Текст книги "Pulled Under"

Автор книги: Michelle Dalton

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

July

It’s Tuesday morning and in about fifteen minutes Ben and the summer campers will arrive for their weekly lesson. This will be the first time the kids are going to try to stand up on their boards, and I’ve recruited Nicole and Sophie to help me demonstrate good technique. It will also be the first time I’ve seen Ben since the kiss, so I’m hoping they’ll help me with that, too.

Since we’ve already established that I’m useless at picking up signs, I figure it can’t hurt to have my own signal-deciphering support staff. Of course that means I have to tell them about the kiss, which I haven’t done yet. I drop that bomb while we’re carrying all of the gear down from the shop to the beach.

“By the way,” I say as if early morning romantic encounters on the beach were just part of my every day. “Did I mention the passionate kiss I had with Ben?”

At first they think I’m joking, but then they see the expression on my face.

“Seriously?” Sophie says with total disbelief. “That seriously happened?”

I nod.

“When?” asks Nicole. “This morning? Last night?”

“Yesterday . . . morning,” I say sheepishly.

“And we’re only hearing about this now? We were with you all yesterday afternoon. How did it not come up?”

The truth is I didn’t tell them yesterday because I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I’m still not. I know it was awesome and wonderful and the most romantic moment of my life. But it almost feels like it was part of a movie I saw and not something that actually happened to me.

“Details,” Sophie says, more as a demand than a request. “Right now.”

“Okay,” I respond. “But we have to keep setting up. The kids and Ben will be here soon.”

I tell them everything as we lay a dozen soft boards out on the sand. After a day to analyze and obsess over every detail, it’s refreshing to actually tell the story. Hearing it aloud reinforces the fact that it really did happen and wasn’t just my imagination. I tell them about catching the last wave and walking up onto the beach. They both eat up the part about Ben sitting in the sand clapping.

“Cute, cute, cute,” Nicole says with a broad smile. “So very cute.”

And although I’m somewhat embarrassed by the melodramatic tone of my conversation with him, I give them an honest recounting of what was said. By the time I get to the kiss, they are eating out of the palm of my hand.

“And . . . ,” Nicole says when I finish.

“And what?” I ask.

“And . . . what happened next?” Sophie asks.

“You heard the part where we kissed, right? That was kind of the big finish.”

They look cheated.

“There’s got to be more!” Sophie claims. “Did he just vanish into thin air? Didn’t you say anything?”

“I’m sure I said something, but my head was spinning way too much for me to remember what it was. I do seem to recall that we were both in a sort of stunned ‘I don’t know what to make of what just happened’ silence during the walk back up from the beach to my house.”

“Was there any sort of follow-up moment?” Nicole asks hopefully

I think about it and nod. “There was a part when I sort of manipulated the situation so that we could kiss again.”

“And yet you left that out?” Sophie asks, frustrated. “You know you’re terrible at telling this story.”

“How did you manipulate it?” asks Nicole.

“When we reached the house, we went around into the backyard and I asked him to help me put my board back on the rack. I told him it had to go on the top pegs but had trouble reaching that high by myself.”

Nicole laughs. “Why did you tell him it needed to be up there?”

I am almost too embarrassed to answer.

“I said it needed to be in direct sunlight to keep any condensation from contracting the foam core.”

They both look at each other and then back at me.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Nicole says. “It’s like you just made up words.”

“I know that and you know that, but he doesn’t know that,” I explain. “It’s not like I could say I wanted him to do it because he’s tall and I was looking for an excuse to brush up against him.”

“Did it work?” asks Sophie. “Did you brush up against him?”

I smile at the memory and nod. “It was electric. I turned and looked up at him, and I was just about to kiss him again when . . .”

“. . . yeah . . . ,” they say eagerly.

“. . . my dad came out from the house to go on his morning run.”

They sag. “Argghhhh.”

“That’s when it got awkward. Dad said something like, ‘Hey Ben, what are you doing here?’ And I sort of panicked.”

“Oh my God,” Sophie gasps. “What did you say?”

“I told him that Ben had stopped by so the two of them could go running together.”

Sophie and Nicole both laugh out loud.

“You did not,” says Sophie.

“No, that’s exactly what I did. Because, you know, I’m so smooth.”

“And Ben went along with it?” asks Nicole.

“He didn’t really have much of a choice. They ran eight miles. By the time they got back, he had to go chaperone the campers on a field trip to the Kennedy Space Center and there was no chance to follow up.”

“So you haven’t seen him since it happened?” asks Nicole.

“The first time will be in a few minutes when he arrives here. I figure it should be a very romantic follow-up. What with all the screaming kids and of course my favorite person on the planet, Kayla McIntyre.”

“Forget about Kayla,” Sophie says. “He’s already picked you over her. She lost. You won. Game over. You’re his summer romance.”

“It was one kiss,” I say, trying to maintain some semblance of reality. “In my world one kiss is a huge deal, but in the regular world I don’t know that it qualifies as a summer romance.”

“Do not sell yourself short,” says Nicole. “You always do that. It was a kiss with purpose.”

“It was a kiss that he had to run eight miles for,” I reply. “How bad is that?”

“No,” she says. “It was a kiss that he thought was worth running eight miles for. How awesome is that?”

“The tall girl makes a valid point,” says Sophie. “He likes you. And when you didn’t get the signs he was sending, he built you a billboard.”

“Okay, maybe he does like me,” I concede. “But he’s just broken up with a longtime girlfriend, and he’s all freaked out about his parents’ divorce. I’m not sure he’s looking for a full-fledged summer romance.”

“Well, whatever he’s looking for,” Sophie says, pointing toward the beach access, “we’re about to find out.”

I turn and see Ben marching the kids our way. He’s acting like his normal goofy self, which is a good start, but while he’s wearing his sunglasses I can’t really read his expression.

“Do not sell yourself short,” Nicole reminds me just before they get within earshot. “You are totally worthy of long distance running.”

I appreciate the pep talk, but I’m still in full panic mode right up until the moment he reaches us and flashes that smile. It’s a huge relief. I realize that part of me was worried that he completely regretted what had happened and that he was going to act differently around me. I still don’t know what there is between us, but at least now I know there’s nothing awkward about it, so that’s a big step.

Kayla is her normal self, gorgeous and obnoxious (gorbnoxious?) all at once. She’s got a new bathing suit that truly showcases her (not so) secret weapons, but today I have a secret weapon of my own—Sophie. Wherever Kayla goes, Sophie is right by her side acting like they’re BFFs, roommates, and sorority sisters all rolled into one. This makes it impossible for her to flirt with Ben. When we line up to stretch, Sophie slides in front of Kayla so that she obstructs Ben’s view of her. And when it’s time to pick demonstration partners, Sophie latches on to her arm and exclaims, “We have to be partners, Kayla! We just have to!”

Despite all the subterfuge and mental distractions, the big news of the morning is the lesson. We keep the soft boards—large, padded surfboards—on the sand and practice our paddling and pop-up techniques. Then we hit the water and put them into practice. I can’t express how exciting it is to see the kids’ faces light up the first time they get up on their feet and ride a wave. Even though we’re only in three feet of water, it’s exhilarating for them.

My favorite is Rebecca, the shy girl I noticed the first day. She has continued to come out of her shell a little more each week. Today she stays up on the board the longest of anyone, and I can see in her the same spark I had when I was her age at this camp.

Throughout it all, Ben and I exchange quick glances and whispered comments. Our hands touch a couple of times as we help kids get up on their boards, and once when I’m not looking his way, he uses a boogie board to splash me, which gets a big laugh from everyone. Even with my compromised sign-reading ability, it all seems kind of flirty.

We finally have a brief moment right after the lesson when the kids are taking an orange slice and bottled water break. I look over and see that Kayla is still dealing with Hurricane Sophie, which means she won’t be able to drop in on me again like she usually does.

“They did great today,” I say.

“You did great today,” he replies. “The way you love it so much connects with them. They want to feel the same way because it’s so real.”

There’s an awkward pause, so I just jump headfirst into the situation.

“Speaking of real . . . ,” I say, unleashing the worst segue in history, “did that really happen yesterday?”

He smiles and nods. “It did. In fact, I think it was maybe going to happen again when we were interrupted.”

“By ‘interrupted’ you mean when you had to take an eight-mile detour with my dad?”

“Kinda, yeah,” he says. “I have to say I did not see that coming. I was hoping that maybe we could talk about it. . . . You know, without so many people around.”

“That can be arranged.”

“How about after work?”

“Sure. My shift ends at six thirty.”

“Great, I’ll meet you at the shop,” he says. “You’re not going to make me go running with your dad again?”

I shake my head. “I promise.”

“Good, ’cause I’m planning on wearing my flip-flops so I blend in with the locals. And those things really make you blister around the three-mile mark.”

Our eyes linger for a moment, and I say, “See you at six thirty.”

“See you then.”

He rushes off to make sure the kids pick up all their orange peels and water bottles, and I start stacking up the surfboards to carry back up to the shop. I see Kayla finally break free of Sophie and head our way, but she’s too late. Today’s score is Dolphin 1, Shark 0. And the dolphin is now in it to win it.

Although Sophie and Nicole seem to think that all the signs they saw on the beach were positive, I’m still approaching the situation with total caution. All I really know is that Ben’s coming to talk with me after work. Maybe he’s planning to say that the kiss was a mistake, or that while he likes me, he doesn’t like me like me. It’s all so hard to figure out.

I spend most of the day watching the clock, and at 6:13 I’m in the middle of my “do you see yourself as a shark or a dolphin?” routine with a girl looking for a bikini when Ben comes into the store. He smiles and waves, and since I don’t want to be rude to the customer, I respond on the sly with a half smile and a raised eyebrow that I hope looks cool and not like a nervous twitch.

“Which do you like best?” the girl asks, holding up two swimsuits.

I give her my undivided attention, consider both suits, and point to the one in her left hand. “That one.”

She scrunches up her face. “I think I like the other one better.”

I resist the urge to say, “Then why did you ask me?” and instead go with, “That one looks cute too. Why don’t you try it on?”

She heads for the changing room, and I turn back to look for Ben. Only now he’s gone. I scan the shop and half worry that maybe I’m just imagining him now. (Imaginary boyfriend—that does kind of sound like me.)

Sophie sees my distress as she walks over. “Badger Ben just went out to the garage,” she says, referring to the room where we keep all the surfboards.

“‘Badger’ Ben?”

“You shot down all the dairy nicknames, so I thought I’d try something else. In addition to being America’s Dairy Land, Wisconsin is known as the Badger State. I figure Badger Ben has alliteration and a nice ring to it.”

I don’t pretend to understand what it is with Sophie and nicknames, but I’m a little too anxious at the moment to get into it. “How did he seem?”

“Like he was about to break your heart,” she says. “He’s probably going to tell you that he never wants to see you again and he’s running off to marry Kayla.”

I gasp before I realize she’s joking.

“You might want to turn down the nervous knob,” she says, with a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Listen to the music. I picked this playlist specifically to help you mellow out.”

In the shop we usually play a steady blend of beach, Hawaiian, and reggae music, and after a while you stop hearing it and it disappears into the background of your brain. But now that I listen, I realize that Bob Marley is singing one of my favorite tunes: “Don’t worry about a thing, ’cause every little thing gonna be all right. . . .”

“Okay,” I say after I get the hint, and take a couple of deep breaths. “I’ll calm down.”

“Good, because you’re much better when you’re relaxed. You’re not one of those ‘performs well under pressure’ kind of girls.”

“Gee thanks, Coach. Good to know I can always get a pep talk.”

“I’m just keeping it real.”

“By the way,” I add, “‘Badger Ben’ is a no go.”

She shrugs. “I knew it the second I said it, but you gotta try these things out to be sure.”

Fifteen minutes later my shift is over and the girl has finally decided on a bikini. It goes without saying that she picked the first one I had recommended. I remind myself that it’s important for her to be comfortable with her purchase, so I don’t mind the other five we had to go through before we got back to it.

Once she’s made her purchase, I am free to go and head over to the garage. It’s been my favorite part of the shop ever since I was a kid and I’d come to look at all the boards and try to figure out which one was made just for me. We don’t have nearly the number that Surf City has in its inventory, but all of ours are choice. About half of them are custom made in the area. These cost a little more, but they are beyond sweet.

Personally, I’m saving up to buy my very own M & M, which is what we call the boards that Mickey and Mo shape themselves. They only make about a dozen a year, so they’re pretty hard to come by.

Speaking of Mo, when I get to the garage, I see her in back talking to Ben. She’s in her midfifties, but she looks much younger than that. A life spent surfing, swimming, and kayaking has kept her extremely fit. It also keeps her hair wet a lot of the time, which is why she usually just pulls it back in a ponytail.

Of the two sisters, I’m closer to her. This is no knock on Mickey; it’s just that Mo and I have more in common. Mickey’s loud and in your face like Sophie, but Mo hangs around the edges like I do. We surf alike too. Both of us favor a long, smooth style rather than a more athletic and aggressive one.

She’s showing Ben a display case that serves as a tribute to Steady Eddie, her father. It has all sorts of artifacts including surfing trophies, a lifesaving medal, and even his torpedo buoy, which is the big float that lifeguards carried back in the day.

“He won every surf contest in the state,” she says, beaming with pride.

“What about King of the Beach?” Ben asks, referring to our local contest. “Did he win that one too?”

Mo laughs. “Seven times—more than anyone.”

“Awesome,” says Ben. “Where’s the trophy for that?”

“At Surf City,” she says. “It always goes to the current champion.”

“That’s kind of unfair,” says Ben.

“I don’t know,” she replies. “It’s in their store, but Dad’s name is on it seven times. Mickey and I think of it as covertly advertising our store over there.”

“Why don’t you ask her who’s won it the second most times?” I say, interrupting.

“We’re in the middle of a conversation, Izzy,” she says, deflecting the comment.

“Go ahead and ask her,” I say again.

“Who won the second most times?” he asks.

She’s reluctant to answer, but Ben and I wait her out, and she finally concedes, “Mickey and I have each won it four times.”

“You were King of the Beach?” Ben asks.

She nods.

“The only two girls to ever win it,” I add, because I know that Mo won’t.

“That means between you two and your dad, you guys have your name engraved on it fifteen times.”

“I never thought of it that way, but I guess so.” Mo is uncomfortable receiving praise, so she redirects the conversation. “Ben, why don’t you show Izzy what you learned?”

“Oh, yeah. Watch this, Iz.” One by one he points to a row of surfboards, identifying each one by type as he goes. “This is a shortboard, this is an egg, this is a fish, and this one . . . is . . . a gun?”

“That’s right, a gun,” Mo says. “Now which one is the quad?”

“The fish,” he says, pointing toward it. “Because it has four fins.”

“Perfect.”

“Very impressive,” I say.

Feeling good about his surfboard IQ, he turns to Mo and adds, “I can do more than identify. I also know that you have to keep them in direct sunlight so that the condensation doesn’t contract the foam.”

Mo starts to correct him, but I shake her off and she lets it slide. Instead she turns to me and says, “I understand you’re going to be teaching Ben the fine art.” She always refers to surfing as “the fine art.”

“Yes, I am,” I say.

She gives us the once-over and nods her approval. “Good choice.”

I don’t know if she’s saying that I’m a good choice as a teacher for him or if he’s a good choice as a guy for me. Knowing Mo, it’s probably a combination of both.

“I’ll be happy to take any pointers that you may have too,” he tells her. “After all, you are a four-time King of the Beach. Or is it Queen?”

“King works,” she says with more than a little pride. She thinks about it and says, “My advice is that you should remember to fall in love with your heart and not with your brain. . . .”

I start to stammer something about it being way too early to use the L word, but catch myself when she continues.

“So pick a board that speaks to you right here.” She taps him in the center of the chest. “And always listen to what Izzy tells you. The girl has the gift.”

“I’ll do that,” he says.

Mo smiles and leaves us in the garage. For the first time since my dad interrupted us yesterday morning, we are alone. I look at him. He looks at me. And I realize I have no idea what to say. You’d think that since I’ve been obsessing over this moment for the last six hours, I might have come up with an opening line.

“Hi.” (Clever, huh?)

“Hi,” he says. “Is your shift over?”

“Yep,” I say. “Although I do have to be home for dinner in about an hour.”

He thinks this over for a moment. “An hour, huh? That doesn’t really leave us enough time to run the eight miles I was hoping to get in, so do you want to just go out on the pier and look at the ocean instead?”

“It’s one of my favorite things in the world.”

The Pearl Beach Fishing Pier is rare in that it’s equally popular with tourists and locals alike. It stretches out from the southern end of the boardwalk and is exactly one quarter mile long. When Ben and I get there, it’s low tide and the beach is at its widest. That means we have to walk nearly a third of the length of the pier before we’re actually over the water. There are people fishing from both sides for most of the way, but none at the far end. There’s also no railing at the end, which allows boats to tie off and lets us sit down on the edge and dangle our feet over the water.

“It’s pretty,” Ben says, looking out at endless ocean.

“It’s better than pretty,” I say as I close my eyes and feel the sea mist against my face. “It’s perfect.”

There’s that word again—“perfect.” It’s the same word I used to describe him yesterday morning, and I wonder if he makes the connection.

We’re both quiet for a little while, and I can tell he’s thinking of what to say. I decide to beat him to the punch.

“I’m pretty sure I know why you wanted to talk,” I offer. “And I’d just like to apologize for all the melodramatic baggage I laid on you yesterday. I also want to apologize for giving you the cold shoulder lately. You deserve better.”

“First of all, you don’t need to apologize for anything,” he says. “And secondly, that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

I take a deep breath. This is it.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“You’ve told me great things about the beach and surfing. You’ve told me where to eat and how to dress.”

“But . . . ,” I say. “This sounds like it’s leading to a ‘but.’”

I open my eyes and turn to him. He’s looking right at me.

“But,” he says, “you’ve told me almost nothing about yourself. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk about you.”

This catches me off guard. Completely off guard.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you know all kinds of things about me. You know about my parents getting divorced. You know about me breaking up with my ex-girlfriend. You know about my school and my uncle and that I run cross-country. But the only thing I know about you is that your favorite ice cream flavor is mint chocolate chip.”

“That’s probably the most interesting thing about me.”

He shakes his head. “You should think more of yourself, Izzy. I’m sure there are an endless number of interesting things about you, and I’d like to know some of them.”

I rack my brain trying to think of any worth telling, but I come up blank.

“I’m sorry. It’s all just so . . . ordinary.”

“That cannot be,” he protests.

“Okay, I’ll prove it. You’ve met my parents and I’m an only child, so that means you know my entire family. I get good grades at school, but I’m pretty anonymous when I walk through the halls. That’s partly by choice and partly due to the high school version of Darwin’s natural selection. I haven’t told you about breaking up with my ex-boyfriend because I’ve never had a boyfriend. So, now you’re all caught up.”

“You’ve never had a boyfriend?”

I find this particular bit of information to be supremely embarrassing, so I turn away and look back at the water as I answer. “No.”

“Why not?” he asks. “What’s the problem?”

“I guess I’m just a loser,” I say sharply.

“No. I mean, what’s the problem with the boys in this town? How is it possible that you’ve never had a boyfriend? Does the salt water get in their brains? Does the sun make them stupid?”

“You’ve seen Kayla,” I say. “My school is loaded with girls who look like that.”

He thinks about this for a moment. “Okay, I’ll admit that Kayla is hot—”

“You think?” I say sarcastically.

“But she’s not in your league. You’re smarter, funnier, and way more interesting.”

“All things that a girl wants to hear. I’m sure she goes to bed every night cursing my really good personality.”

“You do have a really good personality,” he says. “But if you want me to be shallow, I’ll point out that you’re also better looking than her.”

I give him the look. “That’s completely untrue and you know it.”

“That’s funny, because I don’t know that,” he says. “I do know that she asked me to go to a party tonight. And I know that I turned her down so I could hang out with you.”

I’m not sure if I’ll ever have another such opportunity in the future, so I savor this for a moment before I respond.

“Really?”

“Really, and I’ll prove it,” he says, throwing my line right back at me. He covers his eyes with his left hand. “Ask me to describe Kayla.”

I’m skeptical of where this is going, but I don’t have much choice. “Describe Kayla.”

“Big boobs. Long legs. Great hair.”

I haven’t mentioned it yet, but he’s right—Kayla’s hair is spectacular. “Okay,” I reply. “You’re kind of proving my point.”

He shakes his head but still keeps his hand over his eyes. “Now ask me to describe you.”

I don’t really see how this can turn out well, so I don’t say anything. He doesn’t let that stop him.

“You have a wrinkle in your chin,” he says.

“Wow, a chin wrinkle sounds way better than big boobs.”

“You have this amazing wrinkle in your chin,” he says, ignoring my sarcasm, “that only appears when you smile. It’s so irresistible that I keep telling stupid jokes just so that you’ll laugh and I can see it again.”

I reflexively run my finger along my chin.

“And your eyes defy description,” he continues. “When I met you, I thought they were blue. Then, when we went to Luigi’s, I could have sworn they were brown. And yesterday morning . . . I’m certain they were green. Every time I see you, the first thing I look at are your eyes so I can see what color they are.”

Let me reiterate that this type of conversation is new to me, and it has me feeling a little breathless.

“And when you get embarrassed your cheeks turn red.” He uncovers his eyes and looks right at me. “Like they’re doing right now.”

Of course the fact that he says this makes me blush that much more.

“The first time I saw it was when I asked you how the poster looked and you started to say ‘awful’ but tried to change it to ‘awesome,’ and it came out ‘awfslome.’”

“You noticed that?”

He nods. “I notice everything about you.”

“Well, I can’t help but notice that all the things you just pointed out—wrinkly chin, inconsistent eye color, and the oh so sexy blushing—are in fact flaws. So again I say that you’re kind of proving my point.”

“You cannot believe that,” he says. “You know they’re not flaws.”

“Well, I admit that you manage to present them in a way that’s kind of amazing, but—”

“Maybe this analogy will work for you. Before you got to the garage, Mo showed me all the different types of surfboards. She really opened my eyes. Who knew there were so many?”

“I knew,” I joke, but he ignores it.

“Girls like Kayla are like factory boards. Shiny. Smooth. Pretty. They look great but they look alike.”

“And girls like me?” I ask.

“There aren’t girls like you, Izzy. There is a girl like you, singular. You’re like this custom board that Mo showed me. She shaped it herself, and it has all these little details and indentations that make it special and unique. They’re features, not flaws.”

I look at him and am totally speechless. On the list of the greatest things that anyone has ever said to me, this is the entire list. Nothing else is even close.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, you could say something about who you are. For once don’t make me do all the talking.”

“I’m really not trying to be difficult; I just can’t think of anything.”

“Tell me why you won’t surf in a contest.”

“I already did. It’s just not my scene.”

“Sorry, wrong answer,” he says as he makes a game show buzzer noise. “There’s got to be more to it than that. Is it because you’re shy? Is it because you think you’ll lose?”

“Maybe . . . but there’s more to it than that,” I try to explain.

I think about this for a moment, and he waits patiently for an answer. I look out at the water and try to put it all into words.

“For me surfing is completely pure. It’s just me and the water and my board. It’s almost spiritual. Actually, it is spiritual. There’s no one watching, no one judging. It doesn’t matter who’s popular or who’s pretty, and it’s not about being better than anybody else. It’s just about the quest for perfection.”

“And what do you mean by perfection?”

“Think about everything that goes into creating a wave: the gravitational pull of the moon, the wind and weather thousands of miles away in the middle of the ocean, the contours of the ocean floor. It’s an amazing cosmic event that is hidden from sight until the last possible moment. The wave only breaks the surface for such a short period of time, and perfection is the tuning fork that rings in your heart when you catch it the moment it comes to life and ride it until the last bit of it disappears. It’s the feeling of knowing that the forces of nature all came together and you were there to fully appreciate every last bit of it.”

He considers this for a moment, and this time I wait patiently.

“Was that perfection yesterday morning?” he asks. “When you caught that last wave?”

I close my eyes and think back to the wave. “Absolutely.”

“And did it ruin it for you when you found out that I saw you do it? Did my being there make it imperfect?”

“No,” I answer. “Of course not.”

“Then why would other people ruin it? I think you should get over this fear. Better yet, I think you should compete in the King of the Beach contest. It’s not like girls don’t enter. Mickey and Mo both won it. Why not you?”

“Because,” I say, as though that alone were enough of an answer.

“That’s it? ‘Because’? That’s not a good enough excuse.”

“It should be,” I reply a little prickly. “You wanted to know something about me and I told you. And the first thing you’re doing is telling me to change that thing. It’s not a fear. It’s just the way I’m wired. You watching me surf is different from a crowd of people watching me. It’s the most personal thing I can share. I don’t think you understand that.”

“I don’t think you have any idea how great it is to watch you. I don’t even understand surfing and I think it’s amazing. Yesterday morning, watching you, that was mind blowing. Without a doubt it was the best forty-five minutes I’ve had since I’ve gotten here.”

“Really?”

“There is nothing I can do as well as you can surf. When I first got here, I thought surfing was a hobby. Then, after a few weeks of talking to you, I began to think of it as a sport. But yesterday, when I was watching you, I realized that it’s an art. You’re an artist, Izzy.”

You can now add this to the list I just mentioned of the most amazing things anyone’s ever said to me.

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“Okay,” I say shyly. “Then that’s one thing that you know about me. But I’m not looking to share that with the world, okay?”

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll stop pushing you.”

We both share a smile, and he reaches over and slips his hand into mine. I feel a charge crackle through my body. Neither of us says anything for a moment, and I give his hand a little squeeze in return.

“Now I want you to tell me something,” I say.

“Anything.”

“Why did you kiss me yesterday?”

He thinks about it for a moment before he answers. “Because I was tired of imagining what it would be like. I just had to know.”