20. “Cruel Summer” - Taylor Swift
“Cruel Summer” - Taylor Swift
Walker
I think this might be what death feels like. I wake Tuesday morning with a massive headache and breath that smells like those prawns we dumped in Candle Lady’s AC unit. Apparently this is what happens when one lets loose.
Guess I can add this to my list of things to never do again.
Getting home from Paris was a blur. After going nearly forty-eight hours without sleep, I crashed as soon as my head hit anything soft. I can’t be positive I didn’t drool all over someone’s chest and would rather not find out.
One thing from the weekend comes back with startling clarity: my stupid bet with Heath. If I had been in my right mind, I would have told him to bugger off. But I was baked as a cake, and now I have to spend my day in the sun instead of the stacks.
I check my phone, thinking maybe the weather will be unconducive to surfing, but they’re predicting lots of sunshine and— gross —heat. There’s a text from my mum, which I ignore, and a text from Heath, reminding me to be at the surf shop at ten this morning.
I groan and flop back onto the bed .
A sudden thought has me lurching upright again, which my head strongly protests against. I don’t have anything to wear. When I packed my trunk before leaving Oxford, I never dreamt I would be spending the day at a beach. I was actively avoiding situations like this.
I leave early so I have time to pick something up. I opt for a high-neck surf suit. After everything that happened, it seems safer than a regular bathing suit.
The door to the surf shop is propped open when I arrive.
It has a straw roof and a handful of colorful signs advertising what’s inside.
The salty smell of the ocean is more concentrated here.
Surfboards are leaning upright in rows against the walls.
Brown and gold bottles of sunscreen and tanning oils give off a warm coconut scent.
A tan woman with blonde braids is behind the counter, waxing a board. Best guess, I’d say she’s several years older than me, in her late twenties. She looks up when I walk in and smiles. She has a natural beauty, a wide smile, and a toned body. She’s a walking advertisement for the shop.
“You must be Walker,” she says. “Heath told me you were coming. I’m prepping your board for you.”
“Oh,” I say. “Thank you. Is he here?”
“He’s finishing up with a client, but he’ll be done soon. You can take a look around while you wait.”
I move to a rack of T-shirts in various pastel shades. They look like something Heath would wear. There is a rotating display of sunglasses and a mirror, so naturally, I try on several pairs. I’m wearing a pair of knock-off Wayfarers when I recognize his voice. I turn, but he hasn’t spotted me.
Instead he approaches the counter and leans across it like he’s exhausted. He says something to the woman, and she throws her head back to laugh. I can’t see his face, but I recognize the smile in his voice as he murmurs something else .
Their voices are too low for me to hear what they’re saying. I don’t want to move for fear he’ll catch me watching, but a strange curiosity grips me.
She’s teasing him about something, because he reaches up and tugs one of her braids. She pulls it from his hand and whacks him in the face with it.
There’s an uncomfortable knot in my stomach. I try to ignore it and turn back to the sunglasses, but every time they laugh, it only grows in intensity. Are they . . . seeing each other? And if so, why does that cause a painful lump in my chest?
A ping sounds from my bag. It’s another text from my mum, asking when I’m coming over. She’s still grieving her breakup, and I can’t handle that much sadness. Not when it already feels like my heart is splintering like glass in slow motion.
“Hey.”
I look up to find Heath walking toward me, floral-printed board shorts dangling from his hips below a washboard stomach that would take hours to map properly.
My mouth goes dry, and I swallow. “Hey.” I slip my phone back into my shoulder bag and force my eyes away from those abs. “I’m here. Now what?”
“Now we hit the water,” he says with that boyish grin I haven’t seen on him since coming home. My heart skids across my chest. He used to wear it all the time. Lately, all I’ve seen is the bottled-up, scrubbed-up, manly version.
He grabs the surfboard from the counter. “Thanks, See,” he calls over his shoulder.
I can’t keep the smile from my own face, seeing him like this. I hand my bag to the woman behind the counter for safekeeping and follow him out the back door.
The sunshine is bright and unrelenting. It hits my skin with a ferocity usually reserved for tigers and overprotective mothers.
Sand immediately fills my sandals, so I reach down and pull them off.
I had to purchase them this morning too, because the only shoes I brought along were boots and loafers, both perfectly suitable for studying and completely inappropriate for the beach.
“We’ll start with the basics,” Heath says as we approach the water. “Paddling.”
He connects me to my board with a strap. I try diligently to keep my eyes focused on something—anything—other than the way his fingers are skimming my ankle.
He’s tried to get me to do this before, but I always chickened out. I don’t relish the idea of being at the mercy of the water and the sun.
“All set.” He stands back up. “If you can ride a wave back to shore standing up, we’ll go to the Archives this afternoon.”
“Deal.”
How hard can it be?
* * *
Pretty hard, it turns out.
I manage to get the hang of paddling and even enjoy catching waves lying on my stomach. Standing up, however, is a different story.
“Can we take a break?” I ask when I’ve fallen off the board for what feels like the hundredth time.
“Of course.” Heath jogs back to the surf shop while I remove the strap from my ankle.
I plop down on the beach under one of the striped umbrellas dotting the shore. He returns a few minutes later with several cold cans of lemonade. He hands me one, then takes a long drink from his own.
“This wasn’t so bad,” I say when we’ve sat in silence for a few minutes.
He nudges my shoulder. The contact sends tingles down my spine. “Look at you, trying new things. ”
“It’s harder than I expected.” I lean back on my hands. “I can see where all of that comes from.” I nod at his midsection.
His eyes travel down to his stomach, then over to me. “Walker Halifax, have you been checking me out?”
“When you parade it around like a billboard, what do you expect?”
He tilts his head back and laughs, and the sound wraps around me like a refreshing breeze.
My mind skips back to our first time having sex.
It wasn’t on this beach, but one like it.
It was sunset, and he’d packed a picnic for us.
There must be a handbook out there advising men that if they want to get laid, all they need to do is box up a bottle of wine, some good cheese, a few grapes, and strawberries.
It’s always been easy with Heath. He’s like the water.
He adapts to whatever container he’s put into.
Dress him up in a tux and send him to a ball at the palace, and he will be the perfect gentleman.
Give him a tennis racket and a polo, and he’ll give you a run for your money on the court.
Hand him a stack of books in a stuffy back room of a library, and he will sit and read them like he’s a born scholar.
None of it compares to Heath in the ocean, though. He’s fluid, one singular muscle, reading the water and responding to it.
What would it be like if I’d never left? If everything that happened hadn’t happened?
“Do you ever wonder where you’d be if you’d made different choices?” I say, staring out across the ocean.
He’s been drawing in the sand, but I sense him still beside me. “In general? Or are we talking about something specific?”
I let my shoulders drop, faking nonchalance. “Nothing in particular.”
He considers this for a minute. “Sometimes. But there isn’t much sense in regretting the past, right?”
This sinks into my stomach like a ship slowly going down. Why dwell on the past when you can move on in the future ?
“Are you sleeping with her?” My voice comes out smaller than I intend. I clear my throat.
He whips his head around to look at me. “Who?”
“The girl at the surf shop.”
“Seeley?”
“Sorry if I’m probing. Just trying to figure out what I was reading back there.”
He turns back to the ocean, feet kicked out in front of him, elbows propped up behind him. The sun has already dried his skin, but damp tendrils of hair stick to his neck. He stays quiet for so long that I’m positive he’s not going to answer.
I tell myself I’m okay with that. Why wouldn’t I be?
Two years ago I left him. I cannot expect him to still have feelings for me. And even if he does, I no longer have them for him.
Which is why I have no explanation for the pinch in my chest.