on my stomach, riding the waves like a boogie board.
He said it was to help me get a feel for the waves. How the board rides with them. I didn’t learn how to paddle and pop up in the sand. I learned in the water.
It’s not the only method; most people learn the fundamentals on the sand, but it’s how dad taught me.
So, I practiced and practiced until I told him I was bored with that. I wanted to start standing. He told me I wasn’t ready, but I begged and pleaded. Adamant that I was ready. Dad fell victim to the younger Emery’s manipulative charms and caved. Kind of. Instead of having me snap up on my feet, he made me ride a wave on my knees.
That was disastrous.
The board nose-dived into the water, flipping me over.
It didn’t get bad until I broke the surface and another wave swallowed me, pushing me back under.
One of the board’s fins knocked into the back of my head and kelp wrapped around my legs and went into my mouth, almost choking me.
I stayed down long enough that my lungs started to scream in agony.
I surfaced a few seconds later, gulping as much crisp air into my little body as I could, never getting quite enough to calm the panic inside.
Grabbing my board, the traitor, I marched my feet to shore and threw the board onto the sand.
Sitting next to it, I cried as my dad came to sit next to me. I threw him a baby-glare—one I would grow and improve. “I’m never surfing again! That was awful! I hate you.”
“Oh, Em, don’t say that when you don’t mean it.” He tried to pull me into a hug, but I moved out of his reach. “C’mon, try one more time. For me?”
It was awful and terrifying, but I bit my lip and mumbled, “Okay.”
He didn’t let me quit when I was younger, but he tried to force me to stop when I was older.
As I stare out into the ocean, I feel someone sit beside me.
“When did you figure out I’d come here?”
“Before you were even out the door,” my dad admits. “I followed you here.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t look at him.
“Sometimes I don’t like admitting we’re so much alike. When you were born I always wanted you to be better than me, do better than I did in life. But the more you grew up, the more I saw I was in a deep level of hell. You were worse than I was. Grandpa always used to say—”
“That I had your stubbornness and impulses, but got lucky with Mom’s smarts,” I finish, an almost smile on my face at the mention of Grandpa.
“Yeah.” His voice sounds far away. “You don’t know how scared that made me. I was always so worried about bad things happening to you. When you were attacked and I was on the beach, my heart stopped. It was like I was frozen.” His voice cracks.
“When Geer came back with you and I saw how bad it was, I cried. I had only cried one other time. And that was when the doctors put you in my arms after you were born.”
“Dad.” I look at him and suck in a breath. He looks trapped—reliving the memory through red-rimmed eyes. “You can’t always protect me. Life is a game of risk.”
“As a dad, I’m supposed to protect you.”
I lean on his arm to comfort him, to show I understand. I’m not just his only child, but also his baby girl. “You have. And you still do.”
“You hardly ever did what you were told. I don’t know why I thought you’d give up surfing.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I sure as hell wouldn’t.”
He’s quiet. I’m quiet. Until he says, “You were right, Em. Saltwater runs deep in our veins.”
“We belong to the ocean.”
He nods. “We belong to the ocean.”
Dad pulls me into his side and we sit on the beach, staring out at the horizon. It’s been a while since we’ve been at the beach together, another thing we avoided for years, and it’s nice to have the little moments back.
Or it is until Ren Lawson starts the conversation I’ve been dreading since he told me I wasn’t allowed to date until thirty-five. “So about the boy.”
“Yes?” Inwardly I groan, but physically keep my face blank.
“He’s too old for you.”
I can’t stop the rolling of my eyes. “He’s not even five years older than me.”
He grunts. “He doesn’t have a stable career.”
“They say he’s a better surfer than you were.”
“Emery.” He narrows his eyes.
“Dad.” I narrow mine back.
“Shit,” he mumbles. “He likes you and I hate him for it. He symbolizes everything I’ve been trying to ignore.”
“And what’s that?” Curiosity is a cat of mine.
“That you’re no longer my baby girl. You’re a woman.”
I grimace at his words. “Please don’t ever say that again.” I shudder again before telling him, “I’ll always be your baby girl.”
“Remember that when you get married and you’re dancing an arm’s length away from your husband and you’re shaking his hand after the priest pronounces you man and wife.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Daddy-O.” I bump my shoulder into his before he stands up and helps me to my feet.
We’re walking up the beach, back toward the house, when my phone goes off in my pocket.
Bash’s name is on the screen.
“Hey, babe.” There’s a smile in my voice and I feel lighter than I did when he dropped me off earlier this morning. “Do you have a sixth sense for—”
“Emery.”
I stop walking and Dad gives me a look. I don’t give him a glance. Bash doesn’t sound like himself. He sounds tense and anxious. My name quivers on his lips.
“I need you to come back to my place.” There’s a pause before he whispers, “I need you.”