Chapter Twenty-Three
Levi
I look out the window at the back of Harper’s head, the love bite I left on her neck, the curve of one shoulder left exposed by the oversize neckline of her blue sweater. She’s curled up on a chair on the deck, looking out at the lake, and I am so enamored with her there are no words to describe it.
Which is okay, because I’m not going to tell her how hard I’m falling. Not today. After a phenomenal Friday spent mostly in bed, something was off when we woke up yesterday morning. She says she’s okay, but I know her. The few smiles she’s given me haven’t included her tongue darting between her lips. She’s looked preoccupied then tried to cover it up, lacking her usual wit. And she’s distracted me with sex whenever I’ve asked one too many questions.
She’s got an internal struggle going on, and I hope to get to the bottom of it this morning before we head home.
Hank is passed out on the couch, snoring loudly. He can take or leave the view outside, preferring the ragged plush toy at his side. He’s made himself comfortable the past couple of days, drooling and slobbering over everything—including Harp and me. She doesn’t care in the least. Loves it, really, which is one more reason I fall harder for her.
“Here you go,” I say, stepping outside to hand her a cup of coffee.
“Thank you.” She wraps her small hands around the mug and lets the steam float up to her face. “I love the smell of your special coffee.”
I’ve brewed my signature cup of java for her. My sister taught me to add a couple drops of hazelnut extract to make it slightly sweet.
I sit next to her with my own cup. “It sucks that today is Sunday.”
“Said no one ever.” She takes a sip of her drink. “But I have to agree.”
It’s like a postcard in front of us—azure sky, one large marshmallow cloud and a mountain range in the distance, a placid steel blue lake. “That makes two of us, then.”
“Do you ever think about moving somewhere like this? No traffic, fewer people?”
“I haven’t, but now that I’ve experienced it, I get the temptation.” I put my coffee down on the wooden end table. “What about you? Could you live here?”
“No. I’d get bored. But it’s my favorite place to visit for a weekend.”
I focus on her profile as I consider my next words. She’s beautiful from every angle, and I forget myself for a minute. When she turns her head to meet my open gaze, I ask about what I think has been on her mind.
“Have you decided about the ambassadorship?”
“No,” she says, relaxing her head against the chair. “Every time I think I have it figured out, something happens to set me back.”
Alarm runs down my spine. “What happened?”
She looks away. “Nothing really. I’ll work it out. I told Brad I’d have an answer for him this week, so…”
She’s keeping a secret, and I fucking hate it. I’ve proven myself trustworthy, made myself available to her. What more can I do to get her to confide in me again?
“What happened, Ham?” I repeat. My muscles tense while I wait for her answer. No matter how hard I try, she may never let me all the way in, and I’m not sure I can handle that. I want to be the one she shares everything with, without having to beg for it.
“I had a bad dream,” she says, eyes back on me. “But I’d rather not talk about it, okay?” If not for the misery coloring her voice, I’d press for more. Not to be a jerk, but to hold her in my arms and be supportive.
“You know you could start your own foundation,” I say, relenting with her but not avoiding what’s been on my mind.
She tips her chin up and focuses on me with surprised interest.
“You’ve got the money. The smarts. Know some influential people. You could be your own boss and hire a good staff to work for you. People who want to help others as passionately as you do. MASF is about swim safety and teaching kids to swim, and, yes, Brad is passionate about that. But what about the people like you who have suffered because someone they loved drowned? Your foundation could also be about helping those left behind, the victims of loss, so to speak, back on their feet.”
I’ve just flicked on a lightbulb. I can see it in the flecks of gold in her eyes.
“You’d still have to tell your story, but you could do it on your terms. You’d be in charge of what and how and when your personal life is shared. And if you get others to share their stories of loss, then the focus wouldn’t be entirely on you.”
Her chest rises and falls.
“What was Joe’s last name?”
“Myles,” she whispers.
“You could start the JM Foundation.”
She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment and gives a small shake of her head. “His middle name was Anson.”
Joe Anson Myles. JAM.
“It could be called the JAM Foundation,” she says.
“I think that would be awesome, Ham.” I cup her cheek. “And I think you’ve just figured out how to reconcile your past with your future.”
She swallows thickly. “I think you might be right.” She climbs out of her chair to straddle me. Her arms take their usual spot around my neck. The tip of her nose touches mine.
Then she kisses me.
It’s unlike anything I’ve felt before.
…
I’ve known since I was sixteen that I wanted to work behind a camera. Sophomore year, I took a photography class to fill the arts requirement for high school graduation and quickly found myself shooting everything, everywhere. I loved capturing something unique in ordinary things. It didn’t take long to move to video, and shoots with my buddies doing whatever dumbass trick we could think of when our parents weren’t around. Then I saw The Lord of the Rings films some ridiculous amount of times, and that led me to become a huge fan of Australian cinematographer Andrew Lesnie. Eventually, I want to be a Director of Photography and win an Academy Award like he did.
Which brings me to today and the ocean at my feet. For the past three days, I’ve been shooting with a friend in Malibu to prepare myself for Australia. Cane’s got a guy who’s sick with a drone, so I’m the kitecam guy. This shoot is different from anything I’ve ever done, with a huge learning curve, so I’m trying out different options with the camera.
I toss my towel to the side for one more practice run before we call it done. Since getting back from Big Bear a week and a half ago, I’ve been insanely busy with work, and Harper and I have spent all of one night together. That changes tonight, when I pick her up for a romantic dinner and sleepover. I want to talk to her about my trip. Tell her two months will fly by. And make her officially my girlfriend so there are no doubts during our separation. I’m taking the next four weeks off from any jobs and hope to spend as much time with her as she’ll let me.
I also plan to tell her I love her.
“Bro, you ready to do the handheld?” Flynn asks. He’s been nice enough to kiteboard for me the past few days while I figure out the best way to use the camera. The guy is an epic kiteboarder and surfer, which means I don’t have to worry about him in the slightest.
“That’s the plan,” I say, looking over my camera. “Give me one more minute.” I’ve tried mounting the camera to my kite, mounting it to a helmet, and mounting it to my kite lines. All three techniques have left me with little to no control over the camera, and thus the footage is jumpy and abrupt, the image quality poorer than I’d like.
I think the pros outweigh the cons if I hold the camera. Holding it means I have control over the camera angles, can shoot close-ups, and the hand strap will allow me to shoot the board, kite, and Flynn. The downside is I might drop the camera and lose it, or get distracted from kiting while I focus on the camera and its direction instead of my ride. I’m a decent kiteboarder, but I’ve taken my share of spills.
I do one last check of my camera settings. It’s near impossible to make adjustments out on the water, so I need to have the camera 100 percent dialed before I hit the water. Flynn and I will spend a few more days out here over the next month so I can put in more time with the camera, but ultimately, I’d like this run to go well. With one more look at the lens to check for moisture, I’m good to go.
Flynn and I check our lines and kite before launching. The winds have picked up, making for gusty conditions, but we can handle it.
The first twenty minutes are golden. We keep our backs to the wind, the kites right in front of us at twelve o’clock, and fly. My hands keep steady on the handlebar, controlling the direction and power of the kite with relative ease while I film.
Flynn sets a brisk pace, and I keep up with him. We move our kites in and out of standard positions, dragging our boards through the surf. The pull of the kite lifts me out of the water. I lean back, keeping the board’s edge submerged, and move with Flynn.
I’m having a blast, as both a cameraman and kite surfer.
Until I’m not.
Maybe it’s because the kite and lines have taken some abuse the past three days. Or maybe it’s human error—my error because I’m fatigued from more kiteboarding than I’m used to. I’ll never know for sure. All I know is that one minute I’m soaring with the saltwater splashing my face, and the next I’ve lost control of my kite. And because I’m focused on my camera, I’m unable to trigger my emergency quick release before I’m yanked into the water.
Then under the water.
As I struggle for air, I think this can’t be happening. I cannot fucking drown.