Emery makes a sound of protest, tightening her grip, and once she’s back in position I begin to move again. Thrusting faster and rougher, all sense of rhythm lost as I bring us closer and closer to the edge. Not stopping until we both spill over, our names on each other’s lips. I pull out and shoot my load on her stomach, the water washing it away.
I kiss Emery’s forehead as more fireworks begin to shoot off from behind me. Exploding and expanding in the night sky. Some people are getting drunk, partying into a new beginning, but as I turn off the water and hold Emery close, I know that my New Year started off the way it was meant to.
With Emery screaming my name.
Emery walks out the back door and onto the patio, a towel wrapped around her shoulders and my phone hanging from her fingertips.
I finish running my towel through my hair and give her a look.
She’s supposed to be inside, sleeping. Like she said she would be.
“Your mom has called ten times within five minutes, Bash.” She walks closer, pressing her body against mine. Under the towel, her naked body teases me.
I feel hungover and it’s because of her.
So far, the New Year has been treating me pretty damn good. Emery and I have barely slept, rotating between sex and surfing—her parents think she’s staying at Nori’s until noon and I’m trying to not waste any time. And none of that time revolves around my mother.
Especially when my girlfriend is naked and I only have a towel wrapped around my waist.
“I don’t want to talk to her.” I bring my mouth to hers; each word brushes our lips together. I take the phone from her, putting it on the railing behind me, and move my hands to her body, slipping into the towel and cupping her sex. “I want to keep doing what we’ve been doing.”
She arches into me, her eyes going glassy. “You just don’t want me to walk.” She moans and I chase it with my tongue.
“’Course, you won’t be able to leave then.” I run a finger between her folds.
“That sounds very kidnapper-esque.” Her voice is breathy and choppy, coming out in gasps.
My mouth moves over her throat, following the path to her ear. Sucking the lobe between my teeth, I tug. Through the fog of lust, I’m barely able to register the sound of my phone going off.
I’m apparently doing a shit job with Em because she pushes away and reaches around me to grab the phone. She shoves it into my bare chest.
“Talk to her.”
“I’d rather be doing something else.” The phone stops ringing, only to start ringing again when I pull her back into me.
“She’s going to keep calling until you answer,” she reminds me.
“It’s going to be a shit conversation.” I hug her to my body. I’ve been ignoring their calls since Christmas, since they found out where I am.
The source of the photo hasn’t been revealed and I’ve been too distracted by other shit to hire a P.I. or hacker or whoever’s job it is to find answers to this shit.
I’m actually surprised my parents haven’t rolled into town. It’s been a whole week. The only person I’ve talked to from California since then has been my sister.
Rachel was the only one to check on how I’m handling everything.
Emery kisses my chest. “I’ll be here when it’s over. You’re not alone anymore, Bash. You’ve got me. And I’m pretty annoying once I get attached to someone. Besides, I haven’t had all my sexual demands satisfied by you yet.”
I groan and my fucking phone rings again. “We’ll get back to that after this call.” I bring the phone to my ear. “Mother.”
The greeting is forced and Emery can feel how tense I am. She squeezes my hand and walks me toward one of the deck chairs.
I pull her onto my lap as I sit. My free hand rests on her thigh, the one with the scars. She’s grown more comfortable with me touching the sensitive area and she doesn’t flinch when our skin makes contact.
She still wears her wetsuit out in the water and jeans or long skirts when going out, but she has to do this at her own pace. When she’s ready to show her scars, I’ll be here for her.
The heat and weight of her body acts as my anchor, the balm to keep me calm through this conversation.
No doubt the same fucking conversation I’ve been having with my mother since I came out here.
I make sure the towel is covering all of her distracting parts. I have to keep my focus for this talk. I could also use a shot of whiskey, but it’s not even nine in the morning and I refuse to move.
“Sebastian.” The icy tone of my mother’s voice has not changed even though the year has. “It’s time to stop being a child. You’ve proven your point and have had more than enough fun over there.” I don’t let the slight dig at Emery get to me. She’s looking for a fight I refuse to give. “Isn’t this temper tantrum of yours over? You’ve dragged it out long enough.”
I repress a sigh, attempting to bite my tongue. I will not give her what she is hoping for. “Happy New Year to you too, Mom.”
Not one for holidays, she only called me on Christmas because of the picture that was going around the tabloids.
Emery shakes her head, not having the highest opinion of my mom. Not that I blame her after the verbal lashing she went through the first and only time she’d spoken to the woman who birthed me.
Emery can’t wrap her head around the coldness that I grew up with, not when her family is so warm and loving.
Maybe that’s why I fell in love with surfing. The heat from the sun warmed the coldness I got from being at home.
“I’m twenty-two,” I say into the phone. My hand is clutched around it so tight, the skin around my knuckles is white. “I make my own choices.” The words are wasted; trying to remind her is pointless.
“You have surf competitions coming up.” As if I don’t know that.
My next one is in two months, in March. In Hawaii. It’s crazy to think that at twenty-two, I’m capable of remembering shit without my parents there to remind me. “And you have that meet and greet you promised to attend.” The meet and greet that was taking place before said competition in March.
She presses on, not waiting for my comments. “Your father and I get it. Your point has been proven.”
“I’m not trying to prove anything. You still think I’ve been doing all of this for attention when all I’ve ever wanted is a break.” I’ve wanted to breathe. “Not everything I do is about you. It probably shocks you to hear that, I’m sure, but very little of my decision-making revolves around you and Dad. I’m my own person and not some drone for you to control.”
I don’t look at Emery, even though I can feel her stare burning the side of my face. I keep my eyes on the ocean, on the waves crashing onto shore, and continue to run my hand up and down her thigh, tracing unidentifiable patterns along her leg. “I’ll put some money into your accounts, since I know that’s your main objective.” In her mind, I’m easier to control in California. Where I can’t say no to her face. “And as far as I’m concerned, I am home.”
Emery tenses at my words.
Shit.
I hang up, cutting off my mother’s retort, and turn Emery’s body around to straddle me.
Her eyes have gone wide, her body frozen. She doesn’t even blink.
My beautiful, loud, and exuberant girl who will say the dirtiest and crudest things in a crowd of people without a twinge of embarrassment, gets freaked out with intimacy.
Not so much the physical form; she’s been more open about me seeing her physical scars. It’s emotional intimacy that triggers her flight instincts.
The kind where she gets attached and invested and winds up broken and alone. I’ve tried to soothe those fears away, that I’m not going to hurt her, but words to Emery are empty and actions are where her truths are.
“Hey,” I say softly, stroking my thumb along her cheek. “Come back to me.”
“You said you’re home.” Her voice doesn’t hold the panic that reflects in her ey
es.
“I did.” I grab her waist, holding her in place, to stop her retreat before it begins. “Don’t get freaked out by this. I didn’t say it because of you, Em.” Some people would get offended by that statement, but Emery slowly relaxes into me.
She’s so independent and so used to being on her own that the idea of someone tying themselves to her is practically a nightmare. She still hasn’t figured out that I’m as much of a realist as she is. She’s actually the one that has more aspirations in her dreams than I do. We’ve barely begun to get to know each other, so I go on to explain.
“I’ve lived in California my entire life; the only travel I’ve done is for surfing. I’ve never gone anywhere for me. Never done something purely selfish. I’ve wanted a change for a while. To go on a new adventure. I picked Florida because of the beaches and it was on the opposite side of the country. So why not have it be here? I have this cheesy as hell bucket list I made when I was fifteen that I want to complete before I’m twenty-five. I’m also closer to my grandparents.” They live in Georgia. They were the ones to show me and Rachel warmth and love growing up. I miss spending a few weeks of my summers as a kid with them on Jekyll Island.
“You’re here, yes, but so is Dez.” She makes a face and I chuckle. “You don’t have to like him, but he is the realest friend I’ve had. So, don’t think I’m staying just for you. I’m staying for me.” She relaxes more.
“How long have you thought about this?”
“The idea has been in the back of my mind since I moved out here. Testing the waters and shit. But I don’t want to leave now that I’m here. I want to see what the East Coast can offer me. Aside from your orgasms.”
“My boyfriend, the romantic.”
“I’m the perfect amount of romantic for you,” I reminder her, tweaking her nipple as I move in to kiss her, my tongue sliding against hers for a moment before pulling away. “I’m happier here, healthier.” So much healthier. “If you should be freaked out about anything, it’s by how much you’ve helped me reconnect with surfing.”
“I’ll never be freaked over that. That’s how we bonded.”
“And thank God for that.” I stand up, keeping her legs wrapped around me, and walk into the living room. “Now let’s go see how well we’ve bonded before you go talk to your parents.”
I’M SITTING AT THE KITCHEN bar with three cups of coffee in front of me as I wait for my parents to come downstairs.
Bash dropped me off about twenty minutes ago, wishing me luck before he drove back home. He didn’t wait around to see if I’d ask him to stay. Just like on Christmas, he knows this is something I need to do alone and knowing he supports me makes facing Mom and Dad a little easier.
I’ve been actively avoiding my parents since Christmas, only talking to them when necessary. Like when Nori was here and convinced them to let me go out.
No one has ever given me an award for being mature.
They’re so shocked to see me as they come down the stairs, they pause at the base of them.
“I’m ready to talk if you are.”
They share a look before walking toward me and accepting the peace offering of coffee that I’ve made for them.
Coffee holds magic in this household.
After letting them take a couple of sips, I begin. “First, I want to say that I never did this to intentionally hurt you or spite you.”
My parents are watching me intently, letting my words fill the kitchen. They stand across from me and I shift around in my seat.
“And I didn’t realize how affected you two were over this until I saw your reactions. We haven’t talked about it since that year.” It’s always been a topic we’ve slid under the rug, brushed by, and stepped around, but never picked up.
And it’s not from being shameful. It’s from fear. We’ve all been living, pretending to be fine, that what happened never changed our lives. We’ve tried to live the same when everything around us is different, when the secrets become the realities we choose to hide.
“Do you know I’ve never shown anyone my scars since then?” I don’t mention showing them to Bash recently, it’s probably better they don’t know. Or the context in which he’s been seeing them. “I haven’t worn shorts—haven’t bought shorts in years. I never got to play with the crop top trend. I’ve practically lived in a wetsuit.”
“Em, we’ve noticed, but when we used to bring it up, you’d brush us off. Get angry and yell that you were fine or wanted to be left alone,” Mom reminds me, gently.
That entire year I didn’t surf, I was a different person. A changed person. Someone who was learning how to become whole again after losing the one constant in their life.
“Yeah, but after that year you just stopped talking about it. We still haven’t talked about it.” We’ve yelled about it. We’ve ignored it.
“We’ve been waiting for you to be ready,” Dad says. “We honestly had no idea you’ve still been surfing for this long. Em, I’ve seen what shark attacks can do to people, and while they’re rare, you got lucky. And despite my anger, I’m so proud of you for not letting it control your life. But that still doesn’t make what you did okay.”
“Ren,” Mom says, but Dad shakes his head.
“I need to say this—”
“I don’t want to hear it.” I stand from the chair, my hands braced against the cool counter top. The tiny, logical part of me screamed to sit back down, but again, no award for maturity. “Unless you want to say you forgive me, I’ll wait. I don’t—I can’t listen to you say how disappointed you are in me. There’s nothing I can do to change that. You said you’re proud of me. Don’t take that away right now.”
I thought I wanted to talk, but what I really want, my parents aren’t ready to give me.
I leave the kitchen, walking through the house and slipping out the back door.
I’m a coward, but at least I’m starting to feel whole.
Leaving my house, I have my comfort in mind. Walking to the ocean is quick enough. It’s a short trip along the side of Ocean Avenue until I’m able to cut through the trees where the grass yields to sand. A soft surface to meet my bare feet.
This morning the waves were constant, set after set. Now the ocean is calm, a contrast to my wild heart.
Telling the truth doesn’t mean it’s easy to escape the lies. And I’m still fighting my way out of the ones I’ve told.
I plant my ass in the sand, close enough to the water that the froth can kiss my toes. I wrap my arms around my knees and squint out to the horizon.
Emotionally, I see where my dad is coming from.
Objectively, I do not.
What happened to me is no different than someone getting in a car accident, or someone getting bucked off a horse. All very different circumstances, but all could end with a similar result.
But you don’t tell a cowboy not to get back in the saddle after falling off a horse. You tell them to suck it up and keep getting on until they aren’t afraid of falling anymore.
I was five when my dad started teaching me how to surf on my own, no more riding the board with him. At first I didn’t stand up. Dad wouldn’t let me. Instead, he had me on my stomach, riding the waves like a boogie board.
He said it was to help me get a feel for the waves. How the board rides with them. I didn’t learn how to paddle and pop up in the sand. I learned in the water.
It’s not the only method; most people learn the fundamentals on the sand, but it’s how dad taught me.
So, I practiced and practiced until I told him I was bored with that. I wanted to start standing. He told me I wasn’t ready, but I begged and pleaded. Adamant that I was ready. Dad fell victim to the younger Emery’s manipulative charms and caved. Kind of. Instead of having me snap up on my feet, he made me ride a wave on my knees.
That was disastrous.
The board nose-dived into the water, flipping me over.
It didn’t get bad until I broke the surface and another wave swallowed
me, pushing me back under.
One of the board’s fins knocked into the back of my head and kelp wrapped around my legs and went into my mouth, almost choking me.
I stayed down long enough that my lungs started to scream in agony.
I surfaced a few seconds later, gulping as much crisp air into my little body as I could, never getting quite enough to calm the panic inside.
Grabbing my board, the traitor, I marched my feet to shore and threw the board onto the sand.
Sitting next to it, I cried as my dad came to sit next to me. I threw him a baby-glare—one I would grow and improve. “I’m never surfing again! That was awful! I hate you.”
“Oh, Em, don’t say that when you don’t mean it.” He tried to pull me into a hug, but I moved out of his reach. “C’mon, try one more time. For me?”
It was awful and terrifying, but I bit my lip and mumbled, “Okay.”
He didn’t let me quit when I was younger, but he tried to force me to stop when I was older.
As I stare out into the ocean, I feel someone sit beside me.
“When did you figure out I’d come here?”
“Before you were even out the door,” my dad admits. “I followed you here.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t look at him.
“Sometimes I don’t like admitting we’re so much alike. When you were born I always wanted you to be better than me, do better than I did in life. But the more you grew up, the more I saw I was in a deep level of hell. You were worse than I was. Grandpa always used to say—”
“That I had your stubbornness and impulses, but got lucky with Mom’s smarts,” I finish, an almost smile on my face at the mention of Grandpa.
“Yeah.” His voice sounds far away. “You don’t know how scared that made me. I was always so worried about bad things happening to you. When you were attacked and I was on the beach, my heart stopped. It was like I was frozen.” His voice cracks.
“When Geer came back with you and I saw how bad it was, I cried. I had only cried one other time. And that was when the doctors put you in my arms after you were born.”
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