Surf's Up
Matestone Guardians, Volume 1
Bee Murray
Published by Bee Murray, 2020.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
SURF'S UP
First edition. August 28, 2020.
Copyright © 2020 Bee Murray.
Written by Bee Murray.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER ONE: RONNIE
CHAPTER TWO: DARREN
CHAPTER THREE: RONNIE
CHAPTER FOUR: DARREN
CHAPTER FIVE: RONNIE
CHAPTER SIX: EARL
CHAPTER SEVEN: RONNIE
CHAPTER EIGHT: TREVOR
CHAPTER NINE: RONNIE
CHAPTER TEN: RONNIE
CHAPTER ELEVEN: EARL
CHAPTER TWELVE: RONNIE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: RONNIE
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: RONNIE
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: RONNIE
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: DARREN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: RONNIE
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: RONNIE
CHAPTER NINETEEN: TREVOR
CHAPTER TWENTY: RONNIE
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: RONNIE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: RONNIE
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: TREVOR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: RONNIE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: EARL
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: RONNIE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: BRYAN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: RONNIE
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: RONNIE
CHAPTER THIRTY: RONNIE
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
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CHAPTER ONE: RONNIE
TWENTY-SEVEN SECONDS. That’s how long I stand in the doorway and watch my lying, no-good, soon-to-be EX fiance hammer into Brenda-from-Customer-Care like an out-of-shape jackrabbit running for his life. I’ve read about these kinds of situations in books. I’ve even seen them play out in movies. But all of that background is no real guidebook for when it happens in real-life. I suppose I could ask Alexa or Siri for advice. They seem to know everything. I bet they would give me some valuable insight into the etiquette required for this particular situation.
They don’t notice when I drop my bag at my feet or clear my throat. Nope. I have to give Brenda credit, she’s selling that porn-star moan something fierce. It’s a performance worthy of applause. So many thoughts fly through my head while I stand there. Do I let them finish? Do I scream and yell? Should I dump cold water on them? Stab someone? I honestly don’t know. So I watch. Do other people do that? Awkward.
You have no idea how long twenty-seven seconds actually is until you are living in a surreal moment in time. Watching someone you used to trust bounce vigorously off the ass of someone who recently rated you as ‘needs improvement in workplace attitude’ does not help. You know what does help? Knowing that my darling Adam only has another 45 seconds left in him. He’s only got three moves and all of them are mediocre. I think about grabbing our meal planning white board and ranking them like Olympic events. I could commentate. That would be fun. Scream for him, Brenda, if you must, it's all ending very, very soon.
She sees me first. And, to her credit, she does scream. She screams so loudly she scares the crap out of Adam and he stumbles backward, catching his buttcheek on the edge of the dresser. It’s like watching one of those hidden camera shows, but you know, live. He falls in slow-motion, while she dive-lunges into the covers, wrapping a sheet around herself like a protective toga.
We probably owe old Ms. Lucille in 2B an apology for the racket. She’s quite offended by what she calls ‘rowdy ruckus,’ and let me tell you, there are few things rowdier and more ruckus-like than a grown woman getting caught in a bed she isn’t supposed to be in.
Their awkward scrambling for clothing helps me snap out of my surreal state. It triggers rage. Rage has always been a useful emotion. It’s quite versatile. It helps me get unstuck so I can get shit done. This is no exception. I force myself to count to twenty.
“Come on, Ronnie! We can talk about this!” Adam pleads as he wiggles himself into his sweatpants.
I don’t bother answering him. Why should I? He’s the one who literally fucked up, not me.
Nope. I just let that comforting haze of rage flow on through me like I’m a Hulk in heels, hellbent on destruction. The picture frame on the dresser is a convenient starting point. Hearing it smash onto the floor and watching them both flinch is incredibly satisfying. I wonder what else I can smash.
Smashing is the best. It allows one to explore creativity in new and unique ways. All of my social media ads are targeting ‘self-care’ and giving me crafting tutorials these days.
It could be argued that destruction is good for the soul and, well, women in general just do not take enough time for self-care anymore. We don’t.
We are over-extended, under-paid, anxious, and waiting for the next shoe to drop on a pile of crap we didn’t make. Ergo, this isn’t petty, it’s self-care. #blessedandbalanced
Plus, learning new things is great. Did you know that maple syrup is technically not a good substitute for electricity for an Xbox? I know that now. Unfortunately, it took the whole bottle for me to really get that lesson to stick. I’m an experiential learner. #ThanksPinterest
All of this stuff is technically mine. I bought it. Paid for it from the thankless job I’ve gone to every goddamn day while he stays home and tries to get his business running. It turns out, after three freaking YEARS of ‘market research’ there just isn’t a viable market for ‘mobile bongo drum maintenance’.
Shocking.
Not quite as shocking as coming home to Adam-the-Asshole getting it on with Brenda-the-Bitch from Customer Care though. No wonder her survey results are always so high, she’s full-freaking-service in the problem solving department!
On the list of ways one could find out their partner is cheating on them, finding them balls deep in one’s co-worker isn't one I’d recommend. It’s way down the list. Doesn’t even break the Top 5. Then again, neither does Adam. Karmic poetry.
Like an avenging angel of wrath, I bulldoze and rampage through the apartment that holds the trappings of my former life. My things are thrown into the giant yellow beach bag he always mocked. His things? I throw them into the trash. Vaguely, I hear them whispering together, but they make no move to stop me as I storm through the apartment and grab everything I want. Essentials like clothes, jewelry, and pop-tarts go right into the bag. Grandma’s afghan? Mine. His favorite video game controller? Mine now. His laundry that I spent 45 minutes folding last night? His. But
