Wilder Love

by Rose, Emery

  “Get ready,” Jimmy said at quarter to five.

  I wasn’t sure I could have ever been ready for this. A line was already forming outside the door. Jimmy’s Surf Shack, in conjunction with HartCore, the local surfwear company that sponsored Shane, was hosting a one-hour signing at the shop today. A free poster of Shane for each of his adoring fans for as long as supplies lasted.

  “Are they all girls?” I asked, trying to hide my dismay.

  “Looks that way.”

  I sighed. Shane looked relaxed, with an easy smile, like he did this kind of thing every day. I guess he did. It was part of his job. I spent the next hour seething with jealousy as Shane posed for photos, his arm around willowy blondes, brunettes, redheads, and signed his autograph. Sure, there were a few groms and some giggling tweens, but his fan base mostly consisted of girls in their late teens and early twenties.

  I watched him from behind the counter as a girl stuffed a slip of paper into his pocket. How many cell phone numbers had he collected? Would he hook up with any of them? I rang up a woman’s purchase of a HartCore wetsuit for her son and handed him the free ballcap with the HartCore logo that came with every purchase made during the signing. The kid grinned at me and put the ballcap on backward over his shaggy blond surfer hair. He was about ten or eleven and someday he’d be a heartbreaker.

  “I see you down at the pier surfing sometimes. With Shane Wilder.” His eyes lit up when he said Shane’s name. “Someday I want to be just like him.”

  “You want to be a pro surfer?” I asked, smiling at him.

  “Yep.” His eyes strayed across the shop to Shane. “He’s a mad surfer. Like, how does he do those aerials? I’ve been working on them all summer, but I can hardly catch any air.”

  “Yeah, he’s pretty great. He practices a lot.”

  He nodded, a serious expression on his face. “How many hours?”

  “Um…” I was now the resident expert on Shane Wilders surf training.

  “Honey,” his mom said, laughing. “Stop badgering the poor girl.”

  “It’s okay.” I looked at the boy. “I’d say four to six hours a day in the water and then he does a lot of other training. He says Indo Boarding is really good for surfers.”

  His eyes widened. “Wow. Okay. That’s what I need to do. Well… see ya around.”

  “See you. Good luck.”

  He gave me two thumbs-up.

  After the boy and his mom left the shop, I looked over at Shane again. He was kind of a big deal, I guess. A god on a stick. He could have any girl he wanted, and I wondered why he had chosen me that day.

  Since then, I had been friend-zoned. Which was for the best, really. I didn’t want to get hung up on a guy like Shane. On the first night, I had told him far too much and had been too honest. I regretted that now. What had I been thinking? I hadn’t. I’d just let it all pour out, this inexplicable need to show him who I really was and see if he still liked me, despite that. Most guys just wanted to skip the talking part and move on to sex. Shane hadn’t been like that. He’d asked me questions and listened to my answers like he actually cared about my opinions. But not only had I told him too much, he had seen Mom in action. It wasn’t her at her worst but from the outside, I could only imagine how it looked.

  6

  Shane

  “You ready for Teahupo’o?” my dad asked over dinner—grilled salmon, wild rice and salad from the garden.

  The sun was just setting, and we were sitting on the back patio where we ate most of our meals whenever I stopped by for dinner.

  “Guess we’ll see when I get there. My training has been going well and I’ll have a few days beforehand to study the waves before the heats. I’ll just go out there and do my best. Try not to piss myself,” I joked.

  “Not many people get to say they surfed the fabled Teahupo’o.”

  “I’m lucky as shit.” There was no denying that.

  “World’s your oyster.” He sounded wistful like he did when he was thinking about my mom or his dreams that had died right along with her.

  “Do you ever regret giving it up?” Every few years I asked him this question, wondering if his answer would ever change.

  “Nope. My heart wasn’t in it anymore. Competing is stressful. If you’re not there mentally, physically, and emotionally, you’ve already lost before you even paddle out. But I don’t have to tell you that. You handling the stress okay?”

  I cracked my neck. “It gets to me sometimes, yeah. I mean, this is a whole other league than the QS. Some of those guys I’m competing against are my heroes. Sometimes the crowds and the travel and the little shit gets to me, but when I get out there, I forget about all that. It’s just me… trying to catch the best wave and surf the best I can.”

  That was my spiel, the same thing I told journalists who interviewed me. I wasn’t lying, but I was glossing over a few things, making myself sound more chilled than I was.

  He chuckled, detecting the veiled lie. “You’re doing good. Find your Zen, exhale the bullshit.”

  “Did you see that on a bumper sticker?”

  “Facebook,” he joked.

  Sometimes competing brought out the worst in me but I didn’t want to talk about that with him. My dad didn’t have a temper like I did. He was more relaxed, more easygoing, let things slide off his back. I didn’t always know how to do that but was always striving to be a better version of myself.

  “So, what’s the deal with you and Peony?” I asked, steering the conversation away from me.

  My dad snorted and took a pull of his beer. “Her name’s Poppy.”

  “I knew it was a flower.”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “We’re keeping it casual.”

  I read between the lines. She’s not your mother. It would last three months, tops. His longest relationship since my mom was six months. Which had prompted me to move out of the house at nineteen. Our three-bedroom bungalow was close quarters, and we liked our own space.

  My dad and I hung out on the back deck for a while, chilling out and talking about life and surfing. After a day of shredding, my body was loose, my skin tingling from the sun I caught, and I was getting drowsy. Another good day. That was how I measured my life. When the good outweighed the bad, I was winning.

  When I got home, I lay awake in bed, thinking about my flight to Tahiti tomorrow, and one of the most challenging contests of my career so far.

  My cell beeped, and I grabbed it from the bedside table, checking the screen.

  Firefly: They’ll be able to see me from Mars now

  Shane: That’s the idea, Firefly

  Firefly: You didn’t have to do that. You shouldn’t have.

  Shane: My conscience…

  Firefly: It’s loud

  Shane: Keeps me up nights

  Why had she only just noticed the lights and reflectors I’d attached to her bike? I sat up in bed, my back against the headboard.

  Shane: You’re not out riding now, are you?

  I waited for a response but got none. Damn that girl. I scrubbed my hand over my face and groaned. It was midnight and Remy was out there alone, riding a bike.

  Remy: I’m home now. Night Shane. And good luck.

  Shane: Night Remy. And thanks.

  A niggling feeling settled in my gut. I stared at the ceiling for a few minutes then I got up and pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants and a T-shirt. The street was dark, and clouds obscured the moon. I used my phone flashlight to guide my way across the street. Her bike wasn’t there.

  Twenty minutes later, I watched from the staircase of her building as she cycled up the hill and turned into the parking lot.

  She hadn’t seen me sitting here. I raked both hands through my hair and I waited for her to finish locking up her bike. She stopped short when she saw me, her hand flying to her chest. “Oh God. You scared me.”

  “The fuck were you doing, Remy?”

  She sighed. “Why are you here, Shane?”

  “You lied to me
.” Again.

  “I didn’t want you to lose sleep—”

  “Why were you out riding so late?”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Why not?”

  She gnawed on her bottom lip and shrugged one shoulder.

  “Why couldn’t you sleep?” I wrapped my hands around her wrists and tugged her closer, so she was standing between my legs. Then I remembered that she was only sixteen and I was commando in gray sweatpants that left little to the imagination. I released her and scrubbed my hands over my face, stifling a groan.

  She sank down onto the step next to me and leaned her shoulder against mine. I inhaled her scent—green apples and summer rain.

  “I hate goodbyes, you know? Goodbye is the saddest word in the English language.”

  “Where’s the good in goodbye?”

  “Exactly. So, I’ll see you soon. And I won’t worry about you or think about you at all. You won’t even cross my mind.”

  “Ditto. Will you surf without me?”

  “You’ll be with me in spirit. Like a drill sergeant barking orders. Paddle harder. Find your center. Blah, blah, blah.”

  I laughed, and we sat in silence for a while. A comfortable silence. Remy never felt the need to rush in and fill up the empty space. I liked that about her.

  “What’s it like? Riding the big waves?” she asked moments later.

  “It’s like… facing your own mortality.” I hadn’t meant to say that but with Remy, I don’t know, I always voiced my innermost thoughts. Told her the things I never told anyone. “It really makes you think about life and death. And I think that’s one of the reasons I chase those waves… and maybe it’s the same for most surfers. So many people are just surviving, not really living, you know? And riding a big wave makes you feel so alive. It’s an incredible experience. I don’t know how to describe it.”

  “Yeah,” she said softly. “I know what you mean. There’s a big difference between living and surviving.”

  We contemplated that for a few minutes and then, without saying another word, she stood up and she climbed the stairs to her apartment. It was something I’d come to learn about her. Remy would always try to be the first to leave. She was scared of being left behind.

  7

  Remy

  “Fuck,” Dylan muttered when Mom strutted into the kitchen in a skirt that barely covered her ass and a top with a plunging neckline. I stared at the cleavage on display and the red stilettos on her feet. The slash of red lipstick and the fake lashes. Mom looked like a hooker because, let’s face it, she was. I poured her coffee into a travel mug and pressed it into her hand.

  “Mom, you can’t wear that to our school,” I told her, watching our fresh start vanish before my eyes. The first two weeks of school had gone okay. No major drama or trouble. That was about to change, I could feel it. Whenever Mom got involved, things went from sugar to shit real fast.

  She ignored me and looked at Dylan. “What’s his name again?”

  “You’re not meeting him,” Dylan said, jamming his empty cereal bowl in the dishwasher and slamming it shut. “So, it doesn’t fucking matter what his name is.”

  “He’s your guidance counselor, baby. He wants to meet me. Of course, it matters. My boy is gifted. Imagine that.”

  It was true. Dylan was smart, and Costa del Rey had noticed what other schools had overlooked. Kids like us slipped through the cracks all the time. And guys like Dylan—he was bad news wrapped in a pretty package. Stumbling out of the girls’ locker room, a cheerleader trailing behind with mussed hair and kiss-bruised lips. Smoking under the football stadium bleachers. In the middle of fights in the parking lot. That was where you could usually find Dylan. But he knew better than to push the limits too far. We couldn’t afford to have the school administration nosing into our business.

  Before Mom shooed us out the door, I grabbed a coat from her closet. A trench coat. Which would look ridiculous. SoCal weather never seemed to change—warm, desert-dry, with eternal sunshine even on the cloudy days. But if she would agree to wear the coat, it would be an improvement over her current ensemble.

  Instead of getting into Mom’s beat-up old Honda, Dylan kept going, right past the parking lot, striding up the street to God knows where. We usually rode our bikes to school, so I had no idea where he was going.

  “Dylan St. Clair, you get back here right this minute,” Mom screamed. Every now and then, at the most inopportune moments, Mom acted like a mother. “I will hunt you down and you will get in this car.”

  My gaze swung across the street. Somehow, I knew, just knew, that this display would not go unwitnessed. Why wasn’t Shane out surfing already? He was waxing a board inside the garage, and the door was open. He wasn’t alone either. Travis was staring at the spectacle that was my mother.

  Mom lit a cigarette and sat on the hood of her car. She prodded me with a red-painted fingernail. “Talk to your brother and haul him back here, sugar.” She smiled, but the smile wasn’t aimed at me. It was for Travis and Shane. Fuck my life. I chased after Dylan, wishing I could just keep running. Shane was a good thing, and I didn’t want him to keep seeing how messed-up my life was.

  “Dylan. Wait up.” I grabbed his arm to stop him. He shook me off and lowered his head, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “I can’t deal with her shit.”

  “It’s going to be okay.”

  He huffed out a laugh. “Everything will be different here, right?”

  “We just have to get through the next two years, Dylan. Then we’ll be free to go wherever we want. To do whatever we want.”

  “Feels like a lifetime.” Sixteen and he sounded so weary of life already.

  “I know. But we can do this. We’re in this together, remember? Don’t give up now. Stick it out with me. I can’t do this without you.” I wasn’t only talking about this morning, but he knew that without my having to explain it.

  His shoulders sagged under the weight of the promises we’d made each other. He would do anything for me and I would do anything for him.

  * * *

  I cleaned out the garbage in my locker—white trash, so freaking clever—and stuffed it in the dumpster. Welcome to another day at Costa del Rey High.

  I grabbed the books I’d need for my morning classes and stuffed them in my backpack, slamming my locker shut.

  “Here you go, babes.” Sienna pressed a Starbucks drink into my hand.

  I tried to force it back into her hand, but she refused to take it. It was the third time she had done it this week and now I felt obligated to reciprocate. I couldn’t afford overpriced morning beverages. “You need to stop doing this. I told you—”

  “It’s Frappuccino. Not my firstborn. Get over it.” She flashed me a big white smile. Sienna was one of those effortlessly pretty SoCal girls with perfect blonde beach waves, a golden tan, and cute designer clothes. I’d been to enough schools to recognize the popular crowd within five minutes of stepping foot inside the door. Judging by appearances, Sienna belonged in that clique. Yet she had befriended me on day one.

  “I’m in the market for a new best friend,” Sienna had said.

  “What happened to your old best friend?” I’d been immediately suspicious and skeptical of her motives.

  “She met an untimely death.”

  “Did you bludgeon her with a blunt object?”

  “I killed her with my withering glances.”

  I had laughed, and we’d bonded over our taste in music—90s grunge. And our favorite movies—old-school horror and Alfred Hitchcock.

  Six weeks later and she was bringing me Frappuccino, inviting me to hang out at her pool, watch movies at her McMansion, and occasionally she stopped by Jimmy’s Surf Shack on Saturdays when I worked. It had been a long time since I’d bothered making a friend at school, so it was nice to have one. What wasn’t so great was the crowd Sienna used to hang out with, the kids she grew up with.

  My drink flew out of my hand and splattered on the flo
or. I jumped back, my shoulder slamming into the lockers, and looked down at the puddle at my feet in dismay. Shit.

  “Oops.” Paige held her fingers over her open mouth, her baby blues wide and innocent. “Now look what you’ve done, skank.”

  I gritted my teeth and dabbed at the coffee stains on my Pearl Jam T-shirt with the napkins Sienna pressed into my hand. The cold liquid seeped into my Chucks. There was no hope of salvaging them.

  “You’re the skank,” Sienna said.

  “Poor Sienna. Still bitter over losing Tristan to me?”

  Sienna laughed. “Trust me. He’s no prize. In fact, you two are perfect for each other. Speaking of the devil.”

  “Slumming it, Sienna?” Tristan asked, wrapping his arms around Paige from behind. She leaned back against him with a smug smile, but his dark eyes were on me.

  “Au contraire,” Sienna said. “I’ve upgraded.”

  “Better clean up your mess, dirty girl,” Tristan told me with a smirk that seemed to be permanently etched on his stupid face.

  I flipped him the bird. He was laughing as he steered Paige down the hallway. She was wearing her little blue and gold cheering outfit, he was in his football jersey. It was the Friday before Homecoming, and it was Spirit Day at Costa del Rey High. Rah rah fucking rah.

  As I’d suspected, Mom’s school visit had repercussions. Rumor had it that she had made a play for the guidance counselor. That in itself would have been bad enough but what she had done next was the worst possible thing that could have happened. She had shamelessly flirted with Tristan Hart, and he had gone right along with it because he was cruel, and he was calculating. Every school had a Tristan Hart—handsome, rich, thought he was God’s gift. Guys like him were dangerous. They used people as playthings, were used to getting whatever they wanted, and had never heard the word no. Unfortunately, I had drawn his attention.