Chapter 39
Thirty-Nine
Hefting my surfboard to the roof rig I installed on the Mustang, I cinch the ratchet straps to secure it, antsy to hit the beach. The early morning air carries a damp chill despite the absence of fog, and I turn on the heat once the car’s warmed up.
Carving out a few hours a week to surf is saving my fucking sanity—and possible now that I’m not the only one responsible for my old man’s medical care.
I’ve finally worked out reliable nursing aides, people who aren’t scared of a cantankerous asshole.
After so many physical setbacks, my father’s still relegated to his home hospital bed, hooked into machines that monitor his vitals and heart activity, unable to do much for himself aside from bellow demands and spew insults.
I’m not ashamed to admit I fantasize about waking up and finding him dead.
It seems more like an imminent when not if proposition.
I’m sure as shit ready to get my life back.
That’s clearly not an option for Bill Callahan. His quality of life is on a one-way trip down. And it’s a harsh, sobering reminder that whether you have a family or not, you can wind up alone.
Thirty minutes later, I’m in Half Moon Bay and only spot a few cars at Surfer’s Beach.
I unload and head toward the ocean, my attitude improving with every step.
Nice sets are rolling in with primo waves.
I wedge my board vertically in the sand, taking it all in and letting the sun blanket my face.
The salt air is a balm to my soul, and I let it wash over me, fill me, make me whole again.
My gaze roves over the big dunes on one side to the jetty on other that helps keeps these swells so consistent.
I finish pulling my wetsuit on, working my arms into the neoprene sleeves then over my shoulders. It may be July, but the Pacific is a cold, unmerciful bitch.
Once I’m ready, I wade into the ocean, letting the water warm inside my suit, then paddle out.
Riding wave after wave frees me from the prison my life has become, one with an unknown expiration date. I’ve lost everything making this sacrifice I never asked, or wanted, to make. This is all I have.
I expel every thought, focusing on being present for one of Mother Nature’s finest marvels.
Paddle out.
Wait for a good swell.
Catch it.
Ride it.
Milk it.
Repeat.
The timer in my head resounds, and I coast all the way to shore on the final wave of the day. I pull my board out of the water, rest it on the sand, and unzip my wetsuit to my waist. Raking my soaked hair off my face, I take one last, longing look at the ocean.
Until next time.
Collecting my board, I head toward the parking area, my gaze snagging on three girls sunbathing in my line of sight. One looks a hell of a lot like Jax. My eyes are probably playing tricks on me—a very cruel one—but I can’t tear myself away.
Holy shit. It is her.
Our eyes collide at the same time, and I see the second recognition dawns in hers.
“Jax?” Obviously, it’s her, but my head just exploded. She’s here, at my beach, out of the fucking blue.
“Mick,” she says on a breathy exhale.
My chest pounds erratically, my lips curving into a big-ass grin. “What are you doing here?”
She falters, as if tongue-tied. “I’m…here with my new roommates. Mick, meet Jas and Kit. Girls, this is Mick.”
I ditch my board and bend to shake their hands and greet them properly, but my eyes swiftly jump back to Jax. Her long blond hair whips in the wind, her face more beautiful than I’ve allowed myself to remember. “Roommates? Where are you living?”
“In San Jose. I transferred to SJSU. Start next month.”
“That’s terrific.” A swell of pride hits. I push a hand through my hair, grappling with the tidal wave smashing into my heart. “I’m happy for you, Jax.”
My eyes blaze a trail from her face down her body.
She’s wearing that cherry-red bikini I love, and it stirs up potent memories that shoot straight to my dick.
Thank god for neoprene. A blush blooms on her cheeks, which means she remembers too…
and damn, this is difficult. I force myself to look away from her—and it takes a mental pry bar.
“How are things with you?” she says.
Taking a grounding breath, I meet her gaze and vow to keep it there. “About the same.”
“I didn’t know you surfed.”
“My mom taught us, my brothers and me, when we were younger. It’s been a while, but I try to make it happen once or twice a week, even if it’s only for an hour. It’s helped me…mentally…with this whole fucked-up thing.” There’s so much she doesn’t know about me. I’m more closed off than I thought.
She nods.
“You’re seriously good,” her friend Jas says.
“Thanks.”
“Want to join us?” Jax asks.
I debate saying what’s popped into my mind. Is it right or wrong? Fuck if I know. “Can we take a walk?”
“Sure!” She’s so enthusiastic, it nearly pains me after the way I’ve treated her.
We move toward the ocean’s edge to firmer sand, where it’s chilled and damp from receding waves. Even though I orchestrated this, my thoughts jumble, words evading me.
“It’s good to see you,” she says. “One hell of a surprise.”
A low chuckle escapes. “You can say that again.”
“I almost had a heart attack.”
“Me too,” I confess. “You look amazing, Jax. Happy. Healthy. And the whole college thing…it’s fantastic. You’re pursuing your dream.”
Her face turns radiant. “I am. It’s only been a couple of days but getting away from my parents has been liberating. I was suffocating there, drowning.”
I nod, understanding more than she knows. “I get it.”
She appears chagrined. “I know you do. I’m sorry for your situation. It royally sucks.”
I shrug. “I’m still above ground. And hey, I got to surf today—and see you. It’s shaping up to be a banner day.”
She smiles again, lighting up her whole angelic face. It’s like rocket fuel to that depressed, empty vessel sitting behind my ribcage.
“I think about you,” she admits.
“I think about you too.”
“Mick?”
“Yeah?”
“You okay…for real?”
Nope, but not your problem. “I’m making do. So, San Jose, huh? We’re neighbors.”
“It would seem so. You still in Menlo Park?”
I nod.
“But you surf here often?”
“When I can. It’s one of the better spots. I hope to get a place out here…” What am I doing? She doesn’t need to hear my bullshit.
“And what about your dream? To captain a boat? Florida?”
I gesture to the ocean. “Lots of opportunities to do it here or there. Once things change.”
“With your father?”
My sigh slips out before I can catch it. “Yeah. I’ve been talking to people, researching job options. I’m not giving up. It’s only been delayed.”
“I’m glad.” She smiles, leaning over and nudging me. Electricity sparks between us like we’ve never been apart, and the craving for more is instantaneous. Fucking hell.
“How’s Remy?” I ask, regaining my equilibrium.
“He’s good.”
“He must not be too happy about you moving so far away.” Daggers lodge in my sternum, lots of them, with that statement.
Her head tilts. “We’re making it work. I know it’s going to sound like bullshit, but he’s committed.”
He’d be the dumbest motherfucker in existence if he blows it with her. Ask the dumb motherfucker who knows. My hand combs through my hair as guilt washes through me. “I’ve been the shittiest friend ever.”
“I think he understands, Mick. You’re dealing with a lot.” Of course, she lets me off the hook.
“No excuse. He’s my best friend.” My gaze fixes on the ocean. “I didn’t want to drag him into this, especially after everything he’s already done for me.” It’s a massive debt I can never repay.
In our shared silence, I’m reminded how calming I find her presence. She’s so fucking kind. Charitable. Giving.
“Would it be okay…?” My words die. It’s a selfish request, and even I don’t want to be that asshole.
“What?”
“Never mind. I have no right to ask you for anything.”
“Mick. Just ask.”
I waver another few seconds, but temptation—and longing—override my sensibilities.
“I don’t know, seeing you, knowing you live closer…
can we, maybe, try being friends? Talk sometimes?
” It’s out of my mouth, sitting there like a dropped bomb.
Who am I to think I could ever be just friends with this woman?
Jax doesn’t hesitate. “Of course. I’d like that.” She stops walking, her gaze seeking mine. “You’ve never stopped being my friend, you know. We were friends first, and we still are.”
It’s true…although a fuckload more complicated than that. Damn if I don’t want it though. Need it. Just considering it brings air to my oxygen-starved, zombified existence. Maybe this can work?
I tug at her hand and give it a squeeze. “Thank you, Jacqui. It means a lot.” Ignoring the jolt, I welcome the warmth and sliver of healing between us.
We walk back, sharing more effortlessly, naturally—some of my internal anchor lifted. I’m just fucked up enough to think we can go back to friendship. Or rather, friendship without the…rest.
Jax scribbles her number on the back a receipt and takes mine.
Pulling her into a sincere hug, I fully breathe in the way her body molds perfectly against my frame, acutely aware she was meant for me—whether I can have her or not. “Thank you, Jax,” I whisper. “Seeing you is like coming home.”
That single word has never signified anything good to me until now. But if home is a haven, a comfort, a refuge, then that’s exactly what she is.