Chapter Seven #2
“You know what I like about our father-daughter relationship?” he starts.
“You always take responsibility for your actions. I don’t have to punish you—I never have.
Even when you were a little kid, if you did something wrong, you’d take yourself to your room.
You’d give me your toys and say you shouldn’t be allowed to play with them.
You’ve made my job too easy, Noa. Which”—he pauses—“is why this stupidity was really next-level for you. I mean…” His cool drops slightly. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“You sound like Sheriff Castillo,” I say.
“Oh, trust me,” my father says. “I’m way more pissed than your uncle.”
“I’ll go to my room right now,” I offer. I start to walk toward the Shack when he laughs.
“Not so fast, kid,” he says. “Stay out here. We need to talk.”
I glance around, the air so sticky with humidity that it’s a little hard to breathe. The sky has grown cloudy, making the early evening murky and gray—as if it’s also disappointed in me.
And maybe I’m just stalling, but suddenly the sand on my legs itches uncontrollably and I have to brush it off where I can.
Then the cuts on my arm burn, and I run my hand over my sleeve to tame them.
When I finally look at my dad again, he’s waiting at the counter of the Surf Shack with his elbows leaned on top.
“You done?” he asks.
It strikes me then that he looks older. Tired.
Worn down. My guilt is heavy, and I drop the pretenses and walk over to stand next to him.
With all we’ve been through, my dad has always been my rock.
Even if he’s been absent lately, I know it’s because he’s working hard to keep it all together.
Since Ellis left, we’ve both had to pick up the slack around here.
And ignore the gaping hole his absence has left in our lives.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I tell him, bumping my shoulder into his. “I’m sorry to stress you out.”
“Was it your idea?” he asks, looking sideways at me. His dark eyes are glassy, creased along the sides.
“No,” I say honestly. I’m relieved when he doesn’t ask why. Judging by the sheriff’s response earlier, I highly doubt my father would see it much differently. Truth is, most Chasers won’t go against the Collective. Not anymore.
My father finishes his soda before crushing the can and tossing it in the recycling bin. He sighs heavily before burying his head in his hands, rubbing roughly at his hair. I realize that something is wrong.
“What happened?” I ask. “Did the storm—?”
“It’s the resort,” my father says before straightening up. “They’ve lobbied the mayor to add more licensing restrictions, ones that affect us specifically.”
“Again?” I ask. “They can’t do that. We’ve done everything by the book. We could be charging twice as much, but they tied our hands so they’re the only ones making a profit.”
“That is the tactic,” he agrees. “Suffocating us until we move, or…” He winces. “Or until we sell to them.”
“Never,” I say easily. But when my father doesn’t respond right away, there is a sinking feeling in my gut. “Dad,” I press. “Never, right?”
“Yeah,” he says, distractedly. “Never.”
I don’t believe him. The idea of my dad selling the Surf Shack, our family’s business, is absurd. I’m obviously not the only one who has had a bad day.
“Listen, we’ll be fine,” I assure him. “Whatever costs they’re raising, we’ll weather it. We always do.”
He doesn’t agree this time, and instead stares out at the rolling waves. He looks lost. If I’m honest, I think he’s been lost since my mother died, but it used to make him more stubborn about not selling the Surf Shack. Now, I think it’s slowly dragging him out to sea.
“Those bastards will never set foot on our side of the beach,” he would tell me and Ellis over dinner. “Your mother would haunt me for the rest of my life if I let that happen. So cheers to the Collective. May they forever eat shit!”
“Cheers!”
It was the three of us against the world. But then I woke up one more morning and Ellis was gone. And with him, some of our hope.
I look at the looming resort on the hill.
I hear the clinking of plates and glasses, even from here, carried down on the breeze.
They are setting up for dinner service on the terrace, overlooking the water and our little Shack.
It must burn them up that they can’t own it all.
We’re the last holdouts on Paradise Beach.
“They’ve increased their offer,” my father says so low that it’s barely a whisper. “They say it’s final.”
“Good,” I reply, swinging to face him. “That means we won’t have to keep saying no. I hope you told them to eat shit?”
He pauses. “Not this time.”
My skin tingles with oncoming tears. The waves crash louder than before in my ears, the humidity more sweltering. “What do you mean?” I murmur. “Tell me you didn’t accept.”
“Not yet,” he replies. “But… I told them I would consider it.”
“And then what?” I ask, fighting the tightness in my voice. “We give them our business, our beach, our home? Hell, Dad, did you offer up Mom’s old clothes, too? They might as well take everything.”
“Hey,” he warns. “Don’t disrespect your mother.”
“Me?” I say back. “You’re the one who wants to sell her home.”
This wounds him, and as I watch him recoil, I’m sucker punched with guilt. But I don’t let up. I’m trying to save us.
“Mom loved this place.” I motion around us. “Her hands helped build this business too. Would you really let them tear it down?” I ask.
“You don’t understand, Noa,” my father says quietly. “We… we’re failing. The business is failing and we’re broke.”
“Summer just started,” I say. “You know it’s always bad in the offseason.”
“Not like this,” he says. “With the debt and the new regulations, even if we got the same amount of tourists this year as last season, which is doubtful, we won’t make our budget, let alone a profit.”
“Then we’ll sell more surf lessons this summer. I will work harder, sell harder.”
“Life shouldn’t be this much work,” my father says. “Not at your age. This isn’t your fight. Your brother knew that.”
I flinch, lowering my eyes. My father blames himself for my brother leaving; he always has. He thinks he worked him too hard, pushed him too far.
“We’re not giving up on the Surf Shack,” I say, glancing up at him. “At least let us have the summer to turn it around.”
“We just started the season in debt, thanks to your stunt today,” he says. “Boat repairs and city fees.”
That one hurts. “I know,” I say. “But I’m going to work harder. You watch—tomorrow we’ll have this place packed.”
“We have until the end of the month to decide,” my father says, almost like he hadn’t heard me at all.
“Unless one of us hits the lottery, Noa, I don’t see another path forward.
And yes, it does break my heart to disappoint your mother.
” His voice cracks. “But I have to do right by you, too. You deserve better.”
“I stole and wrecked a boat,” I point out. “I really don’t deserve shit.”
He smiles, a bit of levity returned. His spirit is still broken, though. He murmurs good night and heads back inside the Shack.
I stay on the beach, looking out at the scattering of driftwood, broken planks, and seaweed. It’s a mess. I’m sure my friends would sneak out tonight to help if I asked them, but like my father said, I punish myself when I screw up. Besides, I don’t want them to see me cry.
And with that, I tie up my hair in a bun, and I grab the rake and a trash bin to clean up the beach myself.