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“Yeah. Hey listen, I’m going to catch a few waves before we head over to the Cove.” Zane fanned his T-shirt away from his stomach.
“You okay?” Danny asked.
“Fine. I’ll catch up with you later.” He needed to get his ass in the water, and so that’s the direction he went.
He toed off his shoes, pulled his shirt over his head, and left them at the sand’s edge. Not much empty space existed on the beach, and he kept his head down, hoping to avoid notice. A small group of teenage boys toweled off, their surfboards still wet.
“Hey, mind if I borrow one of these for a few?” Zane picked up one of the boards.
“You’re Zane Hollander,” a tall kid said, his eyes wide in surprise.
“Yep.” Zane put out his hand and shook each boy’s. “This cool?” He nodded at the board.
“Totally. Take your time.”
“And do me a favor? Keep it on the down low.” He didn’t want them following and drawing attention to his presence.
Four heads nodded.
“Thanks,” he said and hit the water. He paddled far enough out to get lost in the pack of surfers. Straddling the board, he drifted and instead of concentrating on catching the next wave, thought about what Jon had said.
I like the way you think, son.
The compliment had literally stopped his heart from beating for a second. Jon had no idea the weight those words carried, and Zane wanted to believe them.
He wanted to have them fucking tattooed on his body.
Jon Waldron didn’t pull punches. He spoke from the heart. Zane had read enough about him to know that. Zane tried to do the same. Always had. His mom had taught him from the time he started school that the heart told the truth. If he listened to it, she’d say, he could do no wrong.
Funny, his dad never got that memo.
Probably because the man didn’t have a heart.
What reasons had he given his father to treat him so poorly and call him stupid, dumb, dense, asinine, everything but the name he’d been given?
He’d been a wild kid, sure, but no different from any of the other kids he hung out with. Thinking back on it now, he’d never gotten into any serious trouble besides ditching classes. And that started after his father’s insults took up more headspace than the idea of studying to get good grades. But had he ever failed a class? No. Gotten a D? No.
With minimal effort—shit, did he even open some of those textbooks?—he’d managed to move to the next grade level without having to repeat a class.
So why?
Sunlight glittered off the water. Rays of sunshine warmed his shoulders and back. The only reason he could think of was surfing. He’d excelled in the water so much that everyone talked about him. The local paper kept up with him. Attention from girls made him popular.
Maybe his dadwasjealous.
But, he realized, his dad pushed him out there. The Pacific became his sanctuary, his hideout, his home. His skin would be so shriveled when he finally walked through the sliding glass kitchen door that Julia called him Wrinkle Boy. His father would say, “Hey dumbass, did you get any better today?”
At the time, Zane thought his dad’s words a put-down. But maybe that had been his way of sayingkeep at it. His father had worked hard for his success. Made a lot of money in banking, but Zane never thought his old man was happy doing it. Did Zane’s happiness in the water piss him off? Or make him proud in a way he didn’t know how to relate to?
He’d never know. But thanks to his father’s sending him on his way at sixteen, Zane had gotten to be the best at something.
Speaking of that something, nice-sized rideable bumps followed one after the other. Zane paddled and caught the next wave. He rode it all the way in, no need for a repeat.
Because for the first time ever, he craved something more than surfing. He returned the board and wondered where he might find a certain redhead.
…
People were everywhere. They surrounded the concrete ring and yellow crackling flames of the bonfire. They were cuddled up on blankets a few paces back from the towering firelight. They sat in lawn chairs and directly in the sand, some with legs intertwined, others holding hands.
