With those parting words, Bash backs away, paddling to the beach. I stay still, floating on my board, and watch as he gets out of the water, walks across the sand, and disappears down the trail.
“Bye, Bash,” I say to the water. Probably for good.
YOU CAN DO BETTER, SEBASTIAN.
Why aren’t you trying harder, Sebastian?
You’re letting yourself get distracted, Sebastian.
Growling, I punch the steering wheel of my truck. Even when I put thousands of miles between us, the voices of my parents follow.
I can’t escape them. Not even when I try running away.
Their voices from years and years of verbal lashings still follow me wherever I go. They’re like my Christmas ghosts, but instead of just the holidays, they’re here all fucking year and I learn nothing valuable from them. There’s nothing to learn when your parents have few redeeming qualities.
At least my mom doesn’t. My dad’s problem is that he doesn’t have a backbone. Doesn’t know how to stand up for himself—or his son.
He’s a spineless coward who hides behind my mother, letting her control everything.
They have drained me dry.
If they came here, I would spiral further down that black hole.
I’m not healthy around them.
After the other day, I’ve been okay. Not good or even better, but I’m doing okay. Last night helped a lot. Being around people that weren’t after anything from me and just wanted to let loose. It felt good to be another face, another body in a crowd and live.
Living instead of existing.
Today, I went out to try and reconnect with the ocean, to see if the feelings would come back to me after leaving months and months ago. That didn’t happen.
Instead, my head is all foggy and as dull as before. I didn’t feel anything in the water until Emery knocked me off my board with her body.
Crashing into the water was like a zap of energy. A recharge. The past seven years of my life were a mundane routine and today was the first day something unexpected happened.
My mood felt lifted and seeing Emery was the cause of the occurrence. She’s like walking sunshine. Even with the sun not fully in the sky, the water was bright around her.
Fuck.
What the fuck was that?
Maybe I’m more tired than I thought.
I’m not a poetic person.
I don’t write sonnets about the sun or make comparisons about smiles to light.
I’m exhausted. Mentally and physically. Dodging calls takes a bigger toll when actively going out of the way to do it. Maybe if I make myself busier, ignoring the parents will be easier.
Distractions.
That’s what I need.
When walking onto the beach earlier, I spied a surfer in the water, but didn’t know it was Emery.
I stopped walking for a moment and just observed.
Watching her was like, well, what she said. Magic. She was in control of the wave. She surfs with a power I not only saw but also felt when she crashed into me.
It seems like we’ve fallen into an unusual greeting, one I don’t mind. I joked about her giving me a bruise, but despite her athletic, lithe body I have more weight on her and she’s lighter than what I lift.
Emery has more passion for surfing than I do. The emotions are visible in her eyes, her actions. Her eyes shine in the water, a brightness that has never touched me. At least, not as purely as it does her.
Running my hands over my face, the two-day scruff scratches at my palms. My eyes are heavy, but my body feels charged.
Lulling my head back, a groan rumbles in my throat. Today’s not the first day I’ve trained on no sleep. I’ve had many of those, but I know I didn’t push myself as hard as I needed to. As hard as I wanted to.
I’ve lost my love for surfing. I’m hoping my time here, in this small coastal town, will help me find that feeling again. To find love in something I’ve lost.
Because if I can’t, I’d have hit my prime before turning twenty-three.
I bang my head against the headrest. Again. Vibrations fill the space as my phone buzzes around in the cup holder. The name on caller I.D. has me stifling another groan. I have about ten seconds to either ignore or answer.
I hesitate too long and my mother is sent to voicemail.
With the phone still in hand, I run my free hand through my hair, messing up the semi-dried locks. The phone vibrates again, revealing that she left a message.
Of course she did.
I roll my eyes, unlocking the screen.
Instead of checking her message, something a good son would do, I open a new text message.
Dez said he wasn’t going to tell me about Emery, but hopefully that doesn’t apply to what I’m about to ask. I text him, asking for a certain sassy girl’s number.
Calm.
Quiet.
Two words I never thought I would have back in my life.
Now that I notice it, the more aware I am of how lacking the two were before. I might not be reconnecting with surfing, but at least my life is gaining more perspective. As much solace as that provides.
It’s a quick drive from the beach spot to my house. I could’ve walked to the beach from behind my house but that hadn’t worked the first week I was here so a change was needed. A different spot, one that holds more promise.
In the short time it took me to get home, my phone went off more times than I was able to keep track of. Checking the notifications in the driveway, the screen reads twenty messages. Only one is from Dez.
The rest are from my mother.
Messages that are still waiting to be heard on my voicemail. I think that racks the total up to thirty-five in the past two days alone. It’s not even eight-thirty yet. A part of me is waiting to see how long I can push that woman until she files a missing person report or hires a P.I.
As cruel as that sounds, I don’t feel bad. My mother is the reason why I needed to get away in the first place. Now that I’m here, I don’t want to go back to the life I lived before.
I might be bored from this vacation but I’m not bored by the idea of a new adventure.
I want to enjoy life, soak up as much as I can.
I might not have accomplished what I wanted today, but tomorrow I get to try again and not without the company of a girl who radiates love of the sport.
Surfing is fun no matter if you go out by yourself or with your friends, but with other people, the activity becomes less lonely.
And I’m exhausted from being lonely.
Many sports are team based, taking more than one person to win in the end. With surfing, the win is between the person on the board and the wave. Every accomplishment is solitary. It gets lonesome.
At least at competitions, there are competitors around. They might be going up against me, but they also go through all the hardships I do. There’s an understanding between us. A bond. It’s when the competition ends, when everyone goes home to train for the next meet, that it really hits me. I’m alone on this journey.
Sure, I have my parents and coach. But they’re more concerned with me winning, holding my titles of the best. It’s not hard to fall into a routine, letting life pass by without noticing. Some people never wake up from it.
One day I did.
When that day hit, I left and came here.
My parents think I’m slacking off.
Even if I am slacking off here, I think I have earned that right. Some time away should be therapeutic for me, but I still feel the same. Like I’m drifting along.
While some days are better, I’m lost in what I really want.
What if surfing isn’t even for me anymore? This is a question I don’t want to know the answer to.
I grab an avocado and put bread in the toaster. As I’m chopping up some fresh fruit, I decide to play the voicemails. Some, at least.
Nobody’s got time for all that.
“Sebastian, it’s your mother calling.” I roll
my eyes. She addresses every message like this, like she doesn’t know I have her number saved in the contacts. “Where are you? Honey, please call me back. We’re worried you’re going to fall behind.” She stresses the last sentence.
I’ve done this for so long, she forgets that this is all second nature. Like I said, a routine.
“We’re worried about you,” she corrects, realizing her mistake. “You haven’t been acting like yourself. I’ve also tried to access your accounts, to make sure you’re not in any trouble, but I couldn’t get in. The banks say you changed your information. Can you text it all to me? I need to borrow some money.” End of message.
It shouldn’t surprise me that my mother didn’t even try to continue to lie about her concern. The only reason she pushes so hard with my surfing is because she wants the money. When I started getting big bucks as a teenager, my parents were in charge of the money.
They thought it was also their money, that they were more entitled to it. They raised me and they were taking back all that they invested in me.
Invested. As if a child is an investment for parents that they need to collect their dues if they become successful.
Turns out, growing up I collected a lot of unknown debt.
My parents don’t work anymore. They live off the money I give them.
Mom likes people under her control, like puppets to her marionette show and I’m acting off script.
The toast pops up and I shake off the message. I had planned on listening to more than one, but she confirms what I already know. The rest of the messages will be the same. All circling back to the money.
I need to find my way back to who I am without their pressuring.
Taking my avocado toast to the wrap-around porch leading out to the pool, I take a bite and send off a text.
Do you surf everyday?
An unknown number is attached to the question.
I look at the text on my phone, without unlocking it, feeling my heartbeat spike and dip, like a rollercoaster ride, beating uncontrollably in my chest.
Like it’s hooked up to speakers, the sound amplifies around my room with a heavy bass.
For two years I’ve been so careful. To keep my secret from the world, from the people I care about. I let them think what they want about what happened. That I let my fear rule me, when I really let it drive me.
Before my panic can really send me spiraling, another text comes in from the same number.
It’s Bash.
I deflate like a balloon. My heart skipping several beats as it tries to calm down.
Fucking hell, Bash!
I thought my secret was seconds away from going up in flames. If I ever see this man again, I’m going to kick him. In the shins.
With the identification of the number out of the way, my heart rate is slowly going back to normal. Glaring at my phone, I type out my response.
Yeah. Same time every morning. Why?
The little typing bubble appears on screen. Then disappears. A few seconds later it’s back and stays for what feels like a while. Good Lord, is he writing a novel?
Sighing, I lock my phone and toss it on my bed. Picking up the book I’m reading, I try to find where I left off when I hear my phone vibrate. Turns out, Bash wasn’t writing me a novel. Or if he did, he deleted it and settled on a five-word question instead.
Can I surf with you?
Can he surf with me? Can Sebastian Cleaton, the object of my youth’s lust, and who reporters are saying to be the Ren Lawson of our generation, surf with me?
Do I want him to?
Surfing alone has been my thing for the longest time; there’s been no one in the lineup but me for the past two years.
I don’t surf to compete anymore. I surf because I have to.
Because I love it. But I can’t keep up with a pro. What if he’s one of those asshats that doesn’t respect a woman surfer?
As ridiculous as that thought is, I’d never allow a guy to shame me for a sport that is just as much mine as his, but the more I think it over something unexplainable is assaulting my emotions. A bubbly, almost floating sensation takes over my body as I picture what it would be like to feel the presence of someone beside me, watching and waiting for a set to roll in.
It might be nice to have some company.
Maybe for a little bit.
To try it out.
I can still have time for my thoughts and my me-time, but there will be another person for when being alone gets to be too much.
Plus, if I don’t like it, I can just tell him to leave. The spot is mine and I was there first.
Hopefully it won’t come down to elementary school tactics, but that is my plan, just in case.
I send back my answer.
Sure.
Then another.
If you can keep up with me.
Yes, yes I did just tease a professional surfer with more wins and records than one person really needs.
This time, his response comes immediately.
What happens if I don’t?
Is this flirting? Aside from the party, I haven’t even kissed a guy since October of my freshman year in college, three semesters ago, so to say I’m a little out of the game is an understatement.
Flirting in person is easy. Flirting in texting, there’s a fine line that can be crossed. As my fingers hover over the keyboard, I try to conjure up a response. How do I know if he’s really flirting or if my brain woke up on the pervy side this morning?
Try it and see what happens.
Yep. Definitely have been out of the game for too long. Weak response, Lawson.
He sends back a wink, a message that is virtually impossible to carry on a conversation with, so I pick up my book again. I read a few more chapters before my phone goes off.
I sigh. I just want to read. Does he have any idea how long I’ve waited for this book to come out?
Can we surf tomorrow?
And another one.
What time works best for you?
One more.
I’m up for any time, just gotta get a workout in first. Where should we meet up?
I can’t stop myself from laughing. Sebastian Cleaton is kind of a dork. And I kind of like him more for it.
I’ve spent most of the day not allowing myself to think about what happened between us last night, but I can’t stop myself from touching my lips, remembering how swollen they were after. How good he felt against me. How good I felt when he his hands roamed my body.
More than good.
Amazing. Horny. Wanted.
I thought that last night would be the first and last time I ever saw Bash Cleaton. That the memory of my lips touching his would evolve into a story to tell Brit. Possibly a story to tell any future grandchildren when they asked grandma what she was like when she was their age—because I plan on being a cool grandma.
Last night was my story. Nothing more.
Then this morning happened. A little kernel to add to said story.
But now, I have a chance to see him again. And for more than the twenty minutes we had this morning.
Even if nothing happens physically between us, I have the opportunity to hang out with one of the best surfers of my generation, literally at my fingertips.
I have the chance to not be alone in the water for the first time in two years.
6:30 works for me. I always go to the same spot that you saw me at today. I’ll meet you there. Just don’t expect me to work out with you.
Honestly, I’d work out with him if he needed someone, but working out in the morning means cutting into my surfing time. I hit the gym and go for runs in the evening for that very reason. The time I have for surfing is already limited. I can’t limit it any more.
Not for anything.
Especially not for Sebastian Cleaton.
He might be a professional surfer, but he’s from California and born in Hawaii. He doesn’t know these beaches. He’s familiar with the Pacific Ocean, but here on the East Co
ast, we have the Atlantic.
Bash is in my territory now.
I can’t stop yawning.
I slept even less than I did the night before. I can’t even blame it on the drinking this time. No, my lack of sleep is because I’m surfing with Bash today.
Young me would be absolutely giddy at the chance for this. Present me, well, present me is tired and nervous. Tired for obvious reasons and nervous…well, nervous because this will be the first time I’m surfing with someone since my accident.
I used to be one of the best surfers in my class, on the track to following my father’s footsteps, but now I don’t know where I stand. I’m not competing with anyone but myself on a daily basis.
I’m a very competitive person by nature. It’s been bred into me.
I get nasty when I lose.
But unless we’re playing a board game or something fun with friends, I keep that unhealthy need to win stored away until I’m alone.
I’m a good sport when points, trophies, and titles are on the line, but if I mess up, I will be my biggest critic. I’m harder on myself than my dad is. I push myself harder; I challenge myself daily. Never accepting that today’s surf is the best surf. Tomorrow I have to be better. My mantra, always.
I get in the ocean every day after almost dying from a shark attack that scared my parents enough to end my potential career right on the cusp of starting.
The accident left my body scarred. Both on the outside and the inside.
I miss competing, but my parents have done so much for me that I can’t tell them I’ve been surfing. I won’t. To see the anger, or worse, the disappointment in their eyes would hurt more than almost losing my leg.
My board is in the sand and I’m zipping up my wetsuit when I hear someone approaching.
Glancing over my shoulder, I see Bash in all his shirtless glory. Only wearing a pair of black swim trunks and a backpack strung along his back, he looks more awake than a person should be at this time. Or maybe he knows how to go to bed at a reasonable hour. My eyes eat up the sight, appreciating it more than at the party.
His stomach is sculpted in a six-pack, with the makings of an eight pack. Abs cut so deep, I imagine water running down them with my tongue chasing after the drops. His arms are big, ripped from years of paddling and popping up on the board.
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