Her expression is clear.
She’s not a fan.
Nori wants to dive, to make it to the Olympics, but she doesn’t want the attention. The press. She just wants to compete and let her athleticism speak for itself.
I send a text back.
Psh, enjoy the spotlight, girl. Before you become like my dad, spending your time talking about the golden years.
My phone vibrates with a response.
I don’t want my face all over the Internet!
I don’t mention that if she makes the Olympics, she’s probably going to have to make public social media accounts to share her journey with the people. Not to mention her face will be on televisions around the world during the games. Instead I settle for something equally as true.
Haha, miss you. Come home soon!
I send the text as I walk into the bakery to get my usual order of cream puffs and croissants before heading home. The sweets provide a cover if my parents wake up early and wonder where I am.
I’m nineteen and still act like I’m in high school. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to walk through that front door without having to lie about where I was.
After placing the blue box on the kitchen’s island, I head to the coffee maker. Surfing is like my natural coffee, the adrenaline acting as a wake up call, but natural or not, I still need my caffeine fix.
The rich, earthy aroma fills the kitchen. My mouth salivates as I inhale the decadent scent.
Caffeine, come to me.
I begin to fill up my mug as my mother makes her morning debut. She’s wearing linen sleep pants, slippers, and a plush, fuzzy robe. “Morning, sweetie.”
“Morning,” I mumble as she kisses my cheek. She grabs her own mug, filling it almost to the brim.
Rule number one in the Lawson household: no conversations until everyone has had their first cup of coffee.
With my drink in hand, I settle on a bar stool, bringing my knees to my chest. In front of me sits the latest edition to Rip Current, a popular surf magazine. The person on the cover has me rolling my eyes.
Sebastian “Bash” Cleaton is the lucky surfer of the month. Not surprising. He has graced the cover a few times already.
But that’s what happens when you are the hottest surfer of the generation.
Not my words, I swear. They were the words on his first cover of Rip Current. It was a part of their Sexy September feature. Or something like that.
The guy has risen to fame in the surfing world because of his talent, but thanks to social media, he’s become more famous for his looks. More popular than he probably thought possible.
His skin is like mine, sun-kissed from always being outside. His brown hair is artfully messy. Like instead of him running his fingers through it, he had a stylist perform the task for him. He’s wearing his signature expression: a pout with hooded eyes.
Brit has dubbed it his “bedroom look”.
Yeah, it’s hot. He’s hot.
My thumb brushes along my mouth for a drool check. It comes back dry. Good, good.
I want to be different than the rest of his admirers. I want to find him ugly, but I don’t.
His arrogance, on the other hand, is enough for me to not have fantasies about him. Yet, my curiosity always wins. I flip open to the interview section, wondering what he has to say in this issue—
“It’s weird.”
My eyes snap to my mom, who is on the opposite side of the island, a tall coffee mug held loosely in her left hand, her wedding rings sparkling under the kitchen light. “What is?”
“You,” she says before taking another sip.
“Gee, just what every girl wants to hear from their mother.” Sarcasm is thick in my words.
“Don’t be a smartass.” She smiles, the expression full of warmth.
“Can’t help it, Mom,” I tell her, grinning. “It’s who I am. Accept me and love me anyway.”
“Always.” She kisses my forehead before she shakes her head. “It’s just still weird seeing you up before ten.”
I bite my lip, looking down, not uttering a word. Secrets. My head is full of secrets.
When her gaze becomes too much, I just shrug, taking a sip of my drink. Mom stays in the kitchen for a little longer, throwing together a bowl of granola and yogurt, before she walks to the back porch.
I watch as the door closes behind her before reaching for my coffee and magazine, heading toward my room. I’ve got some lounging and reading to do.
My house is pretty big, a small mansion by some standards. A two-story equipped with an attic—somewhat of a rarity in Florida—and five sets of stairs, each one leading to a different section of the second floor. Perhaps it’s too big for three people, but growing up it was always full of family and friends so it never felt empty.
I walk out of our kitchen to the hidden stairwell behind the pantry.
As I climb the stairs slowly, my fingers run along the bluish-gray paint that decorates the walls, with pictures of my childhood adorning them.
One of my favorites is of me sitting on a hot pink bike with a white leather seat, training wheels attached to the back tire. On my head is a matching helmet that has two braided pigtails poking out from underneath it. A smile carved between my lips, highlighting two missing front teeth. Behind me, with one arm on the handlebar and the other on the seat, is my dad. His auburn hair is shaved almost as close to the scalp as Geer’s, with teeth so white I used to swear they sparkled. In the picture, he’s smiling down at me, the corners of his eyes crinkling with adoration.
I was about four in that picture, and the way my father treats me now is pretty much the same. I’m his little girl.
Which is why my accident hit him so hard. No matter what is said, he can’t be swayed.
One day, I know I’ll have to tell him. Tell both my parents, especially if I want to go after my dreams.
But not today.
Not tomorrow.
Going after what I want won’t happen until my bravery outweighs my fear of disappointment.
A VACATION IS SUPPOSED TO be relaxing, right? Or is it only relaxing for a certain period of time? Did I max out my quota?
Twenty days.
Twenty fucking days of doing absolutely nothing.
I am about to go up the wall.
I should be in a state of bliss. My first vacation in almost a decade and I hate myself for feeling this way. Maybe I’m just too much of a workaholic to know what it’s like to relax.
Surfers are known for being chill, and I like to think that, for the most part, I am. But I seriously doubt that other pros have a personal life as stressful as mine. If they do, I bet their asses wouldn’t know how to unwind either.
For the first week, I tried to get up on my board every morning. But each day I felt less and less motivated. The first two days consisted of me floating on it, letting wave after wave pass me by. By day three I had to force myself to walk from the sand to the water—something I’ve never experienced in my life. At the end of the week, I gave up going to the beach entirely.
Ever since I was little, the water, as cheesy as it sounds, has called to me. My mother, sister, and I would log countless hours at the beach in the summer. Soaking up sun and digging in the sand.
Some of my earliest memories include my sister putting me on a bodyboard and holding on tight every time a wave carried me back to shore.
After that, it was game over. I wanted more bodyboarding, more time in the water, and eventually that lead me to surfing.
Surfing has never felt like a job. It’s more than that. It’s my passion. But what happens when the thing you love turns into the thing you hate? What do you do then?
For me, the answer was easy. I ran. Or rather, I flew.
One day I woke up and just had enough. Enough of the pressure. Enough of the fizzling fear that the fiery passion I once had burning inside me got snuffed out like water over a fire.
I packed a bag and two of my boards, changed my bank accoun
t records so only I had access to them, and left. Flying from one side of America to the other. I didn’t regret the choice for a second while the plane was in the air, but when the wheels dropped down and the plane was at the gate, I had a huge moment of what the fuck did I just do?
I flew into West Palm, but I knew no one in town. I had no place to stay. I didn’t even have a car to get anywhere. The rental place only had cars that were too small to fit my boards.
So while I waited for the baggage claim carousel to come to life, I tried to think of a plan. None that got very far before I remembered I did know someone. A friend I met on the surf circuit a few years ago. One of the only guys I’ve kept in touch with over the years.
I found his contact and hit call, hoping he was awake at—I pulled the phone away from my ear—two-thirty in the morning. And if he was awake at this time, please let him be sober.
“Yo!” Voices in the background muffled his words. Well. He was definitely awake. It was too loud and hard to comprehend what words were shouted, but they sounded foreign. Maybe Spanish? But it was difficult to tell if he was at a party or liked to watch his movies on the highest volume.
“It’s Bash.” I didn’t have time for small talk, but it felt wrong to just come out and ask for his help.
“Dude, I know. These funny little things we’re talking on are called smartphones and they have caller I.D.” I could feel him rolling his eyes. “What’s up, man?”
“Are you busy?” No sooner than the question was asked, a girly scream rang in my ear and I had to pull the phone away. Oh fuck, he wasn’t—he had better not be fucking a chick while on the phone.
“Shh, angel.” Oh for fuck’s sake. Dez whispered to the screaming girl before saying to me, “Nah man. Just chilling with family. What’s up?”
Hanging out with family at two-thirty in the morning—
You know what, I didn’t want to know. I got to the point of why I was calling. “I need a ride.”
After telling him where I was, Dez ended the call with nothing more than a gotcha, arriving at the airport within an hour. He didn’t ask questions. Instead, Dez brought me to his house, letting me crash in his roommate’s room, who was away on vacation with his family. Still, he didn’t ask questions. Not even when I asked for his help with finding a place to stay for a while.
Within the first few days of being in Florida, Dez’s mom, Alma, helped me find the rental that I’ve been staying in for the past fifteen days. It’s nice. Located on the water with a lot of space, more space than I need, and practically barren, aside from the bare minimum of furniture.
I’m sprawled out on the couch with the blinds shut and an arm thrown over my eyes, surrounded by darkness. I don’t know what time it is or how long I’ve been out here, but today hasn’t been one of my better days.
My mind is in the dark, swirling farther and farther down the abyss and all I want to do is sleep. All I want is to be alone. I haven’t left the house at all today or talked to anyone in the past two.
Yesterday when I woke up, I felt off but tried to push it away, tried to ignore it. But waking up this morning, I knew today was going to be another bad day.
I’ve been like this my entire life, but within the past year, it’s now taken another form. The bottle of pills sits unopened on the counter behind me, but I can’t bring myself to take them. So I tolerate the bad days.
I groan as I hear my front door open. The downside to not picking up my phone today is that I can’t text my one and only friend in this town to fuck off and not come over.
Something he likes to do more than three times a week.
Sometimes he comes by three times a day. Needy bastard.
“Dude!” Dez calls as he walks down the hallway. “Why the fuck is it so dark in here?”
I groan, not bothering to answer. Dez walks further into the house, stomping like an angry elephant brigade, until he’s in the living room.
“Leave, Dez.”
“Nah, bro.” He’s standing above me now. “Get out of this—” he gestures to my body, “—whatever the hell this is, because you and I have plans tonight.”
“I’ll pass.” That’s usually what I do when I get like this. Being around people can sometimes help, but I already planned on going to bed early, thinking of the promise I made to myself.
“Nope. No can do.” He walks around me and I know what he’s going for. The bottle of pills jingle as he walks over to me and shakes out the allotted amount. “You made me promise that if you send an SOS, I’m to come over and provide a distraction.” He thrusts the pills at me. “Here. Take these.”
“I don’t remember saying I needed help.”
“Your silence was the ask for help, dude. Now pills.”
I vaguely remember this conversation. We were pretty drunk and I was feeling truthful. Dez knows a lot about my reasons for getting out of California. He even said that if I were looking for something more permanent here, his mom would help me find a place.
“Fine.” I pop the pills into my mouth, swallowing them dry. I left one mother only to gain another.
Honestly, when I told Dez everything, I thought he would forget. He’s chiller than me, always looking for fun and likes to party. I never thought he would take his promise seriously. But it’s days like today that I’m glad he does.
This is the second time he’s come over to find me like this.
Last time, he was so much like a parent that I joked he was hiding a kid somewhere in his house and he almost shut down on me completely. Joke was not well received.
“Good. Now get your ass up and get dressed. I’m fucking starving and need to grab something to eat before we head out.”
“Where are we going?” I swing my legs to the floor, putting my elbows on my knees and rubbing my eyes roughly.
“Nope. Can’t tell you that, dude.” Dez chuckles as he walks back into my kitchen and starts digging around in my fridge.
Not bothering to waste time getting an answer out of him, I stalk up the stairs, into the bathroom, and hope that tonight isn’t going to make me regret everything tomorrow.
Turns out, Dez wasn’t planning on leaving my house. Dressed to leave in shorts, a long sleeve shirt, flip flops, and a snapback, I walk down the stairs to find Dez reclining on the couch with a plate of food on his lap.
Spread out on my coffee table are containers of wings and two large boxes of pizza. There’s a game playing on the TV.
I give Dez a look as I reach for a slice of pizza.
“What?” he asks, his mouth full of food. He shakes his head, laughing before grabbing his beer. “Oh yeah. I didn’t know this game was on. We’re staying in.”
I shake my head, not commenting on his change of plans. I sit my ass on the floor and eat the pizza.
I didn’t need to go out, I just needed to not be alone, something Dez knew without me having to say anything.
Maybe calling Dez at the airport those short weeks ago gave me something besides a ride to my vacation destination.
Maybe I’m learning what it’s like to have an actual friend. One that gives a damn.
“DON’T YOU DARE EAT THAT piece of steak, Jason!” The sound of Brit’s mom yelling travels outside their house as the doors to the SUV open. Voices collide. Noises clash. A mental picture of the kitchen in disarray flashes, with dishes flying and food splattered on the walls.
My parents roll their eyes; I grin as we walk to the door.
“Heyooo!” I call, walking through their living room, towards the kitchen, with Geer’s pan of brownies. I stop in the entryway and watch.
Jason and April Jackson are in an intense stare down in the middle of the kitchen. Light gray-speckled granite lines the counters with white cabinets hovering above; their kitchen makes a beautiful battlefield for a showdown. As the oven timer goes off, neither of the Jacksons blink an eye. Their laser-focus gazes are on each other.
“If Jason is sampling the steak, then I sure as hell want a piece too.” I wa
lk further into the kitchen.
That breaks their stare down.
April turns her storm cloud colored eyes toward me, making me take an involuntary step back from the heat of her glare. Jason grins at me in victory as he bites into the piece of meat.
“Emery Lawson, why do you always take his side?” April asks as she points a big spoon at me.
I shrug as I make my way over to give her a hug. “He’s the one who gives me beer when y’all get drunk. He kind of solidified my unwavering support.”
“Get out of my kitchen before I whack you with my spoon!” she yells, not liking my answer.
Brit and I have been best friends since birth. Our dads grew up next to each other, practically brothers. Jason is an only child and my dad just has a younger sister. Even as my dad got famous, Jason was always right by his side. How they met our moms is a little hazy since neither of them remember either night.
Ah, young love. What a beautiful thing.
Our dads joke that Brit and I are like them when they were growing up, but worse. Which might be true. We do tend to get in a lot of trouble. Our wild fathers spawned even rowdier daughters.
Me more so than Brit, but she’s always along for the ride.
One time we started a marshmallow fight in my kitchen when we were having a sleepover and my parents woke up to find our kitchen decorated with sticky lumps of fluff and we blamed the mess on the dog.
I had no dog at the time.
My trusty ole partner in crime.
I find said partner in crime in her bedroom with her eyes glued to her laptop, her camera sitting beside it. She never goes anywhere without it and no matter where she is, or what she’s doing, the thing is always an arm’s length away from her.
I sneak up behind her, quietly, closing her computer screen as fast as I can.
“Hey!” she yells, yanking her fingers back to avoid getting them squished. “What if I was on the very cusp of finding the cure to cancer and now all my research is lost? Gone forever!”
“You don’t even like science, brah.”
Break Line Page 2
