by Syms, Carly
"Rach, that was great."
I spin around in my seat. "I thought you left."
John's standing behind me and shakes his head. "You kidding? Alex would shoot me if I went home and didn't see you win."
I smile, grateful not to be alone for this even if I'll never admit it to anyone. And truthfully, having Alex's brother with me feels even more right than being by myself.
"Thanks. How'd the other girls look?"
His forehead creases. "Hard to say. Thought one was great and the other was sort of meh. But I was mostly watching you."
"Please tell me it was the blonde who was crappy."
Before he can say anything, the PA system crackles to life and a silence falls over the stretch of beach.
"Ladies and gentlemen." Headset Guy addresses the crowd. "Thank you all for coming out for the 25th Annual Invitational here in lovely Southern California for the first time. I have no doubt we'll back soon. We had a heck of a day and a lot of worthy competitors. But you don't want to hear from me. Without further ado, I introduce your day's judges: Jeanne McMichael, Larry Stewart and Martin Potter."
A smattering round of applause fills the air as the three middle-aged judges trickle onto the platform and wave to the audience.
Jeanne McMichael -- a legendary former surfer -- picks up a microphone.
"Thank you, Todd, and thank you, Southern California!" More cheers. "We know you don't care what we've got to say other than who won, so we won't drag this out. First, Larry with the men's winners."
The graying man with tortoiseshell glasses takes the mic from Jeanne and unfolds a white piece of paper he'd been holding in his sweaty hands.
He runs through the men's winners, but I tune him out. Without Alex surfing, I really don't care who takes home the top prize. I don't even know if any locals are competing today, and a guy from the south of France wins the $125,000.
My stomach tightens as Larry passes the microphone over to Martin Potter so he can get on with the important stuff -- like whether or not I'm going to college in the fall.
"Thanks, Larry," Martin says, clearing his throat. "It was a fantastic day of sea, surf and sun." I roll my eyes. "But we're not done yet! We still get to announce our fantastic female champion. In third place and taking home a ten-thousand-dollar prize is..."
I swallow hard, trying to push back the bile that's rising up in my throat. I want to hunch over in my chair, curl up into a little ball and stick my fingers in my ears. I can't do this. I can't handle it. It's too much for me, too soon, I feel sick. It's going to be me. I'm going to finish third and Piper's going to beat me, but at least she'll be flying back to Australia and I can get rid of her on my beach and --
"...Piper Monaghan!"
Oh.
I sit up a little straighter in the chair. The sickness isn't gone, not by a long shot, but I'm suddenly feeling a heck of a lot better.
And I'm pretty sure my smile stretches from here to the moon.
I stare at Piper as she walks, shakily, toward the judges and accepts her prize. She smiles when the photographer's camera flashes in her face, but I know that look, the emptiness in her eyes and the forced curve of her lips. I've worn it well over the last two months.
John reaches out and grabs onto my shoulder. This is it. Time to forget Piper.
"And now," Martin continues, obviously relishing the drama of the moment, "for your grand prize winner. It was very close. So close, in fact, that we even considered holding a tiebreaker, but in the end, one person scored two decimal points higher than the other, and so she will be our winner."
Martin pauses, and I want to punch him in the face for drawing this out so painfully long.
"Congratulations...Carrie Porter! Our grand prize winner for the 25th Annual Women's Invitational!"
John squeezes my shoulder once, but I barely feel it. I'm staring forward, right at Martin Potter, and watching as Carrie Porter squeals and rushes up to the stage to claim the prize I'd known belonged to me.
I lost.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I lost.
And it's okay.
No, really. I think it's okay.
My breathing is coming out a little funny and I need to possibly put my head between my knees and the smile on my face might be turning into a grimace, but other than all of this, everything's just peachy.
I'm not the winner of the Invitational.
Dangit, I've never even heard of Carrie Porter until today.
But she's just kicked my butt, and honestly, I'm fine with it.
Second place still comes with a pretty big jackpot, more than enough, I think, to get me started at college, and that's all I need.
But it's not why I did this.
"Rachel. Rachel. Hello, you home in there?"
John's kneeling down in front of me and his face starts out fuzzy but slowly comes into focus.
"What?" I say. "Yeah, I'm fine."
He smiles, but still looks worried. "Well, that's good, but I didn't ask yet if you're okay," he says with a small chuckle.
"I am, though," I insist. "I am."
"Rachel West, if you could come up here please," Martin says into the microphone.
Crap. I've forgotten that I'm going to have to trot up there as the loser and smile for the cameras with Martin and Jeanne and Larry and Piper and Carrie. Fabulous.
John helps pull me to my feet and I make my way up to the stage to applause and cheers.
"Your second place winner in the Invitational -- Rachel West!" Martin announces with an exaggerated flourish of his arm.
I smile politely and give a little wave to the crowd. Pretty sure my introduction is the loudest, since I'm the only local to place this year, so at least I have that going for me.
Martin hands me one of those dumb oversized checks that no one ever knows what to do with for the amount of $75,000. It's no $125 grand, but it'll be more than enough. We pose for a few pictures, then me with all the judges, then me with Carrie and Piper, who does a great little tap dance routine to ensure she's not standing next to me, and then all of us together, until finally, blessedly, it's all over.
I sigh as I'm packing up my bag and getting together all my stuff to head home.
There's an after-party tonight at a different resort downtown, but I doubt I'll be there.
I need some time to just be me now.
"That was incredible. Hope you'll get me out there surfing like that one day."
I freeze as I'm taking out the safety pins holding my competition number to my wetsuit.
Slowly, I turn around, and sure enough, here he is.
"Hey."
"Hi." Walker pulls a toothpick from between his lips and readjusts the shoulder straps of his big canvas painting bag.
"Piper did really well, too. Tell her congrats from me when you see her."
He does this little smirking thing with his lips that infuriates and intrigues me all at once. "You'll have to tell her yourself. We're not friends."
I raise my eyebrows. "That's a new twist," I say, trying to keep my voice even and diplomatic, but he only laughs.
"You can say what you're thinking, Rach."
"Saw her true colors, didn't ya?"
He nods. "Something like that."
"So then why'd you come today?"
"Isn't it obvious? To watch you surf."
"Even after the other night?"
"Don't think I'm here to pressure you or anything like that," he says. "I know what you told me. I get it, and I can live with it, even if I don't want to. But I have something for you."
"What, like a present or something?" I ask coyly.
"You could say that."
"Show me!"
He laughs. "Take it easy. Is this all it takes to get you to smile around me again? Bring you presents?"
"It's a start," I tease.
Walker sets the bag down on the ground and kneels in front of it, and I study him as he moves, and it makes my heart hurt, watching him now.<
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Why is it so easy with him? Why can't it be terrible and hard and not worth making an effort at all? Why does the sight of him still make my insides go a little tingly like they've been zapped with electricity?
Because I meant what I said the other night.
"I started this before -- well, before," he says, and I know exactly what he means. "I wasn't going to give it to you after what happened, but it didn't look right sitting in my room. It belongs to you."
I don't say anything as he slides one of the canvases I saw on the boat a few weeks ago out of the bag. It's the brightly-colored one, with the reds, oranges and yellows.
It's finished now.
And it's beautiful.
"That's the canoe," I say lamely, and he nods, looking nervous as he holds it up for me to look at.
"You said how much you love it and I kind of thought it'd be nice to have something like it with you all the time. Sorry if I crossed a line or something. I don't want to step on your memories with Alex, but -- "
"No, stop, hush, you're ruining it," I tell him, unable to take my eyes off the painting. "You did this. You."
"For you."
"It's perfect," I whisper. "Perfect."
Walker has to act fast to get the canvas out of the line of fire because I'm suddenly running toward him and flinging my arms around his warm, comfortable, familiar body. He hugs me back and when I press my lips against his, he returns the kiss, slow and sweet at first, but deeper and hungrier later.
"I can't give you what you deserve," I say when his mouth moves away from mine. "I meant that."
Walker presses his finger against my lips. "But you give me everything I need."
I stare into his green eyes. "Is that enough for you?"
He doesn't say anything for one horrible, long minute, but then his face breaks into the smile I've come to love so much. "Rachel, as long as you're with me, I don't care about anythin' else." He pauses. "Do you remember when you asked me if I think one day can change everything and I said no?"
I nod. "And I told you that you were stupid."
He smiles. "You were right. Because the day that changed it all for me was the day I hit you in the face with the frisbee. It's never been the same since then."
And then I'm falling into his kiss one more time.
Maybe we're not perfect. Maybe it's going to take some time for me to truly open up to Walker the way I want to, but now I know, I'm nothing if I don't try.
But if there's something I'm absolutely certain of, it's that when I'm with Walker, one thing is true:
I've never felt more alive.
