Rebound

by Noelle August

He grins at the image of me astride Zenith, pounding through the Santa Barbara surf after one of our last competitions. Seeing my horse, the best I ever had, makes me want to rehabilitate another one, to try to re-create our almost magical connection. I love Persephone, my current rescue, but she won’t let me ride her, and I miss that feeling of being so in sync with another living thing.

  I try not to squirm as Adam takes in the rest of my profile, but finally I reach for the iPad. “As you can see, Mr. Blackwood, I’ve already fulfilled my professional obligations and filled in a profile. Let’s do you.”

  He arches an eyebrow. “By all means,” he says, grinning. “Let’s do me.”

  I feel myself blush. “Well, at least you let me go first,” I say, thrilling a little at the feeling of walking up to some line. Flirting. It feels safe, because I know it can’t go anywhere, and dangerous, because I so wish it could.

  “I like to think I’m a gentleman.” Again, his gaze falls on me, giving me a little jolt, and then it moves away to focus on the iPad. He swipes around a bit and then slides the tablet over to me.

  His profile’s up, but he hasn’t added photographs. It’s just his name, the default image of a blue boomerang to denote his gender, and a dozen generic details on the page.

  “Well, you certainly didn’t apply the famous Adam Blackwood determination to this profile,” I tell him. “Why not?”

  “Like I said, I don’t have trouble getting dates.”

  “So I’ve read. But still, as president of the company and the creator of the Boomerang brand, I’m surprised that you haven’t filled out a full profile. Not even a photograph.”

  He grins. “People know what I look like.”

  For some reason, he’s avoiding the issue, like he’s avoided filling in the profile. And like he’s been avoiding a direct look into my eyes. Why?

  Something tells me now’s not the time to probe, so I launch into the Boomerang questions. The profile already tells me he was raised in Newport, Rhode Island, to entrepreneurial parents, that he loves to surf, and that he’s got one brother, Grey.

  I scan through the questions until I find a juicy one, and then I take the plunge. “How many sexual partners have you had?”

  Again, he gives me that amazing half-smile, and his eyes light with amusement. “Today, you mean?”

  “Funny. But I think it means lifetime record.”

  He shrugs. “Pass.”

  “Pass?”

  “Yes, let’s go to the next question.”

  “Because it’s so many, or because you don’t kiss and tell?”

  He grins. “Yes.”

  He answers the questions about his favorite book—a tie between Good to Great and all the books in The Belgariad series. Then I learn that he loves The White Stripes, French cuisine, and, of course, surfing. The most exotic place he’s traveled is Tangier, and his favorite time of year is winter.

  “I would have thought summer for the surfing,” I say.

  “I like to ski, too.”

  I nod. These bits and pieces are interesting, but they’re leaving me hungry for more.

  “Speed round,” I tell him, thinking maybe I can dazzle him into giving me something substantive.

  “Fire away.”

  “Frugal or spendy?”

  He smiles. “Neither.”

  “Lefty or right-handed.” I can’t believe I haven’t noticed. But then he seemed to have very proficient use of both hands during our last encounter.

  “Southpaw, all the way.”

  “Chocolate or vanilla.”

  “Mint.”

  I smile. “Me too.” I scroll through the questions, looking for something with a bit more depth. Finally, I find something. “‘Heaven is for real,’ or ‘that’s all, folks?’”

  His expression clouds. “No clue.”

  “Come on; what do you think? You must have some opinion, even if it’s a third option.”

  “Why don’t we save the rest of this for another time,” he says, in a brittle tone. “I want to take you by the new Blackwood Entertainment complex. I think you’re going to be impressed.”

  I miss the Adam who talked about the noise in his head, the way that surfing brought him peace. I want to talk to that person again, the one I couldn’t help putting my arms around. Not this one, with the canned responses that aren’t responses at all.

  I save Adam’s profile, still mostly empty, turn off my iPad, and slide it into my purse. “Okay,” I tell him. “Blackwood Entertainment. Let’s go.”

  We enjoy a half hour of prickly silence as he drives us to an office compound a little north of downtown. Construction vehicles line the gravel drive, and a couple of men in hard hats sit on the gate of a pickup truck, eating sandwiches.

  “Hey, big man,” one of them calls.

  Adam gets out of the car and comes around to my side to help me out of the low passenger seat. I take his hand, and there’s that warmth, that tingle. Not fireworks, like the other night. But a spark, at least, which comforts me after the chill of our exchange at the restaurant.

  He holds onto me, directing me around a swirling eddy of dust, cigarette butts, and fast-food wrappers. And even though we’re awkward together now, I’d gladly step into a puddle of quicksand to keep his hand in mine just a bit longer. A completely unproductive thought, I know, but a girl’s allowed the contents of her own mind, isn’t she?

  “This place could use a clean-up,” he tells the men, and there’s something perfect in the way he says it. Confident. Assured of results. But respectful too. I don’t know any other twenty-three-year-old with that kind of ease and authority. Sure, I can fake it—sometimes—but it seems like he sprang from the womb with a briefcase and a business plan.

  “We’re on it,” the man says.

  “Appreciate it,” Adam replies, and gives a brief nod in my direction. “I’ve got a VIP with me today. Need to impress.”

  Fishing a couple of hard hats out of the bed of the truck, Adam hands one to me and says, “Come on. I want to give you the tour.”

  Sunlight glints on the tempered glass window as we approach the building—which is vast and made of two cubelike buildings joined by a short open breezeway. In the foreground stretches a long courtyard, with benches and a small reflecting pool in the middle. Grass stirs in the breeze, and the scent of smoke blows in from the city.

  “Is this all yours?” I ask, following him along a path to a set of glass double doors.

  “We’re on a five-year lease,” Adam says. “But I’m hoping to buy outright at that point. I think we’ll easily make use of this space. Wait until you see what we have planned.”

  He picks up his pace, and I have to dash along behind him. It’s clear he’s not being rude. He’s excited, and that excitement is propelling him toward his imagined future. A future that my father and I can help make happen for him.

  Reaching the door, he turns and waits for me to catch up. He doesn’t look at me exactly, and I find myself wanting to take his face in my hands to look right into his gray eyes, which look light in the sunshine, like the color of water rushing over rocks.

  I don’t want there to be tension between us. We have to work together. It has to be okay. And I know it can be.

  “Hold on a second,” I say, as he pulls the door open. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “Am I?” he asks, giving me a puzzled look.

  “Um . . . yeah,” I say. “You’re supposed to carry me over the threshold. My father arranged it.”

  Adam throws back his head and laughs. And just like that, the tension drops away—or at least recedes. When he looks at me again, his eyes sparkle with appreciation, and I know this is another moment I’m going to miss someday.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, and his voice is warmer than it’s been all day. “Total oversight on my part.”

  He hesitates a moment, body swaying just a fraction toward mine. For a moment my heart stops, thinking he might try to scoop me into his arms the way h
e did at the party. But then he steps aside and gestures for me to pass in front of him. “I’ll do better next time,” he says.

  Inside, we find a frenzy of activity. Workers haul around buckets of paint, shuffle along on drywall stilts. The space is a mess. Half the walls look like they’re in the process of coming down. Dust stirs in shafts of sunlight, and tarps cover mysterious lumps around the space. Still, the bones are there—bright and modern.

  “Behold the seat of the empire,” Adam says, grinning. He plants the hard hat on my head and gives me an appraising look. “Fetching,” he proclaims.

  I can’t help myself. “Who says ‘fetching’?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. My mom?” Putting on his own hat, he asks, “What do you prefer?”

  “I don’t know,” I tease. “Maybe something more in a ‘dazzling’ or ‘perfect.’”

  “I’m going to stick with ‘fetching,’” he says.

  “Can you use that in a sentence?”

  “Yes,” he says, and a mischievous grin lights up his face. “Someday your father will be fetching my coffee.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. “That’s . . . not likely.”

  “It never is,” he says. “Until it is. I’ve banked on that my whole life.”

  I believe him. And his confidence makes me want so much more of him. “Speaking of my father,” I say, “he asked me to remind you about coming sailing this Sunday. He thinks it’ll be a nice opportunity to socialize.”

  Adam gives me a shrewd look. “To socialize or talk shop? Your father doesn’t strike me as the relaxed type.”

  “True. But he did say socialize.”

  “And you’ll be there too?”

  I nod.

  “Are you bringing someone with you—a date?”

  His question makes me feel pinned, tested somehow. Obviously, if I had someone in my life, I wouldn’t have been all over him in the back of a car the other night. But, it feels pathetic to say the thought never crossed my mind. I decide to split the difference. “I don’t know. I might. You’re . . . free to bring someone too, if you want to.”

  But please don’t want to, I think. Though I know it shouldn’t matter.

  He nods. “Okay, I’ll be there. Or we will. I might bring . . . someone. Julia.”

  I keep my face neutral and tell him that will be fine, but I’m dying to know who she is, what she means to him, whether she’s just a friend to serve as a social buffer or . . . something more.

  He walks me through the space, and we enter the temporary construction office, little more than a couple of tables, a few chairs, and a mini-fridge plugged into the wall.

  There, Adam rolls out a blueprint for me, and with his help I get a glimpse of what the space will become. “Here’s the reception area,” he says, pointing with a ballpoint pen. “Leather couches, plasma screen looping our reel, and a wall of built-in display shelves to house our awards. Clients eat that kind of thing for dinner.”

  “That’s a lot of space for awards,” I say, fighting away a host of noisy questions in my mind.

  Again, he grins. “We’ll need it.”

  He takes me through the rest of the plan, and it’s an ambitious one. All the most modern technology. Full-service production and post-production studios. He points out where the edit bay will be. Client lounges. Dressing rooms for the talent. A giant back deck is planned for staff to blow off steam and as a space to host the kinds of extravagant parties that put you on the map in this town. Words like “cyc wall” and “extendable light grid” come up, and though I only half-understand what he’s talking about, I just listen, swept up again by the excitement in his voice.

  “And this is the coolest thing,” he tells me. “Most of the interior walls of the studio building will be movable and made of this special liquid crystal glass to allow them to block out light in any section, as needed. It’s going to be something.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  But really, I think, he’s amazing. He’s so natural in this setting. So in his element. It reminds me of Ethan out on the soccer field, charging down the field like he’d break through concrete to get possession of the ball.

  And then I remember Ethan standing in the doorway of our bedroom. See the shock and hurt on his face. He had flowers for me—white tulips with just a blush of pink at their edges. I found them later in our kitchen trash.

  The memory sobers me, and I feel myself draw away. I’m listening, but on the outside of the bubble of warmth created by his enthusiasm. Maybe it’s for the best that there’s a Julia. Not that I needed another reason to keep a distance between us, but I’m grateful to have one. I can be cordial; we can do the work we need to do together. But that has to be it. That’s my purpose here. My only purpose. Anything else would be a mistake, and I absolutely refuse to make another one of those.

  Chapter 10

  Adam

  Saturday mornings surf sessions at County Line with Grey are the best part of my week. Usually, we surf the point break, but we’re not up for sharing today and it seems like everyone and his brother, or half-brother in my case, is here. So we take the beach break, which can be mushy and gutless on weaker days.

  Today is not a weak day.

  The rides are incredible, steep and fast, but carrying lots of power. Just how I like them. I pull myself onto my board after surfing yet another spectacular wave and check my diver’s watch. Almost eleven o’clock. Grey and I have been out here since eight. It’s no wonder my arms feel like lead weights.

  Eighty yards out, Grey is just standing up. I watch him carve the face of a wave like he weighs nothing. I do fine out here, but these are his kinds of waves, tailor-made for a fearless nineteen-year-old shredder on a shortboard.

  Grey sees me and rides my way.

  “Adam! Oh no, Adam!” he yells as he draws closer, waving his hands. “Look out! I can’t stop! Look out!”

  He charges right at me. A few non-locals nearby don’t know what to think, especially an older man on a longboard. They’ve seen him surf and know he’s awesome. The best guy on the water. But Grey has a way of making you believe things even when they’re clearly not true.

  With fewer than a dozen feet between us, he cuts back and rides over the break. I have to duck dive under the wave, so I only see the beginning of his backflip into the water.

  We surf for different reasons, Grey and I.

  I come to find peace. He comes to raise hell.

  We surface close together, and he’s laughing. “Did you see that old guy’s face? He thought I was actually going to hit you! What a moron! Like I couldn’t surf circles around that old geezer!”

  “Yeah, the old guy. Moron.”

  Grey shakes his head. “Aw, c’mon, Adam. I wasn’t trying to give him a heart attack.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  “But it’s not like I could actually do it. And I can’t believe you’re ditching me tomorrow,” Grey says, in his classic way of changing subjects with zero warning. The kid barely graduated high school, but his mind’s always churning, going a hundred miles an hour in ten directions at a time. He’s brilliant, but most people can’t tell. They don’t see past the swearing and partying, or the tattoos. That’s how Grey likes it.

  “Have to,” I tell him. “It’s a work thing.”

  “Whatever. Responsibility sucks.” Grey rubs his eyes, bloodshot after three hours in saltwater. We have the same father, so we look the same in a lot of ways, but he’s olive-skinned and darker than me, which makes the signature gray eyes common to all Blackwood men stand out more on him.

  “We need to eat,” he says. “I’m so hungry, I’m about to throw up.”

  “Ten more minutes.” I’m starving too, but I’m not ready to give this up yet. The water’s turning glassy and calm, so I stretch my arms out and hang them off the end of my board.

  “I’ll be at the car,” Grey says and paddles into the next wave.

  I watch him stand up and fly toward shore. Eye color isn’
t the only Blackwood trait we have in common. When our minds are made up, they’re made up.

  A wave of tiredness hits me, a mix of sleepiness and muscle-fatigue. This is the feeling I love. I know I’ll sleep well tonight. Hopefully a full night without nightmares. Without waking up at the crack of dawn with the sound of Chloe’s laughter in my ears.

  I try not to think about the question Alison asked. About what happens after we die. I can’t think about it. Can’t let Chloe seep into more of my waking life.

  Out of the blue, I remember telling Alison what this means to me. The surf. How she’d closed her eyes, imagining it. I wonder if she’s ever tried it.

  I’ve caught myself thinking about her too much this week. Or watching her as she worked at the conference table in my office. Or sitting right next to her during meetings, when there were other seats available. I’ve been observing her. Creating my own Alison Quick profile.

  She dresses to kill. Designer stuff, but she puts some flair into things, managing to look classic and modern at the same time. The only constant in her wardrobe seems to be her diamond “A” studded earrings, which works great. When we talk, I always have somewhere to look.

  She hums to herself when she prepares her coffee—always with cinnamon dusted on top. She talks to her horse trainer every morning and smiles the entire time. She’s good with names—she had everyone in the office down by the second day—but she isn’t exactly friendly with them. Even with her own team, she’s courteous and cordial. It surprises me. She admitted to me that she liked horses better than people at the Gallianos’ party, but all week I’ve seen glimpses of the girl who was spontaneous and sweet that night. And fun and sexy as hell.

  I get the feeling she’s holding back. Catwoman is closer to the real Alison. But why does she hide that side of herself? I catch my train of thought and mentally punch myself. I’ve just spent ten minutes thinking about how much I wish she wasn’t on my mind. Shit.

  As I paddle in, I think of the boating trip tomorrow, spending the day on Graham Quick’s boat to talk shop. That’s going to be special. Me, Alison—and Julia, who I had to invite after I told Alison I’d bring her along. I don’t know why I said it. Maybe the way Alison looked around the new complex, drinking it in, excited. I needed to put more distance between us. Julia had struck me as a solution.