Surf & Surrender

by Riley Edgewood

  "I'm fine, hon." Mrs. Simmons says. "Just going to stay with my sister for a while."

  "Ma?" Danny's voice travels down the entrance hallway before he does. The minute he sees us, his expression drops from concerned to pissed. "What the hell do you want?"

  But I can't just demand to know where he stashed my stolen Jeep in front of his mom, especially with her face as broken as it is. "To speak with you in private."

  He sighs. "I don't have your stupid spare tire, or your surfboard. Quit wasting my time with this shit."

  "Language," his mom says, shaking her head and then glancing at me. "I'm sorry. I raised him to treat girls with more respect than this."

  I say, "It's okay," right when Danny says, "Believe me, Mom. If you knew the way she gets around, you wouldn't care how I treated her."

  Gianna sucks in her breath, but Mrs. Simmons beats her to whatever she's going to say. "Danny. You sound like… You sound like your father."

  And she starts to cry. Nothing dramatic, but big fat tears roll down her cheeks and she glances at me and Gi, excusing herself.

  "Happy now?" Danny asks.

  "Are you?" But I drop my eyes to study my feet, shame washing through me. Even though he's still a prick, he's a prick with some pretty hardcore baggage, and…I don't want to go easy on him, but shit. How can I not?

  "Is she leaving him?" Gianna asks.

  "Who knows," he says. "She says the same thing every time."

  Then he shuts the door in our faces.

  It's a silent ride for a while on the way to Kitty Hawk. Finally, I turn off her stereo. "You knew about his parents?"

  She nods.

  "I had no idea."

  "I don't think it's something he shares with many people."

  "But he did with you."

  Another nod.

  "You guys… You guys were closer than I thought."

  "We were pretty close. Then he showed his true colors." Now a shrug—and even though I know she can feel my gaze on her, she stares out the windshield. "I don't think he has any clue your Jeep's missing."

  I sigh and turn my gaze out my window, watching the buildings go by. "I think you're right."

  Damn it.

  Danny didn't steal my Jeep. Probably.

  I glance at Gianna again. There are so many things I want to ask her about Danny now, but nothing I say will change the fact that he cheated on her, so I let it drop. Plus, she's happy with Chase. So all I ask is, "Can I borrow your car tomorrow?"

  And she's so lost in thought, all I get in return is a third nod.

  She's back to herself the next morning, though, picking me up with a bouncy smile.

  Chase is riding shotgun, so I'm pretty sure he has something to do with it.

  "Hear you have some car trouble," he says.

  "Hear you're up for the role of Captain Obvious," I say.

  Gianna laughs, and when we get back to her parents' place, where I'm leaving them, she says, "Pick me up from work at eight. Chase's sister's in town so he can't collect me this time."

  "I would if you'd just agree to meet my family," he says, sliding out of the car.

  Gianna shoots me a look I can't quite read. She doesn't respond to Chase until we've switched places and she's walking up her driveway with him.

  They'll work it out, I'm sure, especially considering the way he so easily drapes his arm around her shoulders. And for now, I've got my own plan to worry about.

  I let the car idle on the street for a minute and I call Rajesh. When he answers, I say, "Everything still good?"

  "You're in the clear."

  I assume since he's not more specific that Sawyer must be with him. Which is perfect, just as we discussed when I called him at the shop last night. Now, all I need is for Jess to be home. I double-check the address with Rajesh before we hang up, earning a, "Yep," from him. So he's almost definitely with Sawyer, and it makes me want to scrap everything I'm about to do and find them instead.

  But I don't.

  I can't.

  I drive, instead, to Brock's apartment to find Jess.

  There's a thick hook of nervousness yanking through my stomach when I park. Brock will be at work, so I won't have to see him, but according to Rajesh, Sawyer's basically keeping Jess on house arrest these days. So he should be here. I just… I hope he'll answer the door. I hope he'll give me a chance to explain. Not that I even know how I'll explain. But I have to do something.

  I take a deep breath—at least my tenth since I've parked—and I knock on the door.

  But Jess doesn't answer. Brock does.

  Shit.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  QUINN

  BROCK STARES AT me, and, throat gone dry, I stare back. I wonder what it must be like to see me, someone who looks so much like the woman who ruined his life. No wonder he wasn't exactly friendly when I saw him at the surf shop.

  He clears his throat. "Quinn."

  "Mr. Carson." I clear mine a second later.

  And we stare some more.

  He still looks like hell. But now instead of soured liquor, the mingled scents of coffee and soap waft off of him. His hair is still thin, but it's not greasy anymore. His eyes remain bloodshot, but they're not so confused and the green isn't quite as faded.

  He looks so much more like the man I remember.

  The one who took me to the ER for stitches my sophomore year, when Sawyer tried to teach me to skateboard and I busted my knee. And during my junior year, when I was so sick with the flu it felt like the plague, and my own parents avoided my part of the house like it actually was the damn plague, this is the man who made a spot for me at his place. He's the one who made me soup and brought me cool rags for my forehead.

  "Um—" he starts to say, but doesn't get a chance to finish.

  Because I throw my arms around him. Hugging him as tightly as a person can.

  Because he's more family to me than my own mother, and I haven't really spoken with him in four years.

  Because he's Brock. And I love him.

  He stiffens, awkwardly pats my shoulders—and, when I don't let go, finally relaxes into the hug, returning it. "Hey, girlie."

  "Hey," I say into his shoulder.

  "Sawyer's not here."

  "I know."

  He stiffens again, for a very short moment. "I expect you're here for an explanation, and I suppose it's long overdue. Come on in."

  He pulls away, motioning for me to enter, but I don't cross the threshold. I peek over his shoulder, looking for Jess, but I don't see him. "I was hoping to speak with Jess," I say. "Too, I mean." Because now that I'm facing Brock, I need to speak with him, also. There's too much unsaid, too many things I don't understand.

  "He's still snoring. Come in, I'll start some coffee. The scent'll lure him out eventually, and we can speak in the meantime." He's slipped into a more comfortable, familiar tone, even if it's resigned.

  "Okay." I hesitate a second longer and then step through the doorway, past him, and take the short trip to the living area.

  "Have a seat. Let me get the pot started."

  I take a seat in an old armchair, taking in the apartment while he bangs around in the kitchen. It's small, sparse. But also somehow homey, and clean. The air smells faintly of a lemon-based cleaner, like maybe the apartment's been scrubbed recently. For a moment, I panic because maybe they're getting ready to move again.

  But I do my best to quell it, because maybe it'd be better if I didn't have to share the town with Sawyer.

  Yeah.

  Right.

  God. Why won't my insides stop sliding like melted ice? Why won't my heart stop hurting so damn much?

  When Brock comes back, handing me a tall cup of coffee, I've almost gnawed my lower lip off. I think he thinks it's about him, because he takes a deep breath, forcing it out of his mouth and sitting on the couch opposite me. His words come out shaky. "I'm sorry, girlie. For what I did. I won't blame you for hating me."

  "I…" I think about how to
say this. "I only just found out and I would never, ever hate you." I want to stop here, just leave it at that. I study my hands for a moment, trying to keep the rest of it inside. But I look up, meeting his eyes before I speak again, because of course, I am going to speak again. "I don't understand, Brock… Why did you do it?"

  He takes a deep breath and, with an unsteady hand, places his coffee on the small table in front of him. "On the rare occasions he chooses to use it, Sawyer's blessed with a mathematical intelligence not many come by."

  I…don't make the connection immediately, so of course my imagination runs wild. This is because of Sawyer? Brock took the money for Sawyer, and it has something to do with math? Maybe Sawyer's scholarship to Duke was a lie somehow, and Brock needed the money to pay for his education. But does that mean Brock forged the scholarship letter? Does that mean—

  I pause mid-thought when I realize Brock is staring at me, waiting for a response. So I nod, hoping he'll go on.

  "His mother was an English teacher. And while she could manage our financials down to an exact penny, that's about as far as her abilities went in the math department." He pauses again, as though I should be interjecting here. But I'm at a loss. I still can't make the connection. Eventually, he continues. "What I'm saying is that Sawyer got his math abilities from me. Not that I've ever been good for much else in the brains department, but I'm good with numbers."

  "Yeah, I know," I say, drawing the words out. "You used to help me with my homework."

  "I'm good with numbers, and I'm good with cards, and I'm bad with money."

  And in an instant, it all makes sense.

  "Poker?" I ask. "You were gambling? Like…beyond the games you used to play with us… For real money?"

  "I thought I'd found a shortcut to an easy cash flow. For a while, I really had." His eyes are twinkling a little more than they should be while he tells me these things. And maybe he realizes it because he drops his gaze and the next time he looks up, his expression is sober. "But you throw in a predisposition for some nasty drink habits, and things got out of control in ways I'd wake up the next day and not even remember. But I kept going back. I couldn't stop."

  "But you didn't… I mean, I never—"

  "Suspected any of this?" he asks. "You'd be surprised, girlie, how easy it is to keep things from people who aren't looking for them. Especially when I'd been able to keep up a good face for my sons their entire lives." He breaks off, looking distant for a moment. "Not as much anymore."

  "So you took the money to gamble," I say, and for the first time I'm actually, truly stung with disappointment. It seems so…trivial. Like maybe it didn't matter to him that I was in his life, that he was hurting my family.

  Then he says, "No. I took the money to pay back the debt I accrued, because the people I owed threatened to take it out on my sons."

  I sit back, needing the chair to steady me. Because holy shit. "Jesus, Brock."

  "I know." His face falls; he looks so ashamed. "I fucked up. Bad. But it didn't give me the right to break your parents' trust. To break your trust."

  I don't know what to say. I can't process how I feel. Sick. Sad. Relieved all three of them are okay. Or, alive, anyway.

  Then I look at Brock and he's grabbed his coffee and is chugging so quickly there's no way he's not wishing it was something harder. Suddenly, I know exactly what I feel.

  Crushed for him.

  And I know what to say. "It was four years ago, and it doesn't change a thing regarding how I feel about you."

  He lowers the mug, slowly. "Girlie, I'm just so sorry." His voice breaks, and it almost kills me.

  It's easy to forgive him when it's so clear he's never forgiven himself. "Thank you, Brock, for apologizing. But I don't care about any of it. I'm sorry you found yourself in such a horrible position. And I'm sorry my mom's such a bitch and forced you out of town."

  I expect his face to relax, but he levels me with a stern gaze—one he used so sparingly back in the day, when I'd done something to make him mad. "I appreciate the sentiment, but I think you need to take a long hard look at the facts."

  "I don't care about the facts. You're—"

  "You say I found myself in that position? Quinn, I put myself there. I could be in jail right now, and the only reason I'm not is because your mother didn't press charges when she could have. I owe her. More than just money."

  He doesn't get it, though. I lean forward, toward him. "The only reason she didn't press charges was to keep me and Sawyer apart. It wasn't out of any sort of benevolence, trust me."

  "No. You trust me. She called me just yesterday to tell me she knew I was back in town, and we worked out a payment plan that's much more flexible than I deserve."

  My jaw snaps open so wide it nearly lands in my lap. "What?"

  "She's not my biggest fan, and she made it quite clear—not that I blame her. But I came back to town knowing full well she could press charges if she found out. But she isn't. So give your mama a little more credit."

  "I'm not…" I trail off because I don't even know what I'm trying to say. "I'm not…sure I can. I'm having trouble wrapping my head around this."

  "Wrap your head around this, then. What I did was wrong. These past four years have been hard, but still much more pleasant than I deserved. I don't care what your mom's motives were. I just care that I've not spent all this time where I rightly should have been—behind bars."

  "But Jess…" More trailing off. I take a sip of coffee to cover up the fact that I'm starting to sound like an idiot. "Jess is such a…"

  "Bonehead?" Brock finishes for me.

  "No offense, but yeah." At least that, I almost say.

  "Imagine what he'd be like if his daddy was in jail."

  I can't believe that thought hasn't crossed my mind before now. "I don't want to imagine Jess that way. You either."

  "You don't want to imagine me what way?"

  I spin in the chair. Jess is behind me, looking tired. And pissed.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  QUINN

  "DAD," JESS SAYS. "Whatever she's saying, it's not—"

  "Jess," I say. "I'm not saying anything you need to worry about."

  He glances at me, suspicion—and more than a little fear—passing across his features. "Then what are you doing here?"

  He's nervous I'll tell Brock about his drunken almost-drowning experience. But I told Sawyer, and Sawyer's already taking care of it. That's enough. I'm not here to get him in more trouble. "I'm here to speak with you."

  "Why?" If attitudes could punch, his would be giving me a black eye.

  I glance at Brock and then back at Jess. "Maybe we can go into your room?"

  Then I cringe because it sounds weird, me asking a sixteen-year-old boy to hang out in his room.

  But Brock says, "Go ahead. You want some coffee, Jess?" His tone is light, easy, as though the conversation we've just been having doesn't weigh at least a ton.

  "No." Another scowl. This time directed at Brock instead of me, but Brock ignores it, just grabs a remote and turns on the news. "We'll talk more whenever you'd like, girlie," he says, winking at me. Like he has the same old faith in me he always did. Like he thinks I'll be able to get through to his funny little knucklehead son.

  Like maybe he doesn't know Jess's issues go so much deeper than that.

  I wonder if he has any idea how scared Jess used to be that he killed his own mother. How certain he probably still is that he did so. I study Jess a second longer, a second harder. He's tense, coiled, and so angry. At me. At life. Probably a combination. And suddenly I'm a little mad at Brock—for someone who has so much insight to his own mistakes, he doesn't seem to have much when it comes to Jess. And I'm a little mad at Sawyer, because he should've worked harder to make Jess feel…I don't know. Important, maybe.

  And I'm a little mad at myself.

  More than a little.

  Jess was twelve and depending on me and I let him down.

  Now he's sixteen and clom
ping back to his room, and I follow him, noting the stark difference between it and the rest of the apartment. Pigsty is too clean a word. There's trash everywhere and a faint rank odor. He drops onto his bed, which is rumpled and covered with halfway folded T-shirts, facing me with a stony and still-tired expression.

  "Did you sleep under all of those?" The question just slips out.

  "I know why you're here, so just get it over with."

  "Um… Okay." The only other place to sit is a chair piled with crumpled fast-food wrappers and tissues that look…a little stiffer than maybe they would if they were filled with snot. He scoffs at whatever he sees in my expression. Then his eyes slide to his closet and the sneer falls from his face, his cheeks turning red.

  Gross.

  Gross, gross. I bet he's got dirty magazines in there.

  Oh, gross. I do not want to think about Jess and dirty magazines and dirty tissues and just… Ew.

  I also don't want to touch anything that would require clearing the chair. So I stand and lean against his closed door. "Jess—"

  "It wasn't my idea. Just so you know." His sneer's back.

  "What?" Was I ever this confusing as a teenager? Probably. Actually, definitely. Especially after Sawyer left. I probably didn't make sense for at least half a year. "What wasn't your idea?"

  He blinks. Looks away. Looks back. "To move here again."

  "I'm not upset you're back, Jess. I'm happy to see you."

  "That's bullshit."

  "It's not. But I know why you must think that. I—"

  "You wouldn't even look at me that day on the beach."

  Now I blink, processing. "The day you almost drowned…? I didn't have any clue you were there until you were in the ocean—and your back was to me there. I would've said something. I would've hugged you. I would've—"

  "You didn't know I was there? Some lifeguard you are."

  He…has a point. I should've known he was there, on the beach, before he got in the water. "You're right."

  "I know." So much attitude. So much teenager.

  So much hurting. On both our parts. "Well, I'm looking at you now."