Chapter 40 Parker
“Those bastards,” my mom mutters under her breath from where she sits beside me on a massive beach towel with Dad at her other side.
Her blond hair has become increasingly bushy with the day’s humidity, and like Dad and me, she’s damn near soaked through her shirt.
Still, Mom leans toward the ocean, propping her sunglasses on top of her head to give herself the clearest view.
We managed to claim prime seats nearly at the edge of the rocky outcrop curving around the small but packed beach making up Crystal Cove.
The spot brings us as close as possible to the action in the water, the long, steady wave wrapping around the coastline below.
“What happened to the no swearing rule?” I ask distractedly. Summer paddles back toward the tip of the outcrop after riding a seemingly mile-long wave that sent her flying in the opposite direction. The lengthy waves meant more paddling today, and she must be exhausted.
Mom peels away the hair sticking to her neck, fanning herself from the heat. It doesn’t help that our TEAM SUMMER glitter T-shirts are on the thicker side. “Those judges had the gall to give Summer a seven-point-two on that last wave. As if! She deserved sixty points at least.”
I chuckle. “You can’t score higher than a ten in surfing, Mom, but I appreciate the enthusiasm.”
After a week of refusing to acknowledge my parent’s attendance today—trying, I think, to manage her own expectations—Summer had been a tearful mess when we’d spotted their RV rolling through town this morning.
She’d insisted on packing us a picnic basket full of snacks and the best kombucha Oakwood had to offer as a token of unnecessary-but-effusive gratitude, that my parents accepted with identical befuddled looks.
I’ve spent the past several months resenting my parents for the lack of structure they instilled in my life growing up. But they really did me one better, didn’t they?
They taught me the proper way to love. Because, as far as they’re concerned—and what Dave Prescott so clearly fails to understand—when it comes to your people, you show up. No matter what it takes.
We watched Summer out-surf her competition in her first heat.
And again, in her second. It was a near-miss on her third, but she managed to pull through to the next round.
She’s been surfing strategically, holding out for the perfect wave—long enough to show off the extent of her skills, but not quite big enough to form a viable barrel.
Today’s plan appears to be I can’t wipe out if there’s no barrel.
I still can’t figure out what’s happened to her ability to surf them, but she’s gotten away with it in the earlier rounds, where she easily out-skilled her competition.
Racked up enough points to put her in a good position in the overall series standings, still within reach of that prize money.
Except, same as at Rocky Ridge, it’s starting to catch up with her.
She’s only ahead by two points in this quarterfinal heat, and there’s fifteen minutes left.
Summer floats on her surfboard, eyeing the endless stretch of rolling water at her back.
By late afternoon, the clear sky has turned a deeper, more vibrant blue, with the sun sitting right above her.
Her bright pink rash guard and the red jersey on top stand out against the deep blue ocean, like there are two balls of light illuminating the world.
Maybe just illuminating mine.
I pull out my phone, itching to capture her like this.
In her natural habitat. Her happy place.
Through the camera lens, I can make out the salt water pouring from the ends of her French braids, the gray tint to the slope of her nose from the sunscreen she wears.
Her fingers delicately skim the surface of the water at her sides, like she’s caressing it.
Making nice with the ocean, sweet-talking it into delivering a winning wave.
Summer looks toward the shore, making eye contact through the camera lens. I point to my chest, shifting the phone so she can see the glitter letters written there. I don’t know how much she can really make out from where she floats. But she gives a soft smile and I snap a few pictures.
There it is. Photographic evidence that my own heart beats outside my chest.
I send the best ones to the group chat, which immediately lights up with excited texts for Summer, and a stern one to me from Siena, demanding videos from the day. Helpfully, she follows it up with We all know your phone is maxed out with them. Don’t be stingy.
I send them forty-three videos of Summer, and I’m not even embarrassed. What the hell else is the point of all that digital storage?
Mom leans into my side. “She feels the same way. You do know that, don’t you?”
Hastily, I make the screen go black. “Feels the same way about what?”
“My darling son, I can hardly remember a time before you were in love with her.” She turns to give me a proper look. “And she feels the same way.”
“How do you know?” My heartbeat stutters. “Has she said anything to you? About me?” I nudge my glasses up my nose, aware that I’m babbling like a desperate idiot but unable to stop. “Does she talk about me, ever? Has she said anything to Mels, maybe, or—”
“Take a breath.” Mom places a gentle hand on my shoulder.
Beside her, Dad laughs softly to himself.
“She’s not said a word about it to me. But a mother has a seventh sense for this kind of thing, and I’ve known that sweet girl nearly as long as I’ve known you.
I’m not sure what you’re waiting for, Giggle Bear.
Will you really continue letting her live without knowing the kind of love she’s always had by her side?
When the poor girl keeps looking for it in unreliable places? ”
I’ve never known Mom to be a beacon of wisdom. But here we are.
“I think you meant a sixth sense.”
“Oh, no. My sixth sense is for telling exactly when your father is in the mood for—”
“Mom.”
“Pancakes,” she finishes with an innocent smile, linking arms with my dad.
I laugh, wiping a hand down my face. “Actually, I’m going to tell Summer tonight. I wanted her to get through today. Didn’t want to throw her off.”
I’ve spent all week rehearsing it—a real, proper I love you. One she couldn’t doubt, could never deny, because God knows it’ll be her first instinct once I finally tell her.
Tonight, at my place. I’ll draw her a bath after a long day of surfing. Light the dozens of candles I’ve stashed in my closet, cook the steaks marinating in the fridge. And I’ll tell her.
I’ve been overflowing with nerves all week. But I’ve done everything I can to hedge my bets—have checked off nearly her entire dream man list, and I don’t want to wait anymore.
Mom beams at me, touching my cheek. “I’m so proud of you.”
I hug her into my side. “Thanks, Mom.”
In the water, Summer’s focus has settled back on the horizon. Her opponent, Devin Flynn, paddles back after his last barrel ride.
“Here we go,” I mutter. Our mornings in the water haven’t done much for my surf skills, but I have got a better read on waves. There’s the right kind of tension in the water coming toward her.
Summer flattens to her board and starts paddling aggressively.
The wave takes shape fast and tall, at least a couple of feet bigger than any I’ve seen her surf today.
Still, her every stroke in the water exudes willpower.
The water draws up, so fucking steep, taking Summer with it.
She pops up and tips over the lip of the wave.
There’s absolutely nothing hotter than watching Summer surf. Her sheer athleticism, the way her body works to maintain its balance, the confidence with which she carves her board through water. She’s extraordinary. Strong and graceful, making it look easy as breathing.
When she catches air on the first section of the wave, the crowd erupts in enthusiastic cheers.
She’s moving fast, braids whipping behind her as she attacks the next section.
I think she’s eyeing another aerial as her board starts to ride back up the face of the wave, but then the water arcs wide over her, crashing white onto itself.
Oh, shit. She’s going to do it.
I hold my breath as Summer disappears behind the white curtain. I’ve got my phone in a vise, watching the water move, waiting for her to emerge on her board at the other end of the barrel.
She doesn’t.
My stomach sinks when she resurfaces closer to shore seconds later, swimming toward her yellow board floating a couple feet away.
“You know, I was a little worried when she decided to compete.”
The world’s most punchable voice draws my focus off Summer, and onto the world’s most punchable face.
Denny stands at the edge of our beach towel, staring out at the ocean. His hair is still soaked from his previous heat. Yet another victorious one that’s kept him at the top of the event and series leaderboards.
My parents look around at him. Wordlessly, I refocus on Summer.
“I thought there was a chance she’d give me a run for my money for my spot on the tour,” Denny continues.
“Well—not my spot on the tour, because, well… I am me, after all.” He laughs.
I suck in a deep breath, forcing my fists to relax.
“But that second qualifying spot, maybe. I thought I’d have to spend the next year avoiding her around the world, you know?
But it doesn’t look like that’ll be a problem. Too bad for her.”
“She doesn’t care about the tour.” I don’t know why I’m even bothering with him, but it appears that no amount of self-reflection this summer can keep my visceral hatred for him out of my voice.
“Doesn’t care about the tour? It’s the whole reason she’s competing. I heard it straight from her own mouth.”
“No, you didn’t,” I mutter. “This is so tired. Take her rejection like a real man and leave her alone—you’ve done enough.”
“But she was telling Harriet Young all about it at Rocky Ridge.” A mean smile curls Denny’s lips the longer I silently stare up at him. “Was plenty enthusiastic about the tour then.”
I don’t want to believe him. I don’t believe him. But, for some reason, my heart picks up speed.
“She said something about it always being the plan. Traveling with her dad? Which I found weird, to be honest, seeing as he so clearly doesn’t care about her.” My ears start to ring. Mouth goes dry. “Did she really not tell you?”
My stomach goes so tight, I feel a little ill. Summer’s sitting on her board, looking in the opposite direction, but I study her distant figure as though it’ll help me detect Denny’s lie. Nothing—not a single cell in my body wants to believe a word out of that bitter dirtbag’s mouth. And yet…
The way she clammed up at dinner, when Zac asked whether she was trying for the tour.
“Giggle Bear?” Mom’s voice sounds like it’s echoing through a dark tunnel.
This—this—is the real reason she’s pushed our training so hard, isn’t it? It has nothing to do with prize money, or getting back at the sadist now gleefully staring at me. She’s trying to qualify for the fucking Champions Tour—the one that’ll be her ticket out of town for the next year.
And I’m the idiot who didn’t see it coming. Who’s spent the past couple of months foolishly trying to earn her, win her over. While she’s been planning her great escape.
My brain is in overdrive, connecting dots I should’ve linked from the start.
They meld into a heavy chain that loops around my lungs and squeezes hard, making it difficult to breathe.
She lied to me, kept this important thing from me, and it’s the worst betrayal of all.
We’ve always been in it together. A ride-or-die pair.
The realization that we’ve been behind the wheels of two entirely different cars for months, speeding in opposite directions—probably for the first time ever—is the worst dagger she could’ve dug into my chest.
Driving down the coast with the top off my car, ocean air whipping through my hair. Worth getting out of bed for.
Starting football drills with River tomorrow morning at the high school.
I hunt for any remaining sliver of light.
Summer grinning from ear to ear after qualifying for the tour. Finally getting to live out the dream she’s had for as long as I’ve known her.
The thought bursts through the dense fog in my head and I grab onto it for dear fucking life.
“You know, I always thought it was funny you finally went for her, after all that time.” Denny’s voice plucks me out of my own head. “And here I thought she was the desperate one.”
I spring to my feet.
“Mind your manners, young man. Where were you raised?” My mom’s voice is sharp, aimed at Denny as I step up to him.
I drop my voice so only he can hear. “You wanna know what’s even funnier? The fact that I actually owe you one, bud.”
Denny cringes, hopefully feeling every inch of our height difference. “The hell are you talking about?”
Back then, Summer had promised her dad she’d get her education before jetting around the world.
But then we’d graduated, and she’d insisted on applying for a job at the rehab center.
And I’d been… relieved. Too co-dependent, too scared to be without her, to question why she suddenly lost all desire to compete.
I don’t need Summer any less today than I did then. But I am capable, this time, of making sure that the woman I love takes a proper chance on herself. If she wants to make the tour, I’ll damn well make sure she does. No matter how bad it’ll crush me to watch her leave.
“I’m talking about you being the reason I finally woke up and realized what I had right in front of me. My dream woman, my future wife, the mother of my children. I hate that it took your pathetic ass to help me figure it out, but I’ve never been more grateful for anything in my life.”
I say all this mostly to get it off my chest. I don’t know whether it’ll ever come true, now especially, but it feels good to get the words out.
Speak them into existence, in case the universe is listening and wants to give me a hand.
Then I bend at the knees, putting me at eye level with Denny.
“But just so we’re clear? You go near her again, and I’ll destroy your life beyond repair with a fucking smile on my face.
” Denny flinches when I raise my hand, but all I do is give him two gentle taps on the jaw. “Say hi to Allie for me, yeah?”