She thanks me before we find a quiet spot in the sandaway from the crowd of tourists and squealing kids. The watersloshes back and forth against the shoreline, gently swayingagainst the columns that hold up the pier and bungalows. I spreadmy extra towel out on the sand for us to sit on.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” she says, handing mycup of toasted marshmallow frozen yogurt back to me. “Both of themreally.”
“Thanks,” I say. “But Theo’s not my friend anymore.None of my old friends are part of my life now.”
It stings to say those words out loud. I think of theHooligans often, how they were my crew in and out of the water, butit’s a lot easier to think of them as a whole rather than theindividual parts. When I refer to them by their names, by theirstories, it digs the knife so much deeper.
Kaia scoops up a spoonful from the pink side of hercup. “What happened?”
“I fucked up,” I say. There’s no other way around it.“I acted like I was better than them. I was entitled. I know youhave this idea of who I am, the spoiled rich kid who always getshis way and only has to make a phone call to his dad to makesomething happen. A lot of people see me that way, and I get whythey do. That’s who I was. But then I was knocked off my highhorse...a few times actually...and it was a rude awakening.”
She pokes her spoon into the creamy blue in her cup.“What’s the real story?” she asks.
The coldness in my mouth leaves me longing for abonfire with real s’mores and toasted marshmallows. The last time Iwas at a bonfire on the beach, I was pretty drunk, and A.J.Gonzalez threatened to bust a beer bottle over my head again. Thatwas last summer, but it feels like years ago. A lifetime ago.
“What do you mean?” I ask. There’s no telling whichstory she’s referring to.
“The last year of your life,” she says before anglingher body to face me. “You had a falling out with your friends.Dropped out of school. And now you’re here. Fill in the gaps forme. All I have to go on is tabloid fodder.”
“Fodder,” I repeat.
“Hey, I know a few words,” she counters. “I may nothave your fancy rich boy education, but when it comes to tabloids,I’ve got you beat any day.”
I scoop up a spoonful and savor the taste before thegarbage story of my past comes out of my mouth. I know that deepdown, she already thinks the worst of me, even if she’s trying togive me the benefit of doubt right now.
“I used to live in this place called Horn Island,” Ibegin. “It’s pretty ghetto. Dirty beaches. Not somewhere you wantto raise a family. When my parents divorced, my dad remarriedpretty quickly, and he fought for my sister and me to live with himbecause Crescent Cove was safer, had a better school system, and soon. He eventually won.”
I decide it’s probably better to leave out the partwhere my dad married someone fifteen years younger than him andpurchased the biggest house Crescent Cove had to offer at thetime.
“My childhood friends were some of the guys I endedup surfing with. They were pretty territorial about their waves, sowe started our own surf gang,” I say. “The West Coast Hooligans. Wewere like eleven, but that didn’t stop us from trying to takepeople down.”
She laughs, and I wish I could too, but the emptypiece of me that’s shaped like Horn Island won’t let me laugh. Iknow where this story goes. I tell her about Shark McAllister andhow he had this lifelong dream to open his own surf shop. Heeventually did – Drenaline Surf. We all saw it as our opportunityto take surfing to the next level, to be superstars of the sport,and we’d have someone behind us to support us.
“When he died, his best friendinherited the store. Vin Brooks is the last person you would everimagine in the surf business. Dude wears tennis shoes on the beach.He’s not into it at all,” I explain. “But he’s one hell of abusinessman. Drenaline Surf is doing better than ever before, and Icredit Vin for it. He may not like the ocean, but he knows the surfworld and how to work it.”
I hesitate before continuing because I don’t likegoing back to that day. I don’t like going back to thatcompetition. I don’t like going back to Miles Garrett.
“Of all the guys, Miles was my polar opposite,” Isay. “He lived in a trailer park. His mom didn’t do right by him orhis little brother. His dad wasn’t around. He was rough aroundevery edge. Quickest to throw a punch but also the quickest todoubt himself. Survival is all he ever knew, and that’s what hedid. Success was nothing because he just wanted to make it throughthe day. I, on the other hand, wanted to be ten steps ahead ofeveryone else at the end of the day.”
Putting those words into the island air feels likeI’m spraying the land with horrific graffiti and slurs. Milesdeserved better than how I acted. He fought like hell in thatevent. He surfed like a freak in that final. He won that event fairand square, and I never even told him congratulations. If I thoughthe’d actually talk to me, I’d text him right now and apologize foreverything that happened that day and since then. But my number isprobably blocked.
“We were both competing for a sponsorship, and Mileshad a history of choking under pressure,” I say. “He never wantedto make the world tour or travel the world. He just wanted to be alocal legend and get paid to surf. It seemed unfair to me. I wantedthe big leagues, but surf
