Out of the Blue

by Kathryn Nolan

  “Excellent,” Marilyn replied.

  All the voices in my head began panic screaming.

  I’d just been assigned as Serena’s bodyguard. That meant watching her all day. Following her around everywhere. Listening to her talk and laugh, breathing in her mango-and-saltwater scent.

  Catching the sun glint off her golden hair as it set behind the ocean.

  “And I think it’s straightforward as well,” Marilyn said curtly. “But if Aerial has their concerns, we’re smart to listen.” She leaned over and tapped Serena’s picture. “Protect this client, Cope. Do not do anything reckless to put her life at risk.”

  As if I could do anything less. I’d rather chew my own arm off than put Serena’s life at risk. Every protective instinct in my body surged to the surface. Although these same instincts weren’t enough to protect my own heart four years ago.

  I closed the file and placed my palm on top of it. “You have my word,” I said. “No fuckups, I swear.”

  Protect Serena. Of course, I’d protect her. I’d do it even if I wasn’t hired as her protection agent. Because if she was truly in trouble, I sure as hell wasn’t going to let someone else do the job I was made to do.

  I was still her husband, after all.

  4

  Serena

  I hauled open the side of my van and stepped barefoot onto the cool sidewalk. With a bobby pin between my lips, I dipped my head down, gathered the unruly mess of my curls, and twisted them into a bun on the top of my head. I slid the bobby pin into the back and smiled at the scene in front of me. With the exception of San Diego’s rare rainy days, this was the same view that greeted me every morning: a dawn sky painted in twilight purples and peachy-pinks, glossy barrels of waves, a beach filled with surfers and a long line of surf vans just like mine. Someone was cooking coffee over a bonfire. Soft reggae spilled out of a van painted in tie-dye colors. I picked up my own thermos and perched on the van’s ledge, listening to the surf report on my radio.

  Extremely rideable waves at La Jolla today. Swell over head height. Eight to ten feet, some at twelve. Get out and catch ’em early if you can, folks.

  I reached behind me for the surf wax and started dragging it across my board. At the sound of cheering, I glanced up in time to see my friend Kalei Peleke catch a gorgeous wave.

  The sounds and sights of surfers at dawn were imprinted in my DNA and marked in my fingerprints. I’d set my internal clock to these rhythms at the age of twelve, and now beginning each day like this was a necessity.

  There was no better way to learn to be present in the moment than by being a surfer. Because the ocean didn’t owe you a thing, and while you could be predictable, the ocean never was. We waited for waves to break while holding our breath, sat on boards for hours for the lure of a decent set. In the ocean, nothing was promised, and everything was in flux.

  So it didn’t matter if you woke up tired or cranky, if your mind was filled with worries or stress. If the surf report declared the day to be extremely rideable, you pulled on your suit, grabbed your board, and you showed the hell up.

  “If you give me some of your coffee, I’ll make you do ten less squats.”

  I twisted at the waist and handed Dora the thermos. “You can always have some coffee, but I demand fifty less squats, thank you. Ten’s basically nothing, and you know it.”

  My trainer—and mentor—carried a board under her arm and wore a full wetsuit. Her buzz-cut was purple and fading, but her smile made her look twenty years younger. In her mid-fifties, she had light blue eyes and the kind of deep tan that came from spending her entire life on the beach.

  “Fucking hell, kid. Who taught you to negotiate?”

  I leaned my elbows onto my knees and cast her a wry smile. “You did, of course.”

  She shrugged then proceeded to drink all my coffee. “You missed me earlier. Showed a few newbies what this old girl can do.”

  “Oh, yeah? You make anyone cry?”

  “Hard to tell.” She frowned. “But there were a lot of wet faces after I left them to stew in their own disappointment.”

  I stood up, laughing, and pulled my long-sleeve top on, zipping it over my bikini. I lifted my board up and Dora closed the van door behind me. “You’re gonna scare them away.”

  She snorted. “I didn’t scare you away, did I?”

  We walked down the beach, the sand cool on my toes. “I don’t know,” I teased. “Maybe it should have.”

  Theodora Frances Tilden was something of a legend in the San Diego surf scene. She came from political royalty and had been expected to wear a polite smile and a string of pearls while acquiring a husband who could help her father’s political career. She’d said, “Fuck it,” moved into a van, and spent her days on a surfboard instead.

  A fierce competitor back in her day, she’d taken me under her wing when I was a newbie myself—twelve years old with an older brother trying his best to help me and two parents we were both desperate to avoid. She’d seen me on the water with my clumsy limbs, already trying to surf waves much too big, and asked my brother if I needed a trainer.

  “How was it at Aerial yesterday?” she asked, running a towel through her short hair.

  “It was good.” I stared out at the oncoming set from under my hand. “Great, actually. I think we’re going to do a lot of important work together. And they obviously expect a win at Trestles.”

  “You will win.” She tossed her towel on the sand. “We’ve been training for this day for a long time, my dear.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Think I can handle these little baby waves out there?”

  She plopped down on the towel and leaned back on her arms. “Such a showoff.”

  I hefted my board over my head and started towards the water. “I was taught by the best,” I said over my shoulder.

  My feet reached the cold waves, breaking against the sand. A crab scuttled quickly away. Seagulls circled overhead. Surfers and bodyboarders dotted the horizon, bobbing up and down in the morning light. I waved to Kalei and her wife, Prue Dorsey. Kalei was native Hawaiian, raised chasing the famous waves on Oahu. Prue, a well-known goofy footer, was white, with a bleach-blond pixie cut. They were only a few years older than me—we met when I was eighteen and lonely on my first tour, and over the years, the three of us had worked to bring together a lot of the women who showed up to surf at dawn.

  “Bitchin’ ride,” I called out to Kalei.

  She tossed her long, black hair with pure confidence. “I know, right? Now it’s your turn, babe,” she called back.

  Feeling amped, I pushed onto my board and began paddling to the barrels farther out. I concentrated on the feel of my arms diving into the ocean. The board beneath my chest, the morning sun warming my back. When I reached a spot that felt right, I sat up, legs in the water, and turned toward the oncoming set.

  What I didn’t do was think about meeting my security detail later that evening. Because that train of thought was more dangerous than the sneaky rip currents this part of La Jolla was known for. Just because I happened to unfortunately know one bodyguard didn’t automatically mean it’d be him.

  You think I won’t protect you forever, sunshine? Because I will, and happily, for the rest of our lives.

  “Oh, look, Swifty’s here.”

  My eyes were already starting to roll at the annoying nickname as Kyle paddled into view. He was the epitome of hyper-macho, surfer-dude sexism and absolutely the last person I wanted to be out here with.

  “Listen,” I said, “I’m about to catch this wave, so I don’t really have time for you this morning. Can we jump to the part where I tell you to fuck off?”

  He pulled his board right up to mine. I could feel him eying the same wave. “I heard you got mega lucky at Jaws.”

  “Really?” I started to turn my board, only half paying attention. “I heard the wave I caught was the biggest one that day. Even bigger than the ones caught by the guys.”

  “Bullshit,” he said. “You cau
ght a lucky break, and the whole world’s gonna know it at Trestles.”

  “Sure, whatever, Kyle,” I yelled over my shoulder. The next wave—the one I wanted—was coming in hot now, and I wasn’t about to lose it arguing with this asshole.

  “I’m calling this wave,” he yelled.

  “No way,” I muttered to myself. I paddled as fast as I could, aware that Kyle was right behind me. This kind of stand-off between surfers as they charged a wave was a sure-fire way to cause an injury, but I was past rational reasoning.

  “Swift, I’m calling it,” he said. The wave rushed to the side, barrel starting to curl, so I stopped mid-kick and let Kyle sail right past me. He spun around, momentarily confused, which allowed me to push up onto my board and drop right beneath him. For one terrifying second, I thought his giant board was going to fall on top of my head, but he rolled away from me and into the foam.

  I should have been focused, but my vision was already turning red. It didn’t matter how many times women crushed bigger, better waves. The constant insinuation was always some bizarre stroke of luck, delivering us to victory. Not that we were just as strong, just as talented, just as deserving. So I was late pushing up. Late and unbalanced, a rookie mistake if I’d ever made one. As soon as I stood, I over-corrected, tilted too far to the right, and lost my footing. And I didn’t bail with any kind of grace either.

  I ate absolute shit.

  My body hit the water at an awkward angle, the heavy saltwater like a slap to the face. I got stuck in the barrel, whipped around and disoriented in the dark. I scrabbled for calm, attempted to access the years of dedicated training that was supposed to help me emerge safely from a situation like this.

  Instead, I was pissed. At Kyle. At that comment on my Jaws video. At myself for letting my anger put me in harm’s way. When I finally surfaced, I was sputtering and dizzy, my board tugging me to shore by the leash strapped to my ankle.

  I floated as the waves pushed me along, coughing. My nose was on fire. Salt stung my eyes. It was a hard and stupid wipeout. Dora watched carefully but knew me well enough to leave me be as I hauled my board onto the beach and dropped to the sand. I did what I’d been taught: feet flat, knees bent, head between them. I’d inhaled a lungful of water that burned like hell and had that panicky, can’t-take-a-full-breath feeling.

  You caught a lucky break, and the whole world’s gonna know it at Trestles.

  I gripped my ankles. Coughed. Dimly, I heard footsteps on the sand, then felt a hand on the middle of my back.

  “You have enough breath. Your lungs will take in air. Your lungs will take in enough air.”

  I managed a smile while still coughing.

  Caleb, of course.

  “You have enough breath,” he repeated. “Your lungs will take in enough air.”

  I latched onto the mantra and did as he’d taught me—visualizing my lungs functioning properly, the air inside, the sensation of enough.

  “With me now, Serena,” he said. “One… two…”

  “Three…” I panted. “Four.”

  I exhaled a long, full breath. Finally. When I turned, my big brother was crouched next to me in his running clothes with a white shirt that said Coast Guard Search and Rescue.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He nodded like it was no big deal. “Bad fall?”

  “Asshole got in my head.”

  He nodded again before turning to sit next to me, mirroring my pose. We shared the same dark blond hair and brown eyes, but he hadn’t inherited the gene that gave me freckles all over my body.

  “You out for your morning run?” I asked. I surfed at La Jolla, and Caleb was—among many things—an ardent fan of running on the beach. And more days than not, our mornings ended up colliding.

  “Yes, but when I see a person gasping on the beach, I have to do the whole rescue thing,” he said with a grin. “Kind of my job. Especially if it’s my sister.”

  I snorted, bumped his shoulder with mine. Growing up, our parents kept our house strict, cold, and joyless. They preferred children to be seen and not heard and for their son and daughter to be placed neatly into the gender roles prescribed to us. It was not a surprise that Caleb and I had sought out more extreme careers—bold, somewhat dangerous jobs that required us to take up as much space as possible.

  “I might be a little more nervous about my next competition than I’d care to admit,” I said, still out of breath. I plucked a cracked bit of shell from the sand. “It’s the Aerial thing. They’re not my first sponsor, but they’re the biggest with the best reputation. Before, it always felt like I was competing for myself—competing to win, for cash prizes, to score more points and qualify for more events.” I let the shell fall and looked at Caleb. “Yesterday, they said I was the surfer to watch this year. So then, out there…”

  He winced. “Ouch. Nothing like the heavy weight of enormous pressure to make an athlete freak out.”

  “You drop out of helicopters and into waves scarier than the ones I’ll see at Trestles to save people’s lives,” I said. “How do you deal with the pressure?”

  I had a sneaking suspicion of what he was going to say. The same thing Dora had been gently—and not-so-gently—telling me as soon as my career started taking off. Quiet your mind. Let your anger go. The only thing that matters on the water is staying alive.

  “It’s a lot of mental practice,” he said softly. “You develop a relationship with adrenaline, which has the ability to intently focus you or send you panicking. It doesn’t come overnight. And I know you already have this skill.” He nudged me again. “I’ve seen you focus out there, even when you’re in a mess of a wave or need to bail.”

  Kyle walked out of the water fifty feet away, shaking out his hair and glaring at me. When we made eye contact, he flipped me off, striding over to a small circle of other surfers. Within seconds, they were peering at me like I was an animal in a zoo. The annoying, loud animal they wanted to shut the hell up. Which was infuriating. I’d seen women have wave after wave stolen from them by men like Kyle. We’d been knocked off our boards, harassed out of the water, threatened off the beach.

  “I get distracted,” I finally said, dragging my eyes away from the pack of dickheads scowling at me. “Still. Dora says—”

  “What does Dora say?”

  We turned to the woman in question, who handed me my water bottle and my cell phone. “It’s been ringing, by the way. And nice form out there, Caleb. Your running stride’s lookin’ good.”

  “Aw, shucks,” he said. “Thanks, Dora. I’ve got a few days off, but you know me.”

  “Can’t keep still to save your damn life,” she said. Dora hadn’t been part of Caleb’s training in years—the Coast Guard had seen to that. And even though he was one of the most elite swimmers in the world, she never hesitated to give him pointers when he stopped by her gym. And my brother, being who he was, always graciously received them.

  I glanced at the screen. It was a message from someone at Aerial, reminding me about my meeting tonight.

  “Um…” I turned the screen down and looked up at my mentor, squinting against the sun. “You know. What you always say. I’ve got to clear my head when I’m out there.”

  She nodded thoughtfully before sinking down next to me. I was briefly comforted by the brother to my right and the mentor to my left—the little found family that had kept me afloat. When Caleb had finally escaped our house at eighteen to go to college, he’d had the foresight to take me with him. And Dora, who had never married or had children of her own, had made sure we were fed and cared for, had holidays together, and had a person who showed up to our school events.

  She reached for my hand. “You pissed off at that guy out there?”

  I bit my lip, nostrils flaring. “Yeah. I fucked up.”

  She released me, but her face was serious. “You can’t do that at Jaws. You can’t do that at Mavericks or Trestles or Huntington. You can’t do that out there, but at least it’s easier to rescue
someone falling off eight-foot waves. I don’t need to tell you the difference when that wave is forty-feet over your head.”

  She did not. Because, like all surfers, I had wiped out on a wave that size, and the only thing that got me through it was dedicated training and precise focus.

  “I’m angry too, all the time,” she said. “You can’t be a woman who surfs and not be. Assholes like that guy are going to continue to dismiss your talent because of their own insecurities, no matter how well you perform. The question is, the question always is, will you let the anger eat you alive? Or will you use it to accomplish something useful?”

  I squeezed my knees to my chest. “Like what I’m going to do with Aerial,” I said, reminding myself. “Changing the world. Saving the planet. Leading by example. That would be an accomplishment.”

  “Exactly,” she said. “You know what you’re doing, Serena. You always have. You just have to listen to yourself sometimes.”

  As my brother stood up, stretching his arms overhead, my attention landed on the appointment reminder on my screen. I hid a grimace. “I’m getting a security detail for the next few weeks. Courtesy of Aerial wanting to keep their new ambassador safe at these events.”

  Next to me, Dora went still. Caleb paused mid-stretch, slowly releasing his foot to the sand. He was trying to stay serious, but the happy smirk on his face couldn’t be contained. “What kind of security?”

  “I don’t know,” I said breezily. “And to answer the question I know you’re dying to ask, it’s not him.”

  Caleb bent down to give Dora a peck on the cheek. He squeezed my shoulder before bouncing on his toes, checking the time on his watch. “Much as I’d love to stay here and keep grilling you, I’ve got to finish this run. Don’t forget to breathe, and call me if you need anything.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him. “I love you. Stay safe out there.”

  He nodded, running backwards. “I love you too. Stay safe out there.”

  A second later, he was moving back down the beach. Between what we’d survived with our parents and our similar careers, my brother and I were more than siblings. He was my best friend. The elements of danger and injury inherent in both of our jobs had built an extra layer of trust. We understood that certain risks couldn’t be controlled, but we trusted each other to come back home.