Chapter 9 #2
“Yeah,” I breathe, but it kind of gets stuck in my throat—because when I look at her, she’s pulling the white dress she wore down to the beach over her head, and I’m greeted with miles upon miles of fair, exposed skin.
She’s covered by a total of three pink triangles—one at the center of her thighs, and two over her chest. All of which could fit into the palm of my hand.
I never noticed how athletic she was before, but she’s outrageously toned.
I assumed she wasn’t an athlete because it doesn’t seem like she surfs competitively, but there is no way that body isn’t the product of some kind of intense training.
I rarely notice anyone’s body, but I’m afraid I’ll never not notice hers again.
“You look good.”
The dress falls at her feet, and when my eyes track back up her body to her face, hers are wide—horrified, in fact—darting back and forth between her father and me.
Fuck. Did I say that out loud?
The aggressive clearing of Leo’s throat answers me, and I’m terrified to look at him.
“I just meant . . .” I stumble over my words, backtracking. “Because Monday you . . .” I don’t know if her parents know she was crying on the beach at six in the morning.
“I’m feeling better. Thank you.” She smiles, and her cheeks are as red as I imagine mine are right now.
“Great.” Leo claps me on the back harder than necessary, spinning me in the opposite direction. “Let’s get to work, kid.”
“Do you think you’re comfortable enough to be here alone for a little while? My daughter is only in town for one more night, and I want to see her before she leaves.”
I glance up from where I’m folding T-shirts at the register, finding Everett peering down at me over his sunglasses, hands on his hips.
He’s a menacingly large man—broad chest and wide shoulders, tattoos running from his neck to his hands, the faded ink only making them look cooler and more intimidating.
His salt-and-pepper hair is grown out and feathered behind his ears, his short beard the same color.
When his lips form a flat line, he appears well and truly frightening, but I’ve heard him laugh before. I’ve seen him interact with his wife. I think he’s soft-hearted, but he does kind of look like he could kick my ass if he wanted to.
“I think I’ll be fine,” I say.
Working at Heathen’s is easy enough. All their merchandise is pre-populated in the register, which is simple to operate.
When it’s slow, I fold clothing or dust shelves.
When people come with questions about surfing or boards, I’m expected to be an expert—and that’s not a problem for me either.
Plus, it’s four o’clock on a Friday afternoon, so it’s slow as hell.
I’m just lucky to have an official job. I’m on payroll, I pay taxes. It’s something I can put on my resume, in addition to assisting Carter, that will help overlook my record. It’s something I can show for myself other than being a failed surfer, in the event I end up failing again.
“Great.” Before I can register the movement of his hand dipping into his pocket, a bundle of keys is in the air, flying at me. When I reach out and catch them, Everett smiles. “Good reflexes.”
I shrug, slipping the key ring into my back pocket.
“Close down around seven. Make sure you lock both the back and front doors, and the office upstairs. If you need anything, text me.”
“Have a good night.” I wave him off, turning back to the T-shirts on the counter.
His footsteps shuffle over the tile when the bells on the front door chime. “Hey, kid.”
I perk up, turning around in time to see Willow gliding through the double glass doors at the front of the store. Her smile beams as she rises onto her toes and hugs Everett. “Hi.”
“Are you coming over for dinner later?” he asks as he pulls away.
“Yeah.” She nods. “But I’m closing up Honeysuckle for my mom tonight, so I’ll be a little late.”
Everett’s wife, Dahlia, is Darby’s sister. Their daughter, Lucille, is Livia’s wife. The entire dynamic of this family and the people I’m working for is confusing as hell to me, but I can at least make out that much.
“How are you . . .” Everett’s words dissipate as his eyes dart to me. I immediately lower mine to the register in an attempt to not make it obvious my attention isn’t on the two of them. “Okay?”
Willow takes a beat to respond, but a soft, “Yeah. Okay,” leaves her mouth.
“Good.” His voice turns low, and I keep my gaze down, fiddling with the cash register.
I don’t know what to do with my hands. I press the button for the cash drawer, and it opens with a deafening pop. I jump back, startled. Why did I do that? I knew it’d make that noise.
I lift my head and find them both watching me. Everett’s brows are furrowed, lip slightly curled like he’s fighting the urge to ask if I’m stupid. Willow’s head is cocked, and she’s blinking at me with a bemused smile. At least someone finds me entertaining, I guess.
“Okay . . .” Everett drawls. “I’ll see you tonight, kid. Love you.”
“Love you!” she calls back as Everett leaves.
My mind has been stuck on Willow all week.
Fixated on her bare skin since this morning.
Reeling over the fact she wasn’t okay on Monday, but she seems better now.
Everett all but confirmed my suspicions.
Something happened to Willow, and I’m so damn curious to know what it was.
If someone hurt her. If she’s truly okay now, or if that’s a mask she’s putting on to placate those she cares about.
The same mask I wear around my foster parents.
Though I imagine the job is much tougher for her. She has so many people who love her.
I’ve never known what that feels like.
I told myself earlier, after making a complete fool of myself during my first training opportunity with Leo, that I’d stop thinking about her. I’d stop the curiosity from roaming free in my mind. There is absolutely no reason for me to be concerned about this girl I hardly know.
Our interaction this morning threw me off, and I was already tired from my practice with Livia.
As soon as I got into the water with Leo, it was like I’d forgotten every basic aspect of surfing I’ve known all my life.
I was way too aware of her. My eyes kept drifting to the far side of the cove where she paddleboarded in the calmer waters with her mom.
I lost focus. I looked awful. Leo was short and impatient. Frustrated with me, I think. I should be much better than the way I performed today. I am better than that. Today I was not the surfer he agreed to train. Today I wasted his time.
I can’t do that again.
So I vowed to stop thinking about her. To stop theorizing about what happened to her or who she is.
I’m in Pacific Shores to get my life back on track.
To be the surfer I was destined to become.
It’s the only way to make sense of my life—and every terrible thing that happened to me and led me here. Every good thing too.
I can’t allow it to be all for nothing.
Plus, regardless of my curiosity—possible interest, even—she’s off-limits. Her father has already drawn a hard line—I’m not to entertain his daughter more than a passing greeting. Not that I needed the confirmation from him, anyway. I know I’d never be good enough for a girl like Willow.
“Hey, Wes—”
“Do you need something?” I ask, my tone coming out far more accusatory than I intended. I meant to sound distant, uninterested, yet polite. Because I need to be distant. I need to be uninterested. But fuck—I’m not rude.
Willow rears back, pink lips pouting, blue eyes wide and blinking.
“Oh. Um . . .” She crosses her arms, kicking out a hip defensively from the other side of the counter.
She’s wearing a yellow tee and a pair of denim shorts beneath a white Honeysuckle Florals apron, and another pair of hand-painted sneakers.
These are sage green, with multicolored flowers dotting the sides.
“I just came by because . . .” She shakes her head, appearing flustered.
“I normally close Honeysuckle around the same time as the surf shop, and I noticed your truck wasn’t in the lot when I pulled in earlier.
I thought you may have walked here? Figured I’d ask if you wanted a ride. ”
“That’s okay,” I say gruffly, but the words get trapped in my throat. Clearing it, I add, “I like walking.”
Which isn’t a lie. It’s also true that my truck sometimes refuses to start, and I’m too embarrassed of that happening in Darby and Leo’s driveway, so I haven’t even tried since I’ve been here.
“Are you sure? We’re actually all having dinner at Everett and Dahlia’s tonight . . . although it sounds like you heard that.” She laughs quietly, and I drop my head, heat creeping up my neck. “You know you’re more than welcome, right? We can go together after work.”
More than welcome? I hardly know these people. I’m certainly not family to them. I imagine being at that dinner party would feel a lot like looking at a completed puzzle and realizing you're a piece of something else that got stuck inside the box.
“That’s all right. I’ve been up since five this morning, so I’m pretty tired.”
She sighs, and the sound pulls my gaze back to her. Her eyes narrow, studying me in quiet agitation. “Are you always so . . . aloof?”
“Are you always so forward?”
Her hands fall to her hips, and I notice the way her nails are painted, each a different shade of pastel. “Doesn’t seem like beating around the bush works with you, so I suppose I must be blunt.”
I really fucking wish she’d stop intriguing me, but since she doesn’t seem to have any interest in leaving me alone at the moment, I’ll bite.
“Well, I suppose growing up in an abusive household gave me poor social skills. My apologies.”
I expect her to gasp and step back. Clutch her metaphorical pearls the way most pretty, wealthy daddy’s girls would.
It’s a terrible reality to admit. Those who’ve never understood the harshness of the world often hate to be reminded of it.
Like the presence of traumatized people is an inconvenience to their privilege.
Willow doesn’t do that, though. Maybe it’s because she could’ve guessed it. It’s not like I ended up in foster care with Carter and Penelope for no reason, and she at least knows that much about me.
Willow’s features soften, and she puts those huge, light-blue eyes directly on me. They remind me of the sky opening up after days of rain.
“I’m sorry that happened to you, Weston.” She smiles gently, but it’s not pitiful or apologetic. “But . . .” She flips her hair over her shoulder, spinning on her heel. “You should probably get out more. Work on those social graces. They’re shit.”
An unexpected laugh bursts out of me, and she peeks over her shoulder, a surprised smile on her face. She shakes her head, lips pursing with an exhale as she reaches the front doors.
“If you change your mind, meet me at my car after you’re done closing up. It’s the white Mercedes parked out back,” she calls as she pushes them open.
Oh, I know. All three members of the Graham family drive incredibly nice cars, and my old beater looks like utter shit in the gravel beside the driveway next to theirs.
“Daddy buy you that?”
“Yeah.” She tsks, zero shame in her voice. “As a graduation present after I was accepted into fucking Berkeley, asshole.”
She doesn’t wait for me to respond, but another laugh bubbles out of me as I watch her walk away through the windows, my chest seeming to expand with each sound that leaves my lips.
Fuck. This is not good.