Back outside, we fasten the boards to the rack of Yosh’s green Gremlin. With one final pull, I tighten the last tension strap until it feels secure.
Yosh takes a step back, tilting his head as he checks the setup.
He looks at me, eyes staying a little too long before offering a content smile.
Knowing him, his head is running a thousand miles an hour.
I rest a hand on his shoulder, just to say teamwork makes the dream work.
My other hand moves to my stomach, where something is definitely stirring. Whatever it is, it feels oddly pleasant. Like coming home to something I didn’t know I’d lost.
The ride to Starlight Beach is rough. We bounce over pothole after pothole, and the closer we get to the beach, the less it feels like something out of a travel brochure. No picture-perfect white sand here. It’s raw, a little wild.
I hop out of the Gremlin and walk around to the front.
The shoreline consists of sharp rocks sticking out of the water. The bay itself is calm, an idyllic looking swimming spot. Boats bob gently near a small pier, safe from the waves crashing against the rocks farther out. That’s where the real action is. Kids, adults, all of them riding the waves like pros. It’s nothing like the wide, sandy beach back in Biarritz where I first learned to surf. And it’s not that it looks harder or anything. Just different.
When I glance over my shoulder, I spot the turquoise board leaning against the car. I jog back to help Yosh with the second one. It’s quick work.
Once everything’s loaded, we head for the shoreline, boards tucked under one arm, the cooler swinging between us.
“First things first,” he says, a tone that sounds like an order. “UV shirt, before the sun turns you into a pink flamingo.”
“I’d rather go with Pinot Noir or White Zinfandel. Merlot, if it gets really bad.”
He chuckles, reaching into the cooler.
“Of course, only you could make sunburn sound bougie.”
I nudge his shoulder, but I grab the shirt anyway and put it on. The fabric feels cool and surprisingly soft against my skin.
Then he hands me a bottle of sunscreen. His fingers brush mine in the process, a shiver shooting down my spine.
My eyes flick up to meet his, and it takes everything in me to keep the sun in my stomach from reaching my face.
“Reef-safe and for sensitive skin,” he says, noticing I’m still staring at him. “Figured your face couldn’t handle anything too harsh.”
“So you admit you’ve been looking at my face.” I smoothe the sunscreen into my palm before spreading it across my cheeks.
“Of course I have. As a medic, it’s second nature.”
Just as a medic, huh? Or is there something more to it? He emphasized that last part a bit too much, almost like it needed to sound convincing.
I think I’m getting tunnel vision. Seeing things just because I want there to be more.
I take a chunk of wax out of the cooler to prep my board, stroking even circles over its smooth surface. It’s a mindless task that lets my brain wander towards…dangerous territory. Especially with him this close.
I’ve been replaying the events from last night over and over again.
It wasn’t only the silence that kept me awake, I’ve spent hours staring at the ceiling, thumbs circling, going over every detail from the moment the lights had gone out, to the second they came back on again.
Not the part where I tripped. No, the part where I pressed my lips to his skin and he didn’t push me away.
I swear I heard something when I kissed him. It could’ve been a moan. Or a groan—maybe he hit his elbow.
But the real mindfuck wasn’t in what he did. It’s in what he didn’t do. He didn’t throw me off him and say,Tom, what the fuck!
Instead, he’d reached for me, his hand on my waist, fingers tracing my non-existing abs. And after all that, he’d fumbled through some nonsense, a string of bullshit I can’t even remember.
