Surf & Surrender

by Riley Edgewood

  He doesn't give any indication he's heard me, just wraps that towel around his shoulders, sliding it back and forth a few times before settling it into place. It's the same motion Sawyer used to make before wrapping himself in his own beach towels. In fact, with that very one.

  Like a complete dope, I watch Jess's back all the way until he's out of sight. Imagining he's Sawyer.

  Wondering what Sawyer looks like now.

  I watch the spot where he disappeared for a long time. Until the first dollops of rain splash down.

  I make it back to the lifeguard stand just in time to hear an order over the radio to fly the red warning flags along the beach and head home. My shift would've ended in fifteen minutes anyway, so the storm won't cost me more than a few bucks.

  Past the dunes, at my Jeep, I can't help but look for Jess. He's not anywhere nearby, though.

  And I'm not sure it's really him my eyes are searching for so hungrily, anyway.

  No. I'm greedy for a glimpse of Sawyer and I hate myself for it.

  I open the door to my Jeep and slide inside right as the rest of the sky opens up. Windshield wipers on. Blinker to turn onto the street. I almost reach for the radio, but tuck my hand into my lap instead. Music—lyrics—of any kind aren't a good idea right now.

  Driving. Thinking. Breathing. Everything feels very fragile, very on the surface. Like I'm made of glass, but I'm stretched so thin that one errant thought could be enough to shatter me.

  Enough to grind me down into the past.

  But I draw in a deep breath and keep my head high.

  I can't get lost in the past. I don't have time to wallow.

  I have a date to get ready for.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SAWYER

  "DON'T DO IT," I warn my brother. "The results won't be pretty."

  He swings his fist. Slow and sluggish and I don't have to move my face an inch because he misses by a mile. His body follows his fist and I catch him, wrapping an arm around his neck, before he lands face-first against the wall of Kelly's Tavern. I drag him like this, in a headlock, toward the door. One of his dumbass friends calls after us, some linebacker-looking kid, telling me to chill, but I look over my shoulder and he sits his ass right back down when he sees my expression. Smart kid.

  As we pass the bartender, I apologize to him for the scene, but he shrugs like it's not a big deal. Which probably has more to do with the fact that Jess is underage than actually not giving a shit about the three broken glasses smashed on the ground—and whatever else Jess destroyed before I got here.

  I shove him out the door and into my car. "You throw up in here, I'll rub your face in it."

  He flicks me off.

  "Right back at you."

  Damn it. I thought coming home might do him good, but he's falling harder here than ever.

  The road back to his place is bumpy and the way he clutches his stomach over every pothole worries me—a lot. I'm not in the mood to clean up vomit.

  "Don't tell Dad." His head rolls back, thunking into the seat's headrest.

  "Little too late to think about the consequences." I stare back with a steady face when he scowls at me. Let him worry awhile. I won't tell Dad, though. Guy's got enough on his mind these days; he shouldn't have to deal with his shithead son. Guess that description could go for either one of us, but Jess is the one he's still responsible for.

  "You're such a—" He doesn't get a chance to finish because we hit another hole and the little shit leans forward and throws up in my car.

  I swerve into a beach parking offshoot and slam on the brakes. Reaching over his back, I throw the door open and shove his shoulder to adjust his aim outside the car. The seat belt gets in the way and then hits him in the chin when I rip it off of him. But finally he's puking on the ground instead of my floor mat.

  The irritation zipping under my skin jacks into something harsher. I jump out my side and dash around the car, but by the time I'm there, he's slipped out into a ball on the ground. He looks damn pathetic, but no way does he get off this easy. I grab the back of his neck, lifting him until his head's over the puddle of puke on the floor of my car. "What'd I tell you?"

  "Lay off me." He fights my grip, but I've got two inches and thirty pounds on him. Plus, I'm sober. And pissed.

  I push his face closer to the stuff that's already permeating through my entire car. "What did I fucking tell you?"

  He's really grappling against me now. And I'm really not budging.

  "Let me go and I'll tell you about Quinn."

  This—the shock jolting my system—loosens my grip more than anything else could. "What?"

  He turns his face sideways to look up at me. I give him that much leeway. Because I'm still not sure I heard him right. Then he says, "I saw Quinn."

  Fragments of memories barrel through my mind so fast I almost lose my breath.

  Long, slender fingers tracing hearts against my callused palms. A white daisy tucked into hair that's brown like autumn and windblown and trailing down her back for miles.

  The somehow both sweet and rough scents of salt water and sand. Laughter like sea glass wind chimes spinning in the breeze.

  I want to ask where. How. When.

  I want to crack his skull open and climb into his memory to see her again.

  I rub my face with my free hand to wipe it all away. "Goddamn it, Jess. She's the one person I told you we couldn't see if we came back."

  "Two," he slurs, squirming on his knees. "Two people."

  It's true. But she's the only one who matters. The only one who ever has.

  Quinn.

  Jesus. Just her name in my brain is enough to make my gut jump.

  So I let go of Jess's neck.

  He face-plants into his own puke and comes up spitting, swearing. I shrug and try not to laugh at the horror in his expression. It's hard. Which means I'm out of the grip of the past. "You wanted me to let you go, so I did."

  "You're such a dick."

  I can't deny it. Instead, I grab a beach towel from the backseat and let him use it to wipe off his face—and then my car. He gags the entire time, and nothing could bring me more pleasure.

  "How'd she look?" I ask a few minutes and miles later. I don't expect an answer. The kid's eyes are closed so hard they look swollen.

  "Skinny," he slurs. "Stupid."

  "You sure you weren't just looking in a mirror?"

  He mumbles something I'm pretty sure is, "Fuck you," but I let it slide because I'm remembering in more than just splinters of snapshots. More than a hand or a laugh. Quinn.

  Skinny? Maybe. She's always been slight.

  Stupid? Not a chance in hell.

  One of us would've run into her sooner or later. The Outer Banks is a big area, but the spots locals prefer are few. I'm surprised it's taken the two months it has.

  Thing is, though, if it happened to Jess, then statistically my chances seem smaller now. "Goddamn it, Jess."

  But he's snoring. And I shouldn't be asking about her anyhow.

  I spend the rest of the ride trying to figure out how to get the smell out of my car—and quick, because I have a fucking date tonight.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  QUINN

  "PUT ON SOME blush," my mother commands, smoothing a hand over my hair, fixing, I'm sure, some tiny errant flyaway. "Somehow you manage to look pale through your tan. Are you coming down with something? And grab a cardigan before Chase gets here, or change your dress. It's not appropriate as it is."

  "I don't need a sweater." I breathe in the waxy scent of her lipstick mixed with her sharp perfume. It's actually not a horrible combination, but I step out of her reach and fight the urge to roll my eyes. I should've stayed up in my old bedroom until the last minute. I don't know why I came down to let my mother preen me.

  I don't know why I agreed to get ready at my parents' house in the first place.

  It probably has something to do with the fact that my mother's the one who arranged the date. This I know
why I agreed to do, though. To get Julian out of my head. I'll do whatever it takes, even if that means succumbing to my mother's meddlesome ways and allowing one of her ritzy friend's sons to take me out.

  It might, too, have something to do with not wanting this guy, this Chase—who's sure to be completely stuck up—to judge my tiny, ramshackle apartment. When he picks me up here, he'll see a huge, pillared front porch rising into the first of two decks of a pristinely kept house. Way more the style he's used to, I'm sure. Fancy houses. Elegant, pedigreed girls, sweet and demure. I can't do much about my ancestry or personality, but at least the first image he gets won't turn him off.

  Still, I'm not grabbing a cardigan. Letting him make assumptions about the house is one thing, but if this guy can't handle spaghetti straps? Well, basically, he's out.

  "I'm perfectly happy with the dress I have on," I say. "But thanks, as always, for your unsolicited opinion."

  "Sarcasm is below you, Quinn." She sniffs, lifting her chin a notch.

  "And your pretension is something I'll never understand," I shoot back.

  "A dignified demeanor isn't pretense." Her blue eyes flash. "People of a certain stature are expected to behave with a level of class I wish you'd adhere to."

  Please. You've held contempt for people below that certain stature before we were even close to crossing above the line, is what I want to say. But we've been down this road so many times I have no traction left in my soles. Instead, I stare at her hairline. "Your gray is growing in again. Wow—it's so much thicker than it used to be."

  Now she smooths her own hair, the panic on her face almost laughable. "I have an appointment next week. Maybe I should call Stefan and tell him I need him sooner."

  I shrug, raising my eyebrows. "Do you really want to be around when Chase gets here…?"

  "I don't want to be rude, but…" She pauses, and I actually see the weight of pros and cons swimming in her mind. If we didn't have nearly identical features, I'd swear I was adopted.

  "It's not rude—he'll be here to pick me up, not you."

  My response is the push she needs and, after reminding me about our standing brunch date tomorrow (we have two a week every summer, though I've been trying to push for just one forever), she finally leaves me alone in the sitting room, the clip of her heels down the hall growing lighter and lighter. When she's well away in a different part of the house, I check my reflection in the monstrous, gilded mirror in our—their—entryway. And then I sigh, because she's right about the blush.

  I'm not coming down with anything. It's the shock from seeing Jess, from thinking of Sawyer, still written across my under-colored cheeks. In the slight wildness of my eyes. In the jitters jumping and biting like fleas in my stomach.

  And suddenly Sawyer's face is swimming in front of me. Smirking. "The Quinn I knew would've laughed in her mother's face before letting her pick out her date."

  I push through the mirage, brushing it away while wishing at the same time I could stare at his face forever, answering in my thoughts. Yeah, well, you walked away from the Quinn you knew.

  Chase better be amazing.

  Because it's not one person I need to use him to forget now. It's two.

  As if on cue, the doorbell rings.

  So much for the blush.

  I open the door and take my time studying the guy on the other side. Brown hair, brown eyes, freckles smattering his nose. A friendly expression that makes me want to like him immediately… Even if he is wearing pressed khakis and a starched, stiff-looking button-down.

  "Hello, I'm Chase," he says, his words shaped fully and all polite. "You must be Quinn?"

  I stick my hand out to shake his, right as he shoves a triplet of red roses at me.

  "Oh. Thanks." I smile at him. Points for bringing me flowers—and for not going overboard. Detractions for the boring choice. Still…I already have something specific in mind for them. "Do you want to come in while I find a vase?"

  I leave him in the sitting room and only remember I should've offered him a drink when I'm already in a storage closet half the house away. Oh well. And perfect—my supplies are still here, tucked away. I grab an old shoebox from the stack and fill it about an inch up with a mixture of Borax and cornmeal. I dig out space for the rose heads and then, after clipping the stems short enough to fit in the box, I cover the buds with more of the mixture. They're fresh and fragrant even through the mix. Hopefully they won't blacken too much in the drying process.

  But even if they do, I'll find a use for them.

  "I meant to tell you, you look beautiful," he says, standing when I reenter the sitting room.

  "We're even. I meant to ask if you wanted a drink." A few seconds later I cringe. "I also meant to say thank you for the compliment."

  He laughs. "Should we go?"

  We step out to the porch and, through the almost chilly humidity left over from the storm, a waft of cigarette smoke hits me. A creak on the deck above us tells me my father's sneaking another one. I don't blame him—I bet my mom's been up to preen him, too. And he doesn't even have any place to go. I wonder if he yearns for the days when jeans and a T-shirt were just fine to wear around the house… Not that my mother ever liked it, but she let it slide. Sometimes, at least.

  Chase's car is sleek and silver, low-to-the-ground and expensive-looking. Especially next to my beat-up Jeep. He opens the door for me, and when I drop into the car, it smells like leather. And a hint of the roses he brought with him.

  It's a promising aroma.

  And, when he slides in opposite me, flashing a friendly, not-at-all-stuck-up grin, I think this could be a promising date.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  QUINN

  NOPE. NOT A promising date.

  It's lovely, don't get me wrong. Surf and turf to my belly's content, romantic lighting, thriving conversation. But…

  I don't feel it.

  Chase is cracking jokes, left and right, and I'm laughing—because they're actually funny. He's attractive. He even smells good, which is sometimes hard to find in a beach-based boy.

  But there's zero spark.

  Not the way there was the first time I saw Julian.

  And don't even get me started on Sawyer.

  Damn it.

  I wonder if we'd have a spark if I hadn't seen Jess earlier today. If my mind wasn't so filled with stupid Sawyer. But if I'm honest with myself, probably not. Which makes me a freaking idiot.

  "What's spinning in that mind of yours?" He catches me, lost in thought.

  "That I had the wrong idea about you," I admit.

  He checks with me and then shakes his head when our waiter stops by to ask if we need anything. "The wrong idea, huh?"

  I was hoping there could be something between us. But, before that: "I figured you'd be a typical rich jackass."

  He takes a sip of wine. "Ouch."

  "My point is that you aren't those things. I mean, yeah, you're rich, obviously—" Obviously? God, what am I even saying? "—but you're not typical. You're not a jackass."

  He grins. "Well, I misjudged you, too, so I guess it's fair."

  "Oh yeah?" Intrigued, I swallow my own sip of wine. "How so?"

  "I've always heard that Jack and Lillian's daughter was sort of a wild child. Out to do her own thing, devil-may-care what the rest of polite society thinks." He cuts off a piece of steak, popping it in his mouth and swallowing before continuing. "Yet, here you are. Respectable and polite."

  Is it wrong that my reputation among the uppity parental crowd gives me a secret thrill?

  "I don't know about all that," I say. "You haven't seen what comes after dinner."

  I mean to joke, to make him laugh, but it comes out flirtier than I intend, and he reaches across the table to grab my hand, his smile stretching wider. "Color me intrigued."

  Great. So now I either look like a jerk if I move my hand, or like I'm interested if I don't.

  Feeling like a total chump bucket, I slide my hand out and awkwardly knock
my knuckles on the back of his hand. Twice. "What I was talking about was… I mean…" I clear my throat. "There's this secret bonfire I know about tonight, if you want to go."

  Maybe I shouldn't extend the date—I don't want to give Chase the wrong idea. But…I also think he's fun and funny and maybe I can get him to see me as friendship material instead of writing me off completely when I tell him this won't be the next great American romance.

  His expression dims, and he discreetly pulls his arm back. But he's a trooper, and doesn't shut down completely. Just gives me an appraising look. "You're on the circuit?"

  Well, color me amused. "You know about the circuit?"

  "I've even done a round or two," he says. "Back in the day. When I was a teenager."

  "Maybe we've met before."

  "Nah, I'd remember you."

  Oh, jeez. I should probably blush here, but I just feel anxious. I fiddle with the leftover asparagus on my plate. "If you're thinking it's still a teenager thing, don't. It grew up as we did. Very different atmosphere these days."

  The circuit is a weekly summer bonfire, the location kept secret until the last minute to avoid cops or outsiders getting the scoop. A text chain is initiated when the first person sends out the location. The location decider changes week to week, the current secretly picking the next.

  "Last time I was there, three or four years ago, I saw a huge fire, people drinking till they puked, and some really bad—but really fun—decisions being made. I kind of remember making one or two of my own, actually."

  Now I laugh. "Okay. Maybe it hasn't changed that much. But we're older now. So it's cooler. Obviously."

  "How do you know where it is?"

  "My best friend texted me a few hours ago." With explicit instructions to show up or else. She meant it because she misses me. But there actually is an or else if I don't go tonight. I haven't been to a circuit fire yet this summer, and if you miss too many you get culled from the invitation list.