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Several locals greeted me as I jogged across the sand, and I gave them a little salute. I’d been surfing these waters since I was nine years old, and knew pretty much everyone. A friend of mine called out, “Hey, Jamie. You going out there? The waves are shit, dude.” The wind was blowing his long brown hair into his eyes, and he pushed it back with one hand to look at me.
“Hi River. Yeah, I’m gonna give it a shot.”
He shrugged and picked up his board. “Suit yourself, bro.” And he headed in the opposite direction.
The waves slapped my knees as I waded into the water, and I laid my board down and paddled out. The first few minutes were always bitterly cold before the layer of water beneath my wetsuit warmed up. The cold cleared my head, made me focus. I welcomed it.
I stayed in the water for hours, even though the waves were average at best. Then finally, right before I was ready to pack it in, a solid set rolled in and made it all worthwhile. That meant I stayed out a lot longer than I’d intended, and I was completely exhausted by the time I dragged myself out of the ocean.
I drove straight to Dmitri’s house and parked Lucy on the right side of the driveway behind the Land Rover, then grabbed my overnight bag and used the keys he’d given me to let myself in. The keypad to his alarm system was right inside the front door, and I quickly typed in my birthday. Lo and behold, the system powered down. I grinned at that, then peeled my wetsuit off right there in his marble entryway, trying not to drip all over the floors, and carried it gingerly to the garage, where I hung it from a utility hook.
Then I padded upstairs buck naked, overnight bag in hand, and went through his bedroom to the large master bathroom. I showered and dressed in a new white t-shirt from my recent shopping spree and an old pair of flannel pajama bottoms with a repeating pattern of Spongebob Squarepants on them (obviously, I really needed to do laundry – these had been a gag gift from my sister Maureen that I wore only when desperate). I plugged my dead cell phone in beside the sink, then went downstairs and raided Dmitri’s fridge.
I was absolutely ravenous (and in no mood to question the ethics of eating food potentially paid for with mob money). I found a pasta dish and warmed it in the microwave, then grabbed a beer and utensils and a carton of Ben and Jerry’s (the freezer was still jam-packed from Dmitri’s attempt to cheer me up following that disastrous visit to my parents’ house) and juggled everything upstairs to Dmitri’s bedroom.
Yes, I was going to eat in bed, because this was how he and I had eaten every meal we’d ever shared in this house. I settled back against the pillows and, after a few failed attempts with the incredibly complex remote, got the TV to rise magically from its console and actually turn on. I found a college football game, which I could have cared less about, and muted the sound, then dove into the pasta. It was probably good that Dmitri wasn’t home, because shoveling food into my mouth while dressed like this wasn’t the most flattering thing ever.
When every last morsel of pasta was gone, I took a long drink of beer, belched like a drunken sailor, and dove into the Ben and Jerry’s with a big serving spoon. I was about halfway through the carton when I heard the front door slam downstairs. My first thought was that Dmitri was home early, and I smiled happily.
But then a woman’s voice called, “Honey, I’m home!”
I froze, my heart leaping with alarm, the big spoon and the ice cream carton poised in mid-scoop. This person was coming up the stairs, high heels clicking on hardwood. And as she advanced, she called out loudly, “I’m coming upstairs! So if there’s any hot man-on-man action going on, then for God’s sake, knock it off and put some pants on! Quickly now! I don’t want to be traumatized when I get up there!”
She was right outside the bedroom door now, and yelled, “I’m coming in! Last warning! Make sure everyone’s dicks are put away!” And then she pushed the door open.
A tall, strikingly beautiful woman with long blonde hair and blue eyes breezed into the room, a big leather bag draped over one upturned wrist. She caught sight of me and stopped in her tracks, then assessed me critically, taking in every detail from my damp hair to the Spongebob PJs to the Ben and Jerry’s.
And then she said with a cheerful smile, “Hi, I’m Catherine. And you must be the home wrecker that’s trying to steal my fiancé.”
