by Bianca Mori
The audience breaks into a smattering of applause. I step up to the center of the room. “Today I’m going to share with you something very personal. It’s the story of my passion. I’m going to talk to you about...surfing.”
Tina and Michelle exchange smiles.
“Picture me on a wave.
“Surfing takes something that is the definition of effort and makes it look effortless. We like to say a person ‘coasted on a project’ or ‘surfed through deadlines’ like it’s such an easy breezy thing.
“Wrong.
“Surfing hurts.”
The door to the back of the room opens, and there enters Luke. My heart skips a beat as he takes a seat in the back. But I can’t let myself dwell on how he looks, or how he makes me feel. I instead use the unsteadiness his entrance has caused me, and continue with my speech.
I talk about learning to surf at age 17. I talk about my gifts. I make it to the halfway point.
“...Although I hadn’t planned for it, now I had a real reason to wake up in the morning, aside from funding my next surfing trip.
“It’s been well, you see. My son’s replace my waves. I haven’t surfed or been in the ocean for nearly five years.”
I pause. Luke hasn’t heard this last bit of the speech because I’ve only worked on it with Michelle, and the last time she and I spoke, we’d left the ending ambiguous since I hadn’t yet decided how to close it.
I swallow my nerves and look up.
“But what I’ve realized, what I shouldn’t have forgotten, is that surfing hurts. Being a mother hurts. Love hurts. Anything worth doing hurts. I’d even wager that the more passion you have for something, the greater the cost, the greater the risk.
“When I surfed, I risked my wallet. I risked drowning. I risked injury. Every time I traveled, I risked getting mugged. Being a mother? No one understands risks more than mothers. It is terrifying--a round-the-clock novena of worries of every terrible thing that may happen to your child.
“When I had my gift, I made the decision not to raise him in fear. I said to myself I wouldn’t implant in him the terror of things that lurk in the shadows, that bite and scratch and leave scars that do not harm the body but stay deep where they cannot be reached. I said I would raise him to be brave.
“And now I think it’s time I followed my own advice.
“Let me tell you the same hard-fought wisdom I tell myself.
“I will no longer hide from the waves that tower over me and threaten me.
“I will no longer live in fear of what will be said for a small portion of the entire span of time given to me in this world.
“I learned to surf when I was young, but as I grew older, I’d forgotten two key lessons this passion of mine has taught me. One: that any wave can be conquered. Two: if you fail and fall, the only way to respond is to climb back up.
“Surfing taught me, through pain and risk and effort, how to ride impossible waves. And so I will honor that lesson by being brave and riding them once more.”
The room erupts into applause as I finish. Michelle is giving me a beatific smile while Tina looks proud and impressed.
I dare not look to the back of the room just yet.
“Thank you all,” I smile graciously. “Now I know we only have a limited time for this course demo since the material we designed is good for an eight-hour class, and we only have a few minutes. So if it is alright with you, I’d like to deliver an expedited, condensed version of the first three of the Twenty Tips That Will Blow Your Audience Away.”
Peter puts his fingers to his mouth and whistles. My classmates are cheering for me. The training leads look pleased and expectant.
I look to the back of the room. Luke meets my eyes with a knowing smile and a nod.
I start the demo.
***
“Can I just say?” Michelle says, after another hug. “I really enjoyed working on this project with you. That was an amazing speech.”
My heart swells like a balloon and I’m bright red with pride and pleasure at her compliment. I may have stammered an aw, shucks as well.
“I mean it,” she says, reaching out to squeeze my shoulder.
“Congratulations,” says Tina, and it’s the most excited I’ve ever seen her look or sound. “That was a really innovative and effective demo. I’m looking forward to seeing the entire curriculum on my desk by Wednesday?”
“I’ll have it by tomorrow, Tina.”
“Wonderful. We should do a live pilot with—mmm, let’s see, Project Belle’s L-Dev delegates are due for a communications refresh, let’s try them, shall we? And then I’ll let you know if there are any other changes need to be made.” She winks. “But so far I would say I think not.”
“Thank you.” I stand off to one side of the conference room and pack up the training laptop as Tina, Michelle and the rest of the group move outside, exchanging notes and greetings.
Project Belle, the code-named team that handles customer service and back-end finance for a life insurance giant, is one of the largest projects in Star Contact. Their training classes average around thirty people per wave. My nerves pitch at the thought of handling that many people, but unlike the dread I’m expecting to feel, this particular brand of nerves are jumpy. Excited, even.
I crawl under the table and untangle the laptop’s LAN cable.
Being in front of today’s demo, doing my speech, going through the material—it’s given me a rush that I’d only ever felt while, well, surfing. It’s a rush of purpose and enjoyment, that sweet spot in life’s Venn diagram when things fall into place and make sense, the intersection of passion with vocation.
Suddenly I’m convinced I can handle Project Belle.
“Mags?”
I crawl back out from under the table and face him. Luke holds out a hand and helps me up.
“That was…” he says softly. His eyes are soft and liquid, and there’s a weird mix of pride and diffidence on his face. It’s like looking into the sun; I can’t do it for too long. “That was amazing,” he finishes.
“Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Don’t be modest,” he frowns. “It was your idea. I just helped shape it into something teachable.”
“And for that I say thanks.”
“Alright,” he chuckles softly.
“Thanks,” I say again, and my voice turns soft as well. “For being here. For...for everything.”
His eyes shine. “Mags. I’m sorry for blowing it with you. I’m sorry I was insensitive.”
The words sweep out to me like a current. I reach out and grasp his arms to keep from drifting away.
He grasps me back. “But I want to try again.”
The current tugs at me and my ears fill with the sound of rushing water. “Why do you like me, Luke?” I have no idea why I ask that, but it’s the first thing that pops into my head.
“Because you’re brave,” he says huskily. “You’re brave and kind and smart and amazing.”
I shake my head. “You idealize me, Luke. I’m not some doomed Madonna. I’m just a person who’s made a lot of wrong choices. If you know me long enough, you’ll realize that too.”
“Would it help if I said you’re also hot and I’ve had a crush on you the moment you entered my classroom?”
I have to laugh out loud at that, and try to smother the rush of feminine pride at the compliment. But I can’t help a mental fist-pump. He thinks I’m hot, ‘yo. This younger guy thinks this thirtysomething single mom is hot. We-he-hell, naysayers!
“I might have idealized you,” he continues. “I’ll give you that. But I’m not interested in something two-dimensional. I’m a human being too. And I want someone who’s flesh and blood and imperfect, just like me.”
My grip on him tightens. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
And then he crushes me against his chest so tightly the breath is hugged out of me. My own arms twist around that strong, broad back and I tak
e a huge lungful of his piney-mint smell.
“God I’ve missed you,” he murmurs in my hair.
“I miss you too.”
“Can we work this out?”
I push back so I can raise my head and look him in the eye.
“Will you be brave, Mags? Like you said in your talk?”
In response, I rise on my toes and kiss him on the mouth.
“I will be, Luke.” The surprise on his face is so gratifying. Before he can lean in and kiss me again I push a finger against his lips. “Will you promise to talk to me first before making decisions that involve me?”
“I promise,” he says, darting a tongue out to my finger and closing the space between us with another kiss.
“Are you sure this isn’t a Jerry Maguire thing?” I push out, when we come up for air. He raises a brow. “Lord, I keep forgetting how small you must’ve been when that movie came out.”
“I can catch it sometime.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “Explain?”
“Renee Zellweger has an adorable kid in that movie which is the main reason why Tom Cruise marries her, even if he only really likes, not loves her.”
His grin turns sly. “We’re jumping the gun on marriage, aren’t we?”
I stick out my tongue. “You get it, right? Are you attracted to me because of Magnus?”
“I’ve been attracted to you the day you popped into my training class,” he smirks. “Wasn’t I obvious?”
“Heh. Not obvious enough.”
He tightens his hug around me. “But Magnus is an adorable child. I’d love to...you know. Be around. For him.”
I smile. “We’ll work it out.”
“We will.”
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Magnus’s face is glows, and it’s not just from being out in the sun and sand all day.
“Happy birthday, dear Magnuuuuussss….”
The hostel staff are approaching our table, two of them bearing a simple round chocolate cake lit with four sparkler-like candles. The other guests in the kitchen-bar look around and start clapping and joining in with the song.
Magnus gets up on the wooden bench we’re sitting on and starts clapping. The look on his golden face is pure and perfect with joy.
“Did you do this?” I lean back to mutter to Luke.
He winks back.
My heart stops a bit at the sight of him, deeply tanned and shirtless in his board shorts and bare feet, looking like the beach surf god of my dreams.
The staff sets the cake down on our table and sing out the last line of the song.
“Blow the candle, Buchoy!” I urge him.
Magnus smiles widely, gathers a big gulp of air, and proceeds to blow air—and bits of spit—on the birthday candles.
“Good job, King Magnus!” Luke applauds.
“Please, have a slice!” I tell the staff.
A knife, utensils and small plates are procured, the cake sliced and divided among the few occupied tables. The other guests come by to thank us for the cake and wish Magnus a happy birthday.
“I love this place,” says Luke through a mouthful of cake. “Everyone’s so chill and friendly.”
“Me too. This is my favorite,” I eye the artsy, colorful decor.
“Mama!” Magnus pipes up. He’s got a chocolate icing beard around his mouth. “Go back beach!”
“Sure.” He wriggles madly as I wet a napkin and try to clean his face up. “I think it’s time for Tito Luke’s surf lesson too.”
Luke’s face goes from chill to nervous in half a second. “Are you sure? We can, like--”
As soon as his cake mustache has disappeared, Magnus runs out to the shore where a couple of pals are waiting for him with skimboards. One of the kids throws the short board onto where the waves break against the shore. Magnus runs, hops onto the board, and expertly rides it for a few moments before tumbling onto the sand, laughing raucously.
I raise a brow at Luke. “My kid just showed you up, Hot Shot.”
“That’s not fair!” he protests. “He’s got your genes! You’re like, the surf goddess.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Hey, I watched you all day yesterday. Are you sure you haven’t been on the water for almost five years?”
“It’s like riding a bike or driving a car,” I beam at him. “Once you know how to do it, you’ll always remember.”
He bites his lip as he watches the waves from the distance, welling up from the horizon to rush and crash onto the beach. A couple of guys are out on the water, including Bek, Luke’s instructor.
I get up and offer him my hand. “Are you ready, Luke?”
He takes it with a warm, firm grip. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
---THE END---
Do you want to find out what happens to Cass and her guy that got away? Read on for a sneak peek at Four Basic Principles, a short story featured in the Summer Feels #romanceclass anthology!
Proximity
Cass
“What the fuck, Cass. What the fuck, what the fuck.” Behind giant sunglasses, I could make out Ran’s eyes, wide and disbelieving. “You said you were never going to sleep with him again.”
“I know.”
“The last time this happened—”
“I know.”
“You almost dropped out of college!”
“Keep it down, will you?” Despite the loud engine and the combined roar of the wind and the waves, I worried about Ran’s shriek. “And I did not threaten to leave school because of some guy. You’re exaggerating!”
“Whatever,” she rolled her eyes, pursing her perfectly lined mouth. “I don’t think they can hear us anyway.” She shot a dirty look at our old friends, Janna and Tim, whose engagement we were celebrating with this trip to Southern Cebu, and whose tongues were shoved down each other’s throats.
“I liked them much better when she was threatening him with a bottle of Red Horse,” she said with a toss of her ash blonde hair.
I squirmed in my seat. A banca flying through the terrifying sapphire waters of Tañon Strait wasn’t a conducive place for squirming, but I managed it. At the other end of the outrigger boat sat the object of my confession—Angelo Vicente Torrejon IV. Gelo. Twice my one-night-stand-partner (Is it still called that if it’s happened twice?), and, once upon a time, my best friend.
Well, “best friend” is a subjective term. What do you call the guy you meet in the freshman orientation for your useless liberal arts course and then spend the next entire semester with, since your class schedules and breaks matched, filling your time with passionate, drawn-out arguments about the future and your respective world views, arguments that spill over to the evenings and social media messages on the weekends? Whatever the right term, he and I were once it. Until . . . well, the first one-night stand.
Gelo gripped the bow as the boat rose and dipped in the water, but otherwise remained still as though deep in meditation. He’d shed his shirt; the early morning sun glinted off his sculpted shoulders like white gold.
Just last night, I gripped those very same muscles so tightly, resisting the urge to run my nails down them because I didn’t want to leave marks. Drunk as I was, I remembered not to do that.
His back was turned to me, so I kept staring until Brix, who’d been lying half asleep on one of the benches, stood and took a selfie with Gelo.
Ran sighed. “Fucking Brix. This is all his fault.”
Gelo
“Say cheese, Gelo!”
Brix draped an arm around me and angled his iPhone so that the sun created hollows and contours in his face. He snapped a few more shots and then turned the camera to the island we were now approaching.
“It’s so lovely!” he cried.
It was a grass-covered rock in the sea, but yeah, sure. Lovely. I scooted forward on the bow, out of reach of more enforced selfies. The ocean spray doused me—nature’s cold shower.
“Pescador Island,” pointed the boatman, Jimmy. “Good s
norkeling. Many divers. Many fish.”
I should have been thinking of more of the wonders that this vacation, which had already taken us to fairytale waterfalls and pristine beaches, would offer. Instead, I thought of an old graphic design lecture. It ran in my head throughout this trip, my mentor’s voice intoning like a centering mantra.
One of the four key principles of graphic design is proximity. Good design features related elements grouped together so that they form a cohesive visual element, reflecting their relationship.
Three years of avoidance, four years of separation, my best friend’s surprise engagement, and here I was, now, mere feet away from Cass where there was once a continent. Yet even in the same plane and van and boats and restaurants, I’d tried to create distance—anything to keep related elements from cohesion. But then we arrived at the quaint inn at the southern Cebu town of Moalboal late yesterday afternoon, and Brix declared: “I’m bunking with Ran! I’ve had enough of Gelo’s hetero brooding.”
There was an empty bed in my twin room and then there was Cass’ backpack, slipped on top of the white sheet while I was in the shower. After dinner, there was an invitation to one of the bars along the beach. Janna and Tim left, then Ran and Brix, and then there was the two of us, walking down a narrow path in between dive shops and cafes.
There it was again: two empty beds and enough beer consumed to bring hidden wants to the surface.
Proximity was a bitch.
***
Get Summer Feels: a #romanceclass anthology on Amazon.
Acknowledgments
This story wouldn’t exist if not for the #MomLit crew. Someone had an idea to write short stories featuring characters who were mothers (and also older, heh-heh.) Messages were exchanged, and then someone very efficiently did a story before giving birth, and then someone else started theirs, and I got all pressured to do mine, and months later I ended up with something significantly longer than a short story, and I didn’t know what to do with it. (The answer was to release it on its own and do another proper, on-theme short story, like hahaha no biggie sure why not. Wah and also yay? Yay!)
