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His first surfboard.
He’d been eight. He’d asked for surfing lessons. His dad had given them to him. But he didn’t drop him off and then pick him up. Always during Hale’s lessons, he’d stayed to watch.
It was the second lesson, but the first time he got up on the board, rode his first wave.
Hale had been euphoric, high from a ride that caused an instant addiction Hale still nursed when he had the time. His dad had been openly proud.
He’d hugged him when he dragged his board up on the beach. Got all wet, didn’t care. Went right in for the hug.
It was one of the few times his father touched him.
The instructor had taken that picture.
The cop told him Corey was holding that frame when he shot himself. Hale suspected she thought that would make him feel better.
It made him feel, but what he felt was not better.
Hale closed the frame and put it on the desk in front of him,
He then dug out his phone as he turned his head toward the sea.
He hit what he needed on the screen and put the phone to his ear, eyes to the endless blue.
“Hey, son,” Tom answered.
“Tommy, I need to talk.”
“Where are you?”
“LA.”
“I’m still in New York.”
Breathe.
He breathed.
Then he spoke. “Elsa’s coming out to do an interview. I’ll go back with her. When I get there, we’ll sit down.”
“We can talk now, Hale,” Tom offered.
“No. Face to face.”
“Is everything okay?”
His dad held that frame in his hand when he’d taken his own life.
Hale had forgotten one picture existed, and he’d never seen the other one.
But Corey was holding Hale in his hand when he’d died.
He was holdingthemin his hand when he’d taken his own life.
“No,” he answered Tom.
“Talk to me, Hale.”
“Face to face.”
