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She’s quiet in the car, and her eyes are closed. I don’t mind it one bit. She’s so easy to be around, never fussy or high maintenance. And something about her presence is comforting.

I park at the surf station on the beach and pay for the rentals. Chloe is slumped over her arms at a picnic table. I carry the boards and two wetsuits under my arm, along with a bag of supplies I’ve had Mason pull together for me this morning.

Setting the bag down on the table, I proceed to place the boards side by side in the sand. “First thing you need to know is how to paddle.”

I lie on the board and demonstrate. “You try.”

“I get the gist,” she croaks as she half-lifts her head from her arms.

Shaking my head, I steer her by the shoulders to the board. “Try it.”

She rocks her head side to side dramatically, but does as I ask, lying on her belly on the board. Her swimsuit barely covers her round bottom. I quickly divert my eyes.

“Good,” I say with a little cough, and she stands back up and adjusts her suit.

“Then you need to know how to pop up when you actually catch a wave.” I lie back down and show her. “You get in a low stance like this for stability.”

Folding my arms, I stare at her, waiting.

“Yeah, yeah. Now I try,” she relents. Lying back down on the board, she pops up quickly, her breasts jiggling with the effort.

I clear my throat with more force this time. “Okay. Well, let’s get you in the wetsuit.” At least that will cover her body and remove the unreasonably beautiful sight. Not that I’ll soon forget the look of her body in that suit. Every time I blink, she’s on the back of my eyelids. There have not been any babes in bikinis in the Alaska wilderness. I am not wholly prepared for these visuals.

Folding the top half of the wetsuit inside out, I hand it to her and then take mine to demonstrate. As she steps in, she jumps up and down to cram herself inside it. I try my best to ignore the imagery, but my body is, um, reacting. Just a little bit, but still. My pulse is thumping in my veins, and my bulge is well... bulging. It’s only biology, it doesn’t mean anything, I remind myself.

After I give her a beach lesson, I grab my board and we walk to the water’s edge just as the first light is peeking up behind us. It’s still dark out in the western facing ocean. “Come on.” I take the lead, stepping into the water, and Chloe stays close as we walk out until it’s deep enough that we can hop our bellies up on the boards and start to paddle out.

So far, Chloe paddles well through the small waves. This will be perfect weather for teaching her, even if the swells are too small for my taste.

When we make it out to a good spot, I tell her to turn and we wait, letting the boards roll gently over each wave as we talk.

“You’ll feel the swell start to take you. That’s when you pop up and get in that position I showed you.”

“Okay,” Chloe says, sounding a bit nervous.

“You’ve got this,” I cheer her on.

She gives me a hesitant look, but as soon as the next wave comes, she takes it. She even makes it upright, however briefly, until she waves her arms around like propellers and flies off the board into the ocean.

Her arms flail a little as she breaks the surface. I take the next wave and quickly ride over to her, vaguely aware of how good it feels to be on a board again, but much more focused on making sure she is okay.

“That was amazing, woman,” I praise her.

She wipes the water out of her eyes. “Yeah?”

“Definitely. Want to go again?”

“Okay,” she agrees, sounding hesitant.

We swim back out, and she catches another, falling again fairly quickly. We repeat the process a few more times until she gives me a tired look.

“You make this look so easy.”

“Years of practice. You want to ride with me one time?” I offer.

We leave her board on shore and then swim out together, hooking our arms over my sideways board and kicking our feet. The light in the sky is orange as the sun rises. Everything about this moment seems so perfectly peaceful. Life in Port Providence has its calm beautiful moments, but there is always a chore to do, or something that needs fixing. You always have to keep an eye out for danger. And maybe I should feel that way in the ocean too, but to me, this is my safe place, my comfort zone. I practically grew up in the water.

“Get toward the front of the board on your belly,” I tell her, and then I jump up on the back. My chest is just overlapping her feet.

As the wave comes, we paddle in tandem. “Pop up now,” I tell her, and together we leap to our feet.

With me adding stability to the board, I have more time to help her get into the best position. “Step a little wider.”

She does, and I step forward into her, holding her arms in mine to adjust her.

She giggles. “This feels amazing.”

My arms drop and wrap around her waist. “It does.” I hum the words, suspecting we are talking about two different things right now. Being close to Chloe like this, catching a good wave in the early morning light... this is a mix of nostalgia and tantalizing new ideas that are seriously impairing my brain. The feeling of surfing again is so powerful, it brings me back to a happier time in my life when I was fourteen and still innocent to most of the horrors of the world. And the feeling of Chloe in my arms... my hands pressed against her belly... I close my eyes and take in the moment, memorizing every part of it.

We ride the board straight to shore and smoothly step off. Chloe hugs me suddenly. “Thank you, that was amazing.”

I squeeze her back. She smells salty like the ocean. “I’m glad we got to do that together. I haven’t done that in twenty years.” I brush the wet hair from her forehead and then regret it, because my body is humming in response.

“Really? You were so good.” Her words are casual, as if she is wholly unaffected by me. Thank god.

I wave her off as we walk up to the picnic table. “I used to be better.”

We both unzip and peel away the wetsuits, and I hand her a towel to dry off. She wraps it around herself, up under her arms. It reminds me of what she must look like stepping out of the shower. I shake away the unwelcome thought.

“I brought some breakfast for us.” I grab the bag and pull out a beach blanket.

“You did?” She scrunches up her face. “That’s sweet. Is this the boyfriend treatment I requested?”

I shoot her a warning look that I’m sure she doesn’t fully understand. It’s not that I oppose her words in any way. It’s that they sound good, and that scares the shit out of me.

“Just let a girl dream. I’ve never had this.”

Smoothing out the blanket, I ask, “Never had what?”

“A boyfriend,” she says with a shrug as she sits down on the blanket. “A good date.”

Joining her, I unpack the items from the bag. I set out pastries, bottles of orange juice, and a package of fresh berries.

“Seriously?” I ask. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe it.” She grabs the juice, untwists the cap, and takes a long drink. I watch her creamy throat bob as she swallows.

“Is there any reason?” I question, opening the box of scones and taking a bite of one. It’s rich and buttery. Mason is right, these are incredible. I make a mental note to offer him a big tip later.

Chloe grabs a scone and takes a bite before answering. Her face relaxes in reply to the taste, her eyes going low, blinking her dark lashes in pleasure. I suddenly feel a swell of pride. Making her happy, making her enjoy something... that’s potent.

“No particular reason, other than the fact that I’m not going to date just any guy. I need a good man. And I’m not going to just throw it away on some random.”

“Throw what away?” I ask at the odd wording.

“Er... nothing.” She blushes.

“Come on, Chloe, you can tell your boyfriend anything.” I wink effortlessly, but even as I say those words, I feel heat in my gut. What is wrong with me today?

Her expression appears troubled as she takes a breath. “I am so lame compared to you. I mean, you’ve been married before. You’ve had a real grown-up relationship.”

She’s obviously not willing to explain, so I won’t push it. I grab her hand in mine. “Chloe, I would never judge you. And don’t compare yourself to me. I’m practically an old man.”

“You’re thirty-six,” she reminds me. “That’s not old.”

“Right, and you’re twenty-six. You have a lot of years left to live. Don’t rush anything.”

She nods and doesn’t press it as we finish our breakfast on the beach in the early morning light. The waves lap softly at the shore, the gulls start to caw as they take flight on the hunt for a morning meal. And I enjoy simply existing next to Chloe.

This moment is easily making this whole sordid trip to L.A. worth it.

My last interview of the day is very odd indeed. I sit alone in a chair, and the camera crew hands me a white foam board. On it reads lines like, “What does Henry Benson.” These statements are repeated over and over again. There are pieces of paper covering the second half of the questions.

The crew tells me that under each paper is the most searched for term on the internet.

I’m shocked to learn anyone has searched for me online at all.

“Why on earth would they do that?” I ask Chloe, who stands off to the side. Just her presence there, she’s like an anchor. The good kind that makes you feel steady.

She laughs and shakes her head.

The crew gives me strange looks.

“No internet in the wilderness,” Chloe reminds them of my ignorance, and they nod.

“How amazing. I’d die without the internet,” someone says.

Chloe and I exchange a little glance, and she ever so subtly rolls her eyes. I hold back a smile.

“Rolling,” someone shouts from behind the cameras. I can’t see them because the lights are so bright and blinding. That’s probably for the best.

As instructed, I introduce myself and then look down at the board and read, “What does Henry Benson...” then I peel the paper and finish, “...do for work?”

I look back up at the camera to answer. “A lot of things, I suppose. I chop wood. I help my neighbors work on their houses. I help in the garden. I hunt. I smoke the fish that we catch so they will last longer in storage.”

Pulling the paper off of the next question, I read the words, “What does Henry Benson look for in a woman?”

I give the camera a quizzical stare before my eyes dart over to Chloe.

“Smart, funny, silly, playful, confident, strong, and full-figured.” Maybe I shouldn’t have said that last one, but I was looking right at Chloe, and I have clearly lost my mind.

I swallow the sudden dryness in my mouth and finish off the board in rapid succession.

“What is Henry Benson’s age? Thirty-six. Where did Henry Benson grow up? In his father’s house. What did Henry Benson do in the marines? Special ops sniper.”

When the interview is over, I head over to Chloe. “How did I do?” I ask her.

“Awesome,” she confirms.

I huff in disagreement. “If you say so. Are you free tonight?”

She tilts her head. “Aren’t you sick of me yet?”

I hold back a smile. “In a place I loathe, you are my safe space.”

“That’s sweet.” She loops her arm through mine and presses her head to my shoulder.

I shake her off. “Enough of that nonsense. If you’re free, I wanted to see if you’ll come to this awful party tonight with me.”

“The one for the reality stars?” She smirks.

“Don’t call me that. Anything but that,” I bemoan, burying my face in my hands.

She grabs my wrists and pulls my hands down. “So, you need me to be your buffer?” She searches my eyes.

I shake my head. Sure, that is part of it, but it is more than that too. The way she says that, it cheapened my feelings. That’s not what she is to me. “I want you there with me to keep me company and enjoy the party with me. Please, Chloe.”

She smiles and looks down at herself. She’s wearing jeans ripped at the knees and a tight baby blue t-shirt that hugs her curves. “Well, I can’t go to an evening event dressed like this. I’d look crazy.”

After I take Chloe home to get changed, we head to the hotel where the party is being held. I hold her door for her and look her up and down. “Did I tell you that you look nice?”

“Nice? Wow. Don’t hold back.” She laughs lightly. Always teasing. Always cheery. I love that about her.

Nice was too weak a word for how Chloe looks, I know that, but this is hard for me. “You look…lovely.”

“Better.” She gives me a look of pity, like she sees inside me. Knows the inner turmoil I feel when I observe her beauty. Should it hurt to notice? Probably not. I’m pretty broken. I know that.

“Gorgeous.” I finally breathe the word I really want to say and grit my teeth, because even though it’s true, it’s bittersweet.