by Nikki Godwin
A tight pain settles in my back, right along my spine. It’s a familiar tension, the kind I feel every time something goes down and I know it’s going to bite us later. I hate that I can’t enjoy a single moment without worrying about the repercussions of everything we do.
“Yeah, that’s me,” Topher says. “Do I know you?”
The guy shakes his head. He can’t be much older than us, if at all. He looks like a typical beach bum in board shorts and a T-shirt. His hair is a bit of a mess, like maybe he was in the ocean himself earlier today.
“Nah, but I’ve seen you surf before. Would you sign something for me? I think you’ll be famous someday, so I should grab the autograph now,” the guy says.
Any concern Topher had before now has flown out the cracked window. He turns to me, asking if I have any of his promo pictures with me – because, you know, PR reps should carry those things in her personal belongings.
“Seriously? I’m out with my boyfriend, not playing your manager at some event. I left your promo pics at home, babe,” I tell him.
I hand him a pen from my purse, and Miles folds a burrito wrapper into a pretty little square. He signs his own name before letting Topher do the same.
A group of people huddle around my car, asking Topher and Miles for autographs and pictures. One girl asks someone else if they’re famous, and Emily sighs loudly because she hates surf groupies. She stays in with me after Miles and Topher get out of the car to fake being famous for a few minutes.
“This is what I hate about the surf world,” Emily says, nodding out the window. “Miles wouldn’t get a second glance from some of those girls if he weren’t a surfer, and you know, sponsored by an actual company.”
She doesn’t seem worried about her relationship status, though. I don’t think Miles would dare try to date anyone else. Emily feeds him and cheers him on, the two most important things in Miles Garrett’s book.
It’s a curious thing, though, to watch Topher interact with these strangers. He has a charisma that I imagine Shark had. He’s outgoing, the life of the party, but he’s persuasive and intriguing. He makes you want to keep up with him, to know what he’s doing. These girls may not be surf fans yet, but I bet they’ll leave here searching for him on Twitter or Instagram.
“You know there’s this stereotype, right?” Emily asks from the backseat. “Surfers date supermodels. Look at the world tour. Nearly every girlfriend on there is a model of some sort. Bikini models. You’ll see guys like Miles dating girls like you wouldn’t even believe.”
I push away the remarks that Colby made before my weekend away with Topher. I refused to accept it, even if I possibly believed it, but he’s right – Topher would be the one to get wrapped up in the whirlwind of being a famous surfer. He wants to be adored. He wants people to want to be his friend. When you’re from a place like Horn Island and have the reputation of being rough around the edges, who doesn’t want to overcome that and be a rock star? He may have Hooligan blood, and I truly believe when it’s all said and done, he’ll be back in Horn Island hanging with his friends, but Topher may be the one who wants to branch out and live the superstar life for a while. Move over, Colby Taylor.
“At least we’re breaking the stereotype,” Emily says. It seems like she says it more for herself than for me, but right now, I think I need to hear it as much as she does.
After dropping Emily and Miles off at Emily’s car, Topher asks me to go back to the condo rather than taking him to Colby’s house.
“Go change,” he says, as soon as I park my car. “We’re going to the beach. No arguments.”
I can’t remember the last time I had a beach day. I think my last trip to the beach was the night Topher ended up in the hospital. For a moment, I hesitate changing into beach attire, but it’s sort of like crashing a car or falling off a bike. The best way to overcome it is to just try again.
After putting on my bikini, I pull a pair of shorts and a Drenaline Surf T-shirt on over it. Topher lingers outside of the condo’s guest house waiting for me.
“Which beach?” I ask. I drape two beach towels over my arm.
“Here,” Topher says. “Behind your house.”
As often as I trek through the sand and roam along the shoreline behind the house, I think the last time I really hung out back here on the beach was last summer. I sat on this very sand talking to Vin about coming back this summer. I said goodbye to Miles and Topher just off to my right. Kale programmed his number into my phone over there.
Last summer seems as if it happened in another lifetime, yet it’s so close right now that I can almost feel it again. There was an energy floating over the water back then, a magical aura that you can’t really put into words because no words are worthy.
Topher takes the beach towels and stretches them out on the sand. I take a seat next to him, watching the colors of the sky swish together. It’s that time of the day when the sunset is lazy, so the colors aren’t quite as bold. Soft pink and sherbet orange linger around drifts of pastel blues, weaving around each other like ballerinas of the sky, dancing to the sound of the waves rather than Tchaikovsky.
“What’s the one thing you wish you had in your life right now that’s missing?” Topher asks, like it’s a normal, easy question.
Where do I even begin with that? I wish I had less drama, more stability, an idea of what I was doing with my life, or just a day of peace where I don’t have to wait for the other shoe to drop.
“I want that feeling back that I had last summer,” I say, because it sums up everything I’m feeling. “That invincible feeling. That feeling that no matter what happens, there’s something big ahead of me. Last summer was exciting and hopeful, and I couldn’t wait to get back here and live it all out. But it’s like ever since I came back, everything has been a one disaster after the next.”
Topher nods but doesn’t say anything. I hope he knows what I mean. I don’t want to rewind and undo us. I don’t want to take away his sponsorship or reverse to the easy days. I just want that forever-chasing feeling back. I want to feel like there’s something more, something better, ahead of me. I want to know this is all worth it.
“I wish I could walk down to the shoreline and let the waves wash it all away, just carry all of the drama back out to sea,” I say.
It’d be so easy to just leave it with the seahorses and mermaids, the sharks and shipwrecks. All of the tabloid articles and mug shots could just hang out in a treasure chest, so far away from land that no one would think of it ever again.
Topher jumps up from his towel and reaches a hand down for me.
“C’mon. Get up. You’re coming with me,” he says. He pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it onto the sand.
“Where are we going?” I ask. I grasp his hand and let him pull me to my feet.
“To wash it all away,” he says.
I follow suit and leave my outer clothing on the beach towel. Topher tugs me closer to him and starts toward the water.
“I’ll tell you like I always told my brother,” he says. “The ocean isn’t going to work for you if you stay on the shoreline. Besides, the last time I got you in the water with me, I was unconscious. I’d like to have at least one memory of us in the water that doesn’t involve anyone drowning.”
He wastes no time rushing into the oncoming waves, letting them throw him off balance. He falls back into the water, waves rushing over his skin and washing away any worries that he may have had two minutes ago.
“You can’t think about it,” he calls out, drifting further into the ocean. He pulls his arm back and slings water in my direction. “Get in!”
I shut off the part of my brain that feels silly and just go with it. This time, I’m not racing into the water to find him among the blackness of the night. I’m not fighting Mother Nature to let him live. There are no surfboards to hold on to or leashes to detach. No one has to call Theo or an ambulance. No one is trapped on crutches unable to help. No one cries on the shoreline.
It feels like summer, but here, it’s always summer.
I return the favor and splash water back in Topher’s general direction. He laughs but paddles toward me. His arms wrap around me, pulling me into him, letting us drift with the waves.
The looming sunset reflects on the water, glowing around us in hues of bright, bold colors. The water glistens, like a rainbow of stained glass floating on the surface.
Topher presses his forehead against mine. “This is why I surf,” he says, his voice low. “There’s nothing that makes the world better than the ocean…except this.”
And he presses his lips to mine.
Chapter Seventeen
Sleeping in on your day off isn’t possible when you work for Drenaline Surf. My phone buzzes against the nightstand, but I refuse to open my eyes. I want to linger in yesterday’s sunset just a little longer. I want to stay in the ocean, under the colors that remind me of seahorses and paper stars. I want to stay lost in the blues of Topher’s eyes.
Buzzzzz.
Damn it. I push myself off of the mattress, open my eyes against my will, and grab my cell phone.
Eight new messages.
I open the most recent one, the one that forced me to face reality instead of live in yesterday’s fantasy. Damn you, Alston Wright.
Are you ever going to wake up? Turn on SurfTube. Drama. All the drama.
There’s no way I’m dragging myself over to the condo to watch the TV right now. Instead, I pull up my SurfTube app and start the stream from the beginning. At least I can watch our company go up in flames from the comfort of my own bed.
“Good morning, surf fans!” Bridget Parker says at the beginning of the broadcast. “The last few days have been crazy on the west coast, and today, I’m joined by Mr. Greg Carson of Liquid Spirit who’s going to give us the dirty details of what went down at the recent event held in Crescent Cove.”
I shake my head before he even comes on screen. Bridget Parker gets on my ever-last nerve, but she’s quite possibly the face of SurfTube. Sometimes I think she’d be better in Hollywood, interviewing people on the red carpet and talking about who designed their clothing. Bridget herself is always dressed in designer heels with big hair and flawless makeup to match. I can’t help but wonder how she manages on the sand in her stilettos.
The camera shifts to her sitting under a tent on the beach, microphone in hand. Greg Carson is on the chair next to her. She crosses her tanned legs, showing more skin than most of the surfers.
“Good morning, Greg, and thank you for joining us so bright and early today,” she says.
“Thank you for having me,” he replies. “There’s no better way to start the day than visiting with SurfTube.”
Oh, what BS. Does Greg Carson even know how stupid he looks right now? Bridget wears a too-short sundress with bright pink earrings to match. She looks summery. He, on the other hand, sits in a suit, tie, and dress shoes. I understand being a professional but c’mon, this is California and you work for a surf corporation. Suit and tie? Really?
“Some of your surfers were involved in a physical altercation last weekend prior to the start of the event,” Bridget explains. “Could you tell us, in your own words, exactly what happened?”
I flip over onto my stomach and prop my phone against the headboard so I can actually watch this as if I were lying in bed watching TV. There’s nothing he can say right now that I haven’t already anticipated.
“And while I won’t pretend my guys were innocent bystanders, I will be the first to say that Liquid Spirit believes in professionalism,” Greg continues after explaining that Jace threw the first punch.
Sadly, everything he’s said thus far is pretty much on target. You don’t have to spread rumors or lies about the enemy when they really did lose control and make their company look badly.
“I’ve spoken to my boys about watching their mouths at events and keeping opinions to themselves,” he states. “This is something we probably should have discussed before arriving at the event and maybe it would’ve prevented some of what happened, but at the end of the day, we aren’t responsible for other people’s actions or how they handle a situation. I’m just thankful that no one was seriously injured and that we were allowed to compete that day. Every event opens new doors for our surfers, and we want them to thrive in this community.”
There’s a piece of me that hates how well he’s handling this. He says all of the right things. He takes his jabs without actually taking them. He’s mastered the ‘read between the lines’ press statements. Greg Carson may be a snake in the grass who wants nothing more than for us to fail, but he’s damn good at snaking.
Bridget tucks a loose hair behind her ear as the breeze drifts under the tent. “So there’s no ill will or hard feelings?” she asks.
“You know, Bridget, I honestly don’t blame Jace Hudson for what happened,” Greg says, tilting his head and staring off at the sand as if in deep contemplation. “It’s not his fault that he was thrown into a position that he wasn’t ready for. Drenaline Surf was already coming apart at the seams before he stepped into that job, and he’s just trying to put out the fires that were burning before he arrived.”
I sit up on my bed and grab my phone. I don’t trust this guy, and I don’t trust where this conversation may be heading. After all that’s happened, personal and professional, I’m not okay with anyone blaming Vin for Drenaline Surf’s problems or for leaving. We’ve all just been doing the best we can to keep this store alive and to keep Shark’s legacy growing.
Greg Carson shakes his head, opens his mouth to say something, and then pulls a ‘never mind’ afterward, leaving Bridget and viewers – and yeah, me – wondering what he was about to say.
“This is your moment,” Bridget reminds him, as if he were about to actually surf in a final and prove that he’s worthy of being sponsored. “If you want our viewers and surf fans to know something, no time is better than the present.”
Greg readjusts his tie, pretending to feel stressed over this, but in reality, he’s just playing it up for the camera. That man is bursting to say whatever it is that he’s preparing for.
“The real problem with Drenaline Surf has always been Shark McAllister,” he explains.
Well, I didn’t see that one coming. Vin, sure. Colby, of course. But Shark? Hell no.
“I don’t want to speak ill of those no longer with us, but the man founded a company and built it around one surfer whose entire existence was a fraud,” he says, taking the jab at Colby, as I expected. “When your business is built on lies, manipulation, and deception, you can’t expect success to follow, no matter how talented the surfer is.”
At least he gives credit where it’s due. Colby has all the talent in the world, something Shark was more than aware of. Colby was an intermediate level surfer when he walked into Drenaline Surf for the first time. Shark McAllister made Colby who he is, in more ways than one.
“I can’t help that Drenaline Surf was built on corruption and lies. I can’t change the damage that’s been done. I have no control over what they do within their business,” Greg says. Then he points to the camera. “But I’m making it my personal mission to restore the love for this sport and to build our surf community back up to what it was years ago. You can mark my words.”
After thanking Greg for his time and honesty, Bridget reminds everyone to drop by Liquid Spirit’s new location and check out their soon-to-open wave pool in a few weeks. She closes the segment by offering well wishes and prayers to the shark attack victim in Sunrise Valley.
I scroll through my other texts – all from Alston, A.J., and one from Reed – and tell my roommates that I’ve seen the footage. A.J. says it’s bullshit, and Alston thinks we should riot. Reed agrees with me that A.J. and Alston both need to chill and keep their mouths shut.
After I take a shower, which sadly didn’t wash away any of the drama from this morning’s SurfTube segment, I see a missed call on my phone. It’s from Drenal
ine Surf.
Jace’s voicemail asks me to come to the store. So much for a day off. It looks like I’m going to be fighting back to Greg Carson’s interview after all. On the drive to the store, I play with phrases in my mind, just like Vin used to do, hoping to come up with the best wording. Hopefully Jace will get better at this in time and be able to structure a press statement to hold them over on my days off.
But something is wrong when I get to Drenaline Surf. It’s closed.
My heart thumps rapidly as I dig through my purse to find my store keys. I can barely grasp them long enough to unlock the door because my hands won’t stop shaking. There’s absolutely no reason the store should be closed – unless someone died, and I refuse to even go there.
Emily stands in front of the counter, opposite from her usual place on the other side. Kale leans against it, elbows resting on the edge. The light is off in the surfboard room, and only the fluorescent light above the cash register is on in here. It’s eerily quiet. My keys sound like an out of tune instrument when I drop them back into my purse.
The noise is enough to drag Jace into the room. He doesn’t look professional today. He stands before us in ripped jeans and a faded black band tee. I’m not familiar with Frozen Bloodstream, I don’t like the fact that he’s wearing this shirt right now. Drenaline Surf’s bloodstream seems to be frozen at the moment.
“I’m sorry to make you guys come up here, but I needed to speak with each of you individually,” he says. “Kale, you want to come back with me first?”
Kale hesitates. “Is something wrong? Like, do I need to bring Haley with me or something?” he asks. “She manages my career, so if something’s wrong, maybe she needs to hear it too.”
Jace looks at the floor, away from us, and then finally turns his attention back to his Hooligan brother. “That’s up to you,” he says. “But you may prefer to do this on your own, given this situation.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean? I’m more than capable of handling this job. I make Colby Taylor look good, and that is something no one has been able to do since Shark McAllister.
