“Sixteen shirts, eight things of surf wax, and three surf leashes,” I recount to Jace the next morning. I place the inventory control forms on his desk. “That’s what we lost.”
“That along with four entry fees, my bail money, and those little things I used to call my reputation and dignity,” Jace says.
He unfolds the front page of the Cove Gazette to show me the damage. It’s in black and white, which I think actually makes it look harsher than it already does.
“I officially have a mug shot,” Jace declares. “Can I just hang myself on the Wall of Shame next to Colby’s coffee table meltdown?”
I haven’t actually looked at that wall since the day Vin taped Colby’s tabletop disaster to it. He seems to have added to it along the way, before his big departure. There’s an article about Colby’s parents with a photograph of Mrs. Burks. It’s from the day of her arrival. She’s on the beach with that large sunhat, hand over her heart, jaw dropped. How unbelievable staged.
“Personally, I think you’ve earned your spot,” I say, reaching over for the tape dispenser.
Jace laughs, which eases some of the nervousness I felt when I woke up this morning. He’s brushing this off. He’s moving forward. That’s the attitude we need right now.
“I bet Shark never imagined my mug shot would be on the wall of Drenaline Surf when he started posting photographs on the wall in the board room,” Jace says.
A swell of nostalgia washes into the office, taking Jace on an epic ride along a wave called memory lane. I need to spend more time up here, taking in the little things. That first day in the store, I was so excited to find that picture of Colby and Shark in the midst of surf injuries and beach parties on the wall. I want to go back to that moment, just to feel that way again.
“We’ve gotta fix this mess,” Jace says, pulling me away from the memory. “Can you talk to the other guys about Logan’s idea? We need to get this surf lessons thing up and going pretty quickly. We need some good publicity, and we desperately need to drive some business in here.”
“I’ll handle it,” I assure him.
It’s only a few hours after lunch, but that doesn’t mean anything to Miles Garrett. When I asked him and Emily to tag along with Topher and me for the afternoon, I didn’t bother to tell them about my hidden agenda – also known as ‘get the Hooligans onboard with Logan’s idea to make Drenaline Surf look good.’ All I had to say was ‘burritos’ and ‘hang out.’
Topher sits in my driver’s seat, with Miles behind him and Emily behind me. Even though Emily and I were right here at the drive-in last night, it didn’t stop her from wanting to come back today. She only orders a grape slush this time, though. Miles, on the other hand, orders four breakfast burritos (at three o’clock in the afternoon), and Topher orders a cheeseburger. This is why they can’t stand living with Colby Taylor.
“So, I need some surfer feedback,” I say, angling toward Topher so he and Miles can both see me. “We’ve been trying to come up with something that would bring in new business, make Drenaline Surf look good, and get our surfers involved without making you stand behind the cash register.”
Miles groans. “I’m just ready to be back in the water,” he says.
“Exactly,” I agree, hoping I can lead him into this. “What do you think about giving surf lessons?” I ask.
Before they can answer, our food is delivered. This will work to my advantage because they won’t be talking. As soon as Topher pays and the car-hop disappears, I give them the pitch I’ve been working on all day.
“Think about it. You get out of the store, into the ocean, get to surf during business hours, and you get a commission off any lessons you give,” I say. “And you can do it once a week or whatever works with your schedule. Nothing is set in stone.”
Topher tilts his head like a confused puppy, but I know that far away look that’s in his eyes. He’s thinking about it. He’s playing it out in his head. Right now, he’s out there in those crystal blue waters of Crescent Cove.
“I’m in,” he says, far too easily.
“That was much simpler than I expected,” I admit to him.
He smiles a classic Topher Brooks kind of smile. “I was just thinking about what it was like when I was a kid. Just a grom, frothing to get out there and catch my first wave,” he says, still smiling. “Sometimes, when I get in the water, I remember that first day with Shark, him telling me when to pop up. It was the best feeling. He’d want me to do this.”
I glance over at Miles. He shrugs and says something that sounds like ‘sure’ but it’s hard to tell when he’s teeth-deep in a burrito. Topher starts telling us about the first time he surfed in Horn Island, down by the pier, years before it collapsed. It was the day of his first wipe out, and he laughs when he says that he told Shark he was never surfing again afterward.
He begins to say something else but stops when he feels a shadow looming over him. I duck my head down near my car’s radio to see the person who just walked up to my car. I don’t recognize him. Apparently, neither does Topher.
My boyfriend cracks the window, just barely. “Can we help you?” he asks.
“Are you Topher Brooks?” the guy asks. “The guy who surfs for Drenaline Surf?”
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.