Do you surf everyday?
An unknown number is attached to the question.
I look at the text on my phone, without unlocking it, feeling my heartbeat spike and dip, like a rollercoaster ride, beating uncontrollably in my chest.
Like it’s hooked up to speakers, the sound amplifies around my room with a heavy bass.
For two years I’ve been so careful. To keep my secret from the world, from the people I care about. I let them think what they want about what happened. That I let my fear rule me, when I really let it drive me.
Before my panic can really send me spiraling, another text comes in from the same number.
It’s Bash.
I deflate like a balloon. My heart skipping several beats as it tries to calm down.
Fucking hell, Bash!
I thought my secret was seconds away from going up in flames. If I ever see this man again, I’m going to kick him. In the shins.
With the identification of the number out of the way, my heart rate is slowly going back to normal. Glaring at my phone, I type out my response.
Yeah. Same time every morning. Why?
The little typing bubble appears on screen. Then disappears. A few seconds later it’s back and stays for what feels like a while. Good Lord, is he writing a novel?
Sighing, I lock my phone and toss it on my bed. Picking up the book I’m reading, I try to find where I left off when I hear my phone vibrate. Turns out, Bash wasn’t writing me a novel. Or if he did, he deleted it and settled on a five-word question instead.
Can I surf with you?
Can he surf with me? Can Sebastian Cleaton, the object of my youth’s lust, and who reporters are saying to be the Ren Lawson of our generation, surf with me?
Do I want him to?
Surfing alone has been my thing for the longest time; there’s been no one in the lineup but me for the past two years.
I don’t surf to compete anymore. I surf because I have to.
Because I love it. But I can’t keep up with a pro. What if he’s one of those asshats that doesn’t respect a woman surfer?
As ridiculous as that thought is, I’d never allow a guy to shame me for a sport that is just as much mine as his, but the more I think it over something unexplainable is assaulting my emotions. A bubbly, almost floating sensation takes over my body as I picture what it would be like to feel the presence of someone beside me, watching and waiting for a set to roll in.
It might be nice to have some company.
Maybe for a little bit.
To try it out.
I can still have time for my thoughts and my me-time, but there will be another person for when being alone gets to be too much.
Plus, if I don’t like it, I can just tell him to leave. The spot is mine and I was there first.
Hopefully it won’t come down to elementary school tactics, but that is my plan, just in case.
I send back my answer.
Sure.
Then another.
If you can keep up with me.
Yes, yes I did just tease a professional surfer with more wins and records than one person really needs.
This time, his response comes immediately.
What happens if I don’t?
Is this flirting? Aside from the party, I haven’t even kissed a guy since October of my freshman year in college, three semesters ago, so to say I’m a little out of the game is an understatement.
Flirting in person is easy. Flirting in texting, there’s a fine line that can be crossed. As my fingers hover over the keyboard, I try to conjure up a response. How do I know if he’s really flirting or if my brain woke up on the pervy side this morning?
Try it and see what happens.
Yep. Definitely have been out of the game for too long. Weak response, Lawson.
He sends back a wink, a message that is virtually impossible to carry on a conversation with, so I pick up my book again. I read a few more chapters before my phone goes off.
I sigh. I just want to read. Does he have any idea how long I’ve waited for this book to come out?
Can we surf tomorrow?
And another one.
What time works best for you?
One more.
I’m up for any time, just gotta get a workout in first. Where should we meet up?
I can’t stop myself from laughing. Sebastian Cleaton is kind of a dork. And I kind of like him more for it.
I’ve spent most of the day not allowing myself to think about what happened between us last night, but I can’t stop myself from touching my lips, remembering how swollen they were after. How good he felt against me. How good I felt when he his hands roamed my body.
More than good.
Amazing. Horny. Wanted.
I thought that last night would be the first and last time I ever saw Bash Cleaton. That the memory of my lips touching his would evolve into a story to tell Brit. Possibly a story to tell any future grandchildren when they asked grandma what she was like when she was their age—because I plan on being a cool grandma.
Last night was my story. Nothing more.
Then this morning happened. A little kernel to add to said story.
But now, I have a chance to see him again. And for more than the twenty minutes we had this morning.
Even if nothing happens physically between us, I have the opportunity to hang out with one of the best surfers of my generation, literally at my fingertips.
I have the chance to not be alone in the water for the first time in two years.
6:30 works for me. I always go to the same spot that you saw me at today. I’ll meet you there. Just don’t expect me to work out with you.
Honestly, I’d work out with him if he needed someone, but working out in the morning means cutting into my surfing time. I hit the gym and go for runs in the evening for that very reason. The time I have for surfing is already limited. I can’t limit it any more.
Not for anything.
Especially not for Sebastian Cleaton.
He might be a professional surfer, but he’s from California and born in Hawaii. He doesn’t know these beaches. He’s familiar with the Pacific Ocean, but here on the East Coast, we have the Atlantic.
Bash is in my territory now.
I can’t stop yawning.
I slept even less than I did the night before. I can’t even blame it on the drinking this time. No, my lack of sleep is because I’m surfing with Bash today.
Young me would be absolutely giddy at the chance for this. Present me, well, present me is tired and nervous. Tired for obvious reasons and nervous…well, nervous because this will be the first time I’m surfing with someone since my accident.
I used to be one of the best surfers in my class, on the track to following my father’s footsteps, but now I don’t know where I stand. I’m not competing with anyone but myself on a daily basis.
I’m a very competitive person by nature. It’s been bred into me.
I get nasty when I lose.
But unless we’re playing a board game or something fun with friends, I keep that unhealthy need to win stored away until I’m alone.
I’m a good sport when points, trophies, and titles are on the line, but if I mess up, I will be my biggest critic. I’m harder on myself than my dad is. I push myself harder; I challenge myself daily. Never accepting that today’s surf is the best surf. Tomorrow I have to be better. My mantra, always.
I get in the ocean every day after almost dying from a shark attack that scared my parents enough to end my potential career right on the cusp of starting.
The accident left my body scarred. Both on the outside and the inside.
I miss competing, but my parents have done so much for me that I can’t tell them I’ve been surfing. I won’t. To see the anger, or worse, the disappointment in their eyes would hurt more than almost losing my leg.
My board is in the sand and I’m zipping up my wetsuit when I hear someone approaching.
Glancing over my shoulder, I see Bash in all his shirtless glory. Only wearing a pair of black swim trunks and a backpack strung along his back, he looks more awake than a person should be at this time. Or maybe he knows how to go to bed at a reasonable hour. My eyes eat up the sight, appreciating it more than at the party.
His stomach is sculpted in a six-pack, with the makings of an eight pack. Abs cut so deep, I imagine water running down them with my tongue chasing after the drops. His arms are big, ripped from years of paddling and popping up on the board.
What catches my eyes the most, drawing me in, is not his chest—I know, I know—but what he’s carrying. He doesn’t have a shortboard, but instead, secured under his arm is a longboard.
“I thought you had to work out this morning,” I call out, as he gets closer. I glance down at my shortboard and wonder if I should go back up to Geer’s garage and grab his longboard.
“I woke up early for it. I just got done.” He sets his board in the sand. “The water colder than yesterday?” He gestures toward my wetsuit and I grimace. I don’t feel like defending my outfit choice. It’s none of his business. Besides, I was wearing one yesterday. I wear one every morning, keeping my scars hidden.
“I get cold really fast.”
He nods, like my answer really isn’t as important as I take it to be. I’m on edge. I start shaking out my limbs, yawning in the process. My eyes water and Bash yawns back.
He starts to say something, but another yawn from me cuts him off. He yawns back and pretty soon we’re only communicating in yawns.
Looks like we have a yawn-off, y’all.
“I didn’t sleep last night,” I say around another yawn. “Or the night before. I’m just exhausted.”
“Are you okay to go out there?” Concern invades his voice and something weird tickles my stomach.
“I can surf half-asleep, Bash,” I tell him. “I could probably surf still asleep.” And I’m not cocky when I’m saying that. It’s just that ingrained into my being.
Surfing is like breathing. My oxygen.
“You’re cockier than most of my friends.”
“Is it cocky when you can back up the words with action?” I ask, shaking my head. “I think that’s actually called confidence. Which I have a lot of.”
Except in certain areas.
“Clearly.” A challenge rises in his words, the competitor coming out and my body hums with what’s about to happen.
I pick up my board and he shrugs out of his backpack, dropping it in the sand. “Race ya.”
I don’t answer until I’m almost to the water. Looking over my shoulder to shout something, I see him hot on my heels. I grin as my board and I hit the water, paddling out to sea with a pro right next to me.
If someone told fifteen-year-old me that I would be surfing with Bash Cleaton at nineteen, I wouldn’t have believed them.
If they had told me I would have been surfing with a hotshot surfer from the 80s, I’d believe them in a heartbeat.
My entire life has been spent around people that used to be the talk of the surf world.
As I paddle, I sneak glances under my arm at Bash as his arms slice through the water with ease. He looks at home on the board, the ocean breeze blowing his hair across his forehead.
He really is too attractive for his own good, a surfer body with a fun personality. Making him a deadly combination.
When he was fifteen and making a name for himself, magazines called him a teenage heartthrob, but now he is something more.
Age has been kind to him. His boyish features that made him famous on preteens’ walls have sharpened, matured, heightened. He’s more than a heartthrob now; he’s a heart-wrecker.
We don’t say where we’re going to stop; instead an unspoken agreement passes between us when we both halt in the same area, sitting up on our boards.
“So, come here often?” Bash asks and I laugh, shaking my head. He laughs with me before the sound fades into the breeze.
“Oh, you know.” I dip my fingers into the water. “Just every morning.”
“Dedicated.” He tries to laugh, but it dies off in the end.
I watch him with a frown.
“When did you know you loved this?” His voice takes on a more serious tone.
“This as in…?”
“Surfing.” He watches me, waiting for a reaction that never comes.
My poker face is on like a mask.
I know people can fall out of love with a sport.
It happened with Dez and baseball. He played all his life before quitting his junior year of high school when he needed shoulder surgery. But that can’t be why he’s asking, right?
“It’s just something that has always been a constant in my life.” I lay out on my board, still running my fingers over the cool water. “Growing up, surfing was as common in my house as football. A second religion where the beach was our church. I learned how to crawl, then how to surf, and then I learned how to walk. It’s in my blood. I can’t help but love it.”
His face is pinched in thought. “Have you ever tried to break up with it?”
I nod, thinking how much I should explain. It’s not like what happened to me is a secret. It was nationally televised, even internationally in some places. But there is a difference between a stranger telling my story through a screen and me telling it to someone face to face. I can’t stand to see the pity in their eyes when there is nothing to pity.
I’m alive, it doesn’t matter that my body has scars. What happened wasn’t anyone’s fault except mine for testing nature.
Nature and her inhabitants can’t be controlled. They can’t be tamed. Trespass on their territory to the point where they feel threatened and they will defend themselves.
“I did. I didn’t even go near the water for a year.” Back when I let the fear of what happened control me. Rule me.
“How’d that feel?” He doesn’t ask it like my therapist did. He asks like he fears it’s happening to him.
“Like I lost a piece of me,” I whisper. “That year, I wasn’t living. I was existing only to go through the motions.”
Bash is silent as he paddles closer to me, the current bringing us out further into the ocean and away from shore. He gently splashes water onto my back. “Did you ever get it back?”
I nod, not saying anything.
“How?” His lifeless eyes tighten, a glint of light that I can’t place. I don’t speak eyes.
Looking out at the horizon, I see a set rolling in. “I surfed.”