by Lane Hayes
“He does love you,” she said softly.
“I love him too.”
“I can tell.” She sat back in her chair and curled her feet under her before giving me a conspiratorial wink. “It’s been an interesting journey from a mother’s perspective. I always wondered who his special person might be, and you want to know something funny? I had this crazy feeling it would be one of his friends. Someone who’d been there all along.”
“That probably didn’t narrow the field much. Zane has a lot of friends,” I quipped.
“He does and he makes an effort to spend time with them as often as possible. Maybe it’s because he was an only child. I worked so much when he was younger, so I didn’t mind him having kids over. I figured he needed the company even though I worried constantly about him getting in trouble while I was away. He was a handful as a teenager. He did his best to clean up after his impromptu parties but I’d find bikini bits and panties in the cushions. I used to wonder if one of those girls was the one. But then one day,”—she paused and gave me a crooked grin—“I found a jockstrap. Water polo players don’t wear jocks so I knew it wasn’t his. I didn’t think much of it until I started finding them regularly…under his bed, under the sofa or balled up with towels in the laundry. Places your straight friends wouldn’t leave their personal effects. I kept a more careful watch but the only guy who was here regularly was Dean Gorman, and I was sure he was straight so I put it out of my mind. So well that I was surprised when he finally told me he was bi.”
I hated that Dean and jockstraps were the details that flashed at me like a neon sign. I shook my head to dislodge my misplaced jealousy, hoping it would help me refocus until Zane returned. How long did it take to make a freaking cup of coffee?
“He was in his twenties, right?” I asked, running my fingers through the condensation on the glass.
“Yes. I thought maybe it was a two-part story and that he’d bring someone special home for me to meet. And secretly, I hoped it was you.”
“You did?”
Wendy reached for my hand and nodded. “You get him. You know where he’s from and how hard he’s worked for a chance to prove himself. You’re nothing alike but you appreciate each other’s differences. And I can tell you adore him. It makes me incredibly happy to welcome you to our tiny family.”
I swallowed around the tears in my throat. “Thank you.”
“So…do you think you’ll have kids some day? You’d both be terrific dads and—”
“Jesus, Ma!” Zane yelped. He set three cups and the carafe of coffee on the table before moving behind her chair to hug her tightly then tickle her sides. She jumped and batted him away, howling with laughter.
I chuckled at their hijinks and braced myself, knowing from experience I was next. When he nuzzled my neck, I was prepared for him to squeeze me a little too hard or put me in a faux headlock and give me a noogie. What I didn’t expect was the tender kiss next to my ear and the softly whispered, “I love you.”
My heart flipped in my chest and expanded, leaving me breathless and drunk on love. I had no idea how I got so lucky, but I knew I’d do anything to always have this in my life.
3
The sangrias must have been stronger than I realized. There was no other plausible explanation for me agreeing to get out of bed, throw on a pair of board shorts, and follow my peppy partner to the Jeep at the ass crack of dawn. At least he remembered the coffee. I nestled the thermos between my thighs, grateful it was humongous. I needed the caffeine to keep me warm and awake. It was a chilly morning; the sky was gray and the temperature was twenty degrees cooler than it would be later in the day.
“This weather reminds me of San Francisco,” I commented around a yawn. “I should have brought my sweats.”
“They’d just get wet. Besides, you’ll warm up in the water.”
“Zane, I can’t do it. Surfing isn’t in the cards this morning. When you get your board from your mom’s garage, grab a blanket for me. I’ll read while you hang ten. I’m at a great point in my book, so I won’t bug you. You can take your time communing with nature and I—”
“You promised.”
I scowled at the unspoken “only a real schmuck backs out of a promise” in his tone. “I don’t think I did.”
“Last night you said…and I quote, ‘I love you so much, Zane. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll even go surfing with you.’ ’Member that? It may have been post-blowjob, but it still counts,” he assured me.
I busted up laughing. “I don’t think so.”
“Fine. We’ll compromise. I’ll bring an extra wet suit and my old longboard and if you change your mind—”
“I won’t.”
Zane shot an irritated sideways glance at me before continuing. “If you change your mind, you’ll be prepared. The swell is two to three feet. Perfect for learning.”
“What’s the water temp?” I asked.
“Sixty-one degrees.” I wasn’t surprised by his swift response. Zane’s business required him to always be aware of tides and wind conditions and surf swell.
“That’s cold.”
“Thus the wet suit.” He held up his hand before I could begin a new round of arguments. “I can’t force you and I won’t ask you again. I’ll just bring everything we need and if you decide to suit up and dive in, you’ll be ready. Sound good?”
I tilted my head in vague acquiescence though of course, I had no intention of doing anything besides finding out who done it in my murder mystery.
After a brief stop at his mom’s house to gather his boards and some extra supplies, we headed to 56th Street. It was six a.m. but in late June, it was full daylight so we weren’t the first ones on the beach. Zane changed into his wet suit at the Jeep then hooked the two boards under his arms and motioned for me to follow him with the blanket, thermos, and my backpack filled with sundry items like sunscreen, Chap Stick, and Cliff bars. Oh yeah…and a beach chair.
I laid the blanket in the sand and sent Zane off with a wave before settling in to read. Any random passerby might have mistaken me for someone twice my age. I had a floppy hat on my head, a towel over my legs, and my feet propped on my backpack. I’d left my long-sleeved tee on so the only body parts exposed were my toes. Comfort was key if we were going to be here for a while, I mused as I sipped coffee and turned the page on my Kindle.
Zane was in his element. I spotted him in action a few times. It must have been pretty mellow on the water though because he seemed to spend more time straddling the board, waiting for decent waves than riding any to shore. I set my book aside and uncapped the thermos then scanned the ocean again. My gut lurched when I didn’t immediately spot him. I stood to get a better look and found Zane was chatting with another surfer on the sand. They must have just ridden in together. Maybe they were dissecting the integrity of a barrel or talking about previous excursions when the conditions were up to their level of expertise. The stranger laughed at something Zane said. He clutched at his shoulder and threw his head back and—oh.
It was Dean.
I squinted at them, hating the instant rush of jealousy. My inclination was to intercept them, waving my hands over my head and blowing a whistle…David Hasselhoff-style. Thankfully I knew my limitations. I wasn’t The Hoff. Pride demanded I act sensibly. I had nothing to worry about. Zane wasn’t interested in rekindling an ancient affair with a former flame who couldn’t seem to keep his fucking hands to himself.
I gritted my teeth and pasted a smile on my face then dropped my towel and made my way toward them.
“Good morning,” I said cheerfully as I took my rightful place beside my man. “You’re up early.”
“I’m out here most days around this time,” Dean replied, cocking his head.
He gave me a quirky look I couldn’t read. It was more curious than insulting, but I read a subtle “I don’t get what Zane sees in you” there that made me feel ridiculously territorial. I didn’t want to piss on his leg or anything gross but dam
n, I had to do something.
I snaked my arm around Zane’s waist and rested it on his hip. I did my best to ignore the slimy feel of his wetsuit and his bewildered expression. He had every right to be suspicious. Neither of us was big on overt public displays of affection. I loved it when Zane put his hand on my lower back or slipped his fingers through mine under a table. Clandestine touches sent a thrill through me while obvious gestures, like holding hands walking down the street, made me uneasy unless we were among people we trusted. So yeah…I was being weird.
Zane let it slide and addressed Dean instead. “For some reason, I thought you lived in Huntington Beach.”
“I did, but not anymore. I moved back a couple of years ago. I run into your mom at the market every so often. She invited me over to see her kitchen remodel recently when I mentioned I’m thinking of redoing mine. Nice job, man. It looks great. I love the cabinetry.”
“Thanks, but I didn’t personally do anything. I hired a contractor. Mickey Chandler…remember him? He was on the water polo team with me.”
“No way! I had no idea Mickey was a contractor. Give me his number when you get a chance. I need to get a few things done and…”
I tuned them out for the sake of self-preservation. I felt smaller and smaller by the second as though any moment now I’d become invisible. Jealousy was a powerful opponent to master. No doubt I looked like a swallowed a lemon as I listened to Dean praise Wendy’s remodeling efforts and chat about an old high school friend I personally recalled being a real dick.
Zane and I may have been from the same town, but we’d had very different upbringings and experiences. He was a latchkey kid with a single mom who struggled to make ends meet. He spent most mornings as a teenager at the beach just like this. This was a déjà vu moment for Zane and Dean, and I simply couldn’t relate.
My parents were big on scholastic achievement. They would have had a fit if I’d wasted precious time studying a surf report let alone hung out with derelicts that did. They were both prominent lawyers who’d instilled the merits of a vigorous work ethic on my brother and me at a young age. They insisted that we join politically and socially conscious clubs when we were in high school and college. They belonged to various country clubs for networking purposes only. They weren’t into surfing or sailing and on the rare occasions I went to the beach, they encouraged me to bring my homework or a good book to pass the time.
I thought I’d accepted that Zane and I came from separate worlds and moved on in college but evidently, I was wrong because I felt conspicuously the way I had fifteen years ago. Like an uncool outsider standing with the popular kids hoping their shine might miraculously rub off on me.
“Hey um, what’s the surf like, guys?” I asked, sounding like the nerd I was.
They halted their conversation and turned to answer me.
“It’s a great day to learn,” Zane said with a smile at the same time Dean huffed derisively, “It’s totally lame.”
And why was it that the only thing I heard was, “You’re totally lame”? Well, fuck that. The only thing that was lame was not trying.
I gave Dean a tight smile then turned to Zane. “I’m gonna grab something from the Jeep. I’ll be back.”
I trudged through what felt like a mile of uneven sand and hurried to unlock the trunk of our rental. Zane had parked behind a Chevy Suburban on a narrow residential street that ended abruptly at the sand. The truck and the two-storied homes on either side provided an element of privacy. Not as much as I would have liked, but it would do, I mused before opening the hatch.
I studied the black rubbery suit for a moment before picking it up with a sigh. The things you do for love. I darted my gaze from side to side and undressed as quickly as possible. I fastened a towel around my waist before removing my swim trunks then sat on the edge off the open hatch and pulled the super-tight fabric up one leg and then the other. There was no time to enjoy my hard-won success. I had to get this thing over my bare ass before a neighbor called the cops on me for indecent exposure.
Rolling the suit up my torso was much more difficult. I was sweating bullets, hopping around like a demented kangaroo hoping gravity would help distribute the fabric properly. It helped to a degree but I couldn’t stand up straight. Not comfortably anyway. Maybe it would work itself out once I was zipped up. I’d worry about that later. It was time to hang ten.
I made my way back to the blanket, dropped the keys to the Jeep in my backpack and then stared at the longboard lying behind the beach chair for a long moment. The giant surfboard was aptly named. It was a nine-foot battered yellow board with a white stripe up the middle that Zane had affectionately named “The Big Banana.” He rarely rode this one now but he loved it for sentimental reasons. It was a Christmas gift from the guy who’d taught him to surf, who, if I remembered correctly, was his mom’s ex. Zane wanted to keep it for posterity and maybe even his future kids. He claimed longboards were the best for learning because they had a lot of real estate to help a beginner find his or her balance. I hoped that was true because I didn’t really want to spend my morning repeatedly falling into the ocean.
I hefted the board under my arm and headed toward the shoreline, stopping a few times to adjust my burden and catch my breath. Zane and Dean weren’t where I’d left them which I assumed meant they’d returned to the water. Of course, I had no idea what to do now. I’d accompanied Zane on his surf excursions a few times but I’d paid more attention to his hot bod in that wet suit than to his enthusiastic explanation about the joys of wave riding.
However, I remembered a couple of basics like how to get the board out to sea. Well, I sort of remembered. I ate it twice when I mistimed a wave breaking onshore. I hoped no one recorded my backward somersault and graceless dismount. I was sufficiently humiliated when two kids who couldn’t have been older than fourteen checked to see if I was all right. I gave a thumbs-up sign and carefully watched them navigate past the breaker. Then I copied their technique and tried again. I lay on my stomach and paddled for my life toward Zane, Dean and a host of other surfers who were perched on their boards a few hundred feet away, waiting for an optimal wave to bring them to shore.
Zane spotted me well before I reached him. I was pathetically happy to see him. I felt like I’d been paddling for hours. My arms were sore and my stomach muscles clenched as I worked overtime to keep my balance. And yeah, I was still lying down. I couldn’t imagine how the hell I’d ever stand up. I grinned at my fiancé who didn’t look quite as excited to see me.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he asked angrily.
“I’m surfing,” I replied with an impish smile.
“No. You’re clinging for dear life on that thing like Tom Hanks in Cast Away. Your suit is unzipped and you’re too far down on the board and—why didn’t you wait for me?”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“Well, congratulations, I’m surprised. And I’m pissed,” he growled, grabbing the edge of my board before it floated away. “Sit up carefully and hold this strap.”
I obeyed, grasping the rope under the Velcro strap attached to his surfboard. “Now what? Should I stand?”
“No. Sit,” he repeated in a rough voice.
I shifted my hips and tried to pull one leg up but I quickly realized I couldn’t do it without falling in. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. Flatten your palms in the middle, push yourself up and put both feet in the water at the same time.”
His voice was calmer now. He sounded like an instructor rather than an aggravated fiancé. I did as he said and after three attempts managed to sit upright. I beamed at him proudly but he scowled in return.
“Why are you so mad? I did it and I’m out here on the water. Hell, I’m practically surfing!”
Zane huffed and gave me a thorough once-over that made me squirm. “No, Eric, you’re not. You’re floating on the ocean and if you weren’t tethered to me, I have a sick feeling you’d be halfway to Catalina by now.”
>
I’d learned a few things about Zane in the nine months or so since we’d become a couple. He was extremely easy-going and good-natured…until he wasn’t. Don’t get me wrong, he didn’t turn into a maniac when he got angry or upset. He was subtler about making it clear when he was unhappy. He talked slowly and pointedly so that every word had a spike to it that made you flinch. And he called me Eric. Not Er, babe, baby, or hon. Eric. It made me feel much smaller than listening to Dean brag about the “good ol’ days” had earlier.
“I’m sorry. I just—I wanted to be out here with you,” I said in a weak voice.
“Somehow I don’t think that’s the whole truth.”
“It is!” I insisted.
“Whatever. There are a couple of things you should know before you come out here half-zipped in a too-tight wet suit and float your ass out to sea. Don’t interrupt me,” he warned sternly, raising his hand to stop my new flood of excuses. “You have to know your board. You’ve got nine feet of real estate under you but you have no idea how to make it work, which means you’ll be working for it. You have to know points of balance, when to turn, how to keep out of the way of others. If you’d done this properly, we would have spent a good half hour on land studying the waves and hopefully recognize patterns in the break points.”
“The what?”
“Exactly. Hey, I’m not suggesting you need a special degree to surf, but it helps to know what the fuck you’re doing first.”
“Geez, okay. I’m sorry. Push me back to shore. I promise never to surf again,” I yelled, slapping the water indignantly.
Zane rolled his eyes. “That isn’t what I said, Schuster.”
“Don’t call me Eric and don’t call me Schuster. Just give me a push and I’ll get out of your way so you can go back to surfing with your good buddy.”
