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My first look at Nala brings back more memories than I can process with a sleep-fogged brain. Add in the throbbing of my leg, and for a second, all I can think of doing is walking straight up to her, wrapping myself around her, and asking her to make it all better.
I’ve never leaned on anyone, not like that, and I won’t start now. Despite my commitment, though, I do take a second to pause and stare at her, hoping that gives me enough strength to keep going.
She’s leaning back against her Jeep, no doors or top, hands stuffed in the pockets of her miniscule flower-print shorts, hair tamed into a thick blonde braid with curls escaping to flirt with her face and neck. Her shirt is almost the same color as her hair, and looks like it used to be an old fishing net that someone just tied knots in and made armholes through. It leaves the majority of her tan skin on display, right down to the white bikini top beneath.
I can see the strings to a different color bikini sticking out the sides of her shorts.
If anyone ever wondered what bottled surf and sand and sunshine looked like, it’s Nala Jansen. She belongs to the beach, and the sun, and every time I see either, she flashes through my mind.
Maybe I should move to Alaska. “Still the ocean and sunshine there, dumbass,” my subconscious reminds me.
When I take a deep breath and make my perusal back up to her face, she straightens, pulling a homemade cardboard sign from the floor of the Jeep and holding it in front of her.
Brady: First Place Bone Breaker.
Fucking girl.
Hating that I can’t stroll up to her in the same casual manner she’s standing and staring at me, I use my crutches to close the distance between us. “Clever.” My voice has a bite to it, and I’m sorry for it, because it’s not her I’m mad at.
“Truth,” she snaps back, eyeing my cast, which stops just above my knee. I hate that, and do my best to stand completely still and ignore the throbbing that’s making it hard to stand. When she asks me if I’m in pain, I blow her question off, because there is no way in hell I’m admitting to another weakness, not when I’m already blatantly carting one around.
“I’m fine,” I tell her, and then try to convince both of us that it’s just a broken leg. She doesn’t buy it, calling me on my shit instantly, which puts my back up even more. I repeat myself, acting like breaking through both major bones in my leg is no big deal, and because I’m looking at her, up close—even though she’s got that expression on her face that tells me she wants to throttle me—it doesn’t feel like one. Not when it’s been months since I’ve seen her, months since I’ve done nothing but plane-hopped from one competition to the next, from one endorsement deal to the next, racing away from the dissatisfied feeling that’s been chasing me for longer than I want to admit.
Right now, leaning on my crutches so I’m closer to her five-two height than my normal six-two, I take my first real breath in ages.
“Luggage?” she asks through her teeth.
I shake my head and balance myself long enough to toss my backpack with my skateboard attached into the backseat. “Had it shipped.”
Using the roll bar on the top of her Jeep as leverage, I hoist myself into the passenger side, scowling when Nala swoops in and takes my crutches, depositing them with my bag.
“I can do that.”
“No one said you couldn’t.”
Skirting around the front, she jumps in and guns the engine, whipping out into traffic. I tighten my seatbelt, realizing this is the first time I’ve ever been driven by Nala when she had a legal license.
“You’re not much smoother than you were when you were fourteen,” I tell her.
I had to pitch my voice, and still, for a minute I think she might not have heard me because she continues staring straight ahead, but then she glances my way, a sly smile crossing her lips. “And you’re not much calmer.” Purposefully, she speeds around a minivan, screeching up the steep hill that leads out of the airport and toward the freeway. I don’t say anything, but I’m barely breathing, and my hand is in a white knuckle grip on the roll bar.
“Home?” she asks.
Sliding my eyes to the side so I can see her profile, I nod. “Home.” And suddenly, it feels damn good to be here, despite the broken leg.
