It’s hot. Too hot. Almost 2 p.m., the hottest part of the day, and it’s got to be at least a hundred degrees.

The sun is merciless, and there isn’t a cloud in the sky.

There’s no breeze, either.

And the sand stings. I’m trudging across it, barefoot, to the lifeguard tower at Seaside Sings. To see Bobby.

I called her Saturday night. She didn’t answer; but she texted: “I’m sorry I stormed off. I’m not mad at you or anything.”

I texted back, and she texted back, and I texted back, and she texted back, and the long and short of it is, she’s not sure if she wants to see me again. She needs to “think about things.”

I’m still not sure what that means. What’s there to think about? We have fun together. We get along well. The sex is fucking incredible.

Through a Herculean effort, I kept myself from calling her Sunday, but I miss her. I want to see her. If she tells me to get lost, fine. At least I’ll have an answer. This waiting around stuff—I don’t like it.

My phone buzzes, and hey, it’s the devil, by way of Oscar, come again to tempt me. I don’t know what’s going on with him, but he texted me a dozen times yesterday, trying to convince me to come to his house, and I finally had to tell him I was out of town. He’s called a few times already today, and bro, a friendship with you is the last thing I need right now.

I ignore the call, and I forget about Oscar as soon as I see Bobby. She’s leaning against the rail, in the last little bit of shade on the deck. Her back is to me, and what a back. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, slightly wavy. Her legs are smooth and soft. Her arms are…I don’t know. I just like their shape. I like everything about her.

Fuck. I have no idea what I’m doing.

Do I call her name, or do I let her see me as I walk to the ramp? Either way, she’s going to be surprised. I should have texted her. Can I text her now? What if she turns around and sees me texting? No, it’s a stupid idea anyway, because she’ll get the text and then I’ll be in front of her ten seconds later. That’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Bobby,” I call. She turns around, and fuck, she’s a stunner. I wave, and she lifts her hand, but with less enthusiasm.

I turn up the ramp, and I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. My memory didn’t do her justice.

She’s wearing the shades I gave her. Her perfect lips are pressed together. Her arms are crossed under her chest.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey.” The word offers me no clues, and neither does her careful face. Her vibe is casual. Too casual.

“So how’s the day been?” I try.

“Not too bad.” She pulls her hair into a ponytail and peers down at the beach. “I’m still having trouble getting the rows straight.”

I glance behind me; the back row of chairs and umbrellas is relatively straight, but the front row is obviously curving forward. “They look great.”

She smirks. “They don’t, but thanks.”

I need to say something now. Right now. I had this whole—

“I like you Tripp,” Bobby says. And, fuck, what? “A lot.” Okay, this is good. “But…I’m worried we want different things.”

My stomach gets a heavy feeling as I look at her. “How do you know what I want?”

“That’s fair. I don’t know what you want. But we’re obviously in different places.”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

Bobby frowns. “Are you going to argue with me the whole time?”

“No. Definitely not.” Shit….

She hesitates. “I don’t know what I want out of life. I’m trying to figure it out. But I’m pretty sure it’s different than the life that you want. I get that we’ve never had a conversation about it…but I need a career of some kind. Something that I really love doing. Something stable. Not that what you do isn’t, but…something stationary. You travel a lot. Your life is wild and fun. You’ve got your own hashtags, all these followers on social media… You’re Tripp Anders, and…I’m just some woman.”

I blink at her. Did she call herself “just some woman”? I open mouth to disagree, but she shakes her head. “This probably sounds really stupid to you, but I’m divorced, and after something like that, you have to be more guarded. Kevin—he…he didn’t want me in his life, you know? I don’t know if he always felt that way, or he grew to feel that way. But ultimately, that’s how he felt. And I don’t want to go through that again. And I feel that’s where we’d get to, eventually. I know there are risks with any relationship, but I feel like the warning signs are more obvious with this one.”

She shrugs, and I take that to mean she’s done. “You aren’t ‘just some woman’, you’re amazing. And I hear what you’re saying, and I get why you feel the way you feel, but you’re wrong. I was serious when I said our situations are similar. Where we are in life. Whatever. My entire life was surfing, until a few years ago, and I hate saying that, because it sounds so stupid, but it’s true. And I do mean my entire life. It was all I did. All I was. I started surfing when I was three, and I literally have no memories from before my injury that aren’t about surfing. None. My parents were my managers, and I was the family business. I was surfing every day, and training every night. I didn’t go to school after second grade. I ‘homeschooled’, but I never graduated high school. I don’t even have a GED.” I take a deep breath, because I’ve always found that humiliating. “I don’t know.”

It all seems like a waste now; a waste of my life, up to this point. I never had a normal childhood or a normal family. Dad died less than four months after I announced my retirement; he never told me he was proud of me, unless I was surfing. Mom was a little better about that, but it was obvious neither parent cared much about me beyond how well I performed.

It’s the sort of shit that sounds real tragic when you’re telling a therapist, but feels real trite when you’re visiting a children’s hospital.

“I had to start over, but I didn’t know how. My parents had structured my life—even after I turned eighteen. They set my schedule, managed my money, handled my endorsements, made major decisions, everything.” I shrug. “After surfing, there wasn’t really anything to structure. There was no plan to follow. Then Dad died, and Mom…lost interest. I didn’t belong with my surfing family either. It’s not like they kicked me out or anything, but my place was gone all the same. Eventually I found being around all the scene brought me down.” I sigh. “It sounds stupid—”

“It doesn’t sound stupid.”

“I don’t know. Other people would have figured something out. I’ve just wallowed in bitterness.”

“You started Hot Beach.”

“At the behest of my accountant. And this bathing suit shit—it doesn’t mean anything to me. None of it does. It seems like the most pointless use of one’s time. Does the world really need another bathing suit?”

“They fit really well,” Bobby says.

“Oh, come on.”

“I mean it. But I get what you’re saying.”

“I just want my life to have some meaning. That’s how I feel when I’m with you. Like shit has meaning.”

It’s an accident, this openness, but she’s been disarming ever since we met. Part of it was that she was so obviously annoyed by my existence. It was funny, because she was also obviously nervous. That’s one of the things I like about Bobby: she’s a study in contrasts. Moody but poised. Disinterested but quick to react. Down but fighting. Smart but thinking herself in circles.

“That’s…really kind of you to say,” Bobby says after a moment. “But I can’t be your meaning.”

“It’s not like that. I’m not asking anything from you. I—well that’s not true, actually. I’m not asking for you to be my savior or my meaning or anything, but I like you a lot, and you said you like me, and you said you’re worried my life is all about the party, and I’m telling you it’s not, so… I’d like to see where things can go.” Bobby doesn’t say anything for long enough that I suck in a deep breath. “You don’t feel the same way. It’s cool.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Yeah—but it’s obvious.”

“No it’s not. I do feel…similarly,” she says softly. “I’m just…worried. I don’t want to put my heart out there and have it shattered like before.” She laughs. “Talk about sounding stupid.”

“That’s not stupid.”

She smiles. “I’m worried you’ll keep on being Tripp Anders, having all this fun, and eventually you’ll realize I’m not much fun.”

“I’ve had more fun with you in ten days than I’ve had in three years of being Instagram famous.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah right.”

“It’s true. I loathe all of that. And all those people—they aren’t my friends. I don’t mean anything to them beyond a photo op, and I don’t connect with them in any real way. And I don’t want to be a fucking swimsuit salesperson. I want…something better. And I want to see if I can have something with you.”

Bobby sighs. “I don’t know.”

It’s time for the nuclear option. “Can we just start as friends, and take it from there?”

Bobby frowns. “Friends? With benefits?”

My heart says yes, but my head says, “It’s a trap!” I manage to croak, “Just friends.”

Bobby narrows her eyes.

“I like you. Better than anyone in Longview. It’d suck to, you know, be in this lame town and not be able to talk to you. Yeah, I want to be more than friends, but I’d rather be just friends than nothing.” This is technically true, but barely. I am absolutely going to get back inside Bobby Smith, and sooner then she imagines. “Do you want to think about it?”

“No. I want to do that too,” she says, and the elation I feel—I try to avoid surfing metaphors, but this is the closest thing I’ve felt to a perfect barrel on dry land.

“But just friends,” Bobby says. “Absolutely nothing physical.”

“Of course not,” I say. “I don’t even want what you got.”

Bobby knows I’m teasing, and still, she reacts. She purses her lips for just a second before ducking her head so I won’t see her smiling. She pops back up when her humor is mostly gone. “Good to know.”

I grin. “So what’d you get up to Saturday night?”

She laughs. “I almost got killed by an out of control speed boat is what I got up to.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Sadly, no.”

“So, what, did you go swimming?”

She shakes her head. “I went to Clayton Pier. Someone crashed into it while I was there.”

“Colton Dalton.” This is nuts. “You were there?”