Surf & Surrender

by Riley Edgewood

  Or cowering-ish, anyway.

  And screw that. Sawyer left. This is my town. I'm not going to slink around, scared—or, more likely, hoping—to run into him just because he's back.

  I'm going to find him. And he's going to give me answers, whether or not he wants to. We're going to have this out.

  And then… I'm going to move past it.

  Chase pulls into my parents' circular driveway, the white stone gravel crunching under his tires. "Quinn, listen. I don't want to just let it go, okay? But I have to look at the bigger picture. I don't want to make things harder for Carleigh, and anything involving Peter will."

  I sigh. "Fine. Use your being a good brother card to get off the hook. You win."

  "Good. I'll take it any way I can get it." He smiles. "I don't want to part on bad terms. I want to see you again."

  "Oh…" I thought we'd covered this base… Crap.

  "No, I mean as friends," he clarifies.

  "I'd like that, too." My smile comes more easily than I thought it could, given the circumstances of the evening. "Next time I'll even tell you where I really live."

  I hug him and tell him to stay where he is when he opens his door to come to mine. He waits until I'm in my Jeep and waves as he drives past.

  I grab my phone from my bag to call Gianna before I hit the road. I'm assuming she's okay because she didn't get dragged down to the station with Sawyer and Danny, but I'd still like to hear it for myself. My battery's on its last dredges, though, so I start my car and reach for my car charger, but unsurprisingly I've misplaced it somewhere.

  I already have a few missed texts from Gi, which I manage to check before my phone dies completely.

  Where are you? Call me back.

  And then: I don't know if I should tell you this or not. But I would want to know if the tables were reversed.

  And then, making my heart beat a little faster: Just know I will never, ever, ever be Team Sawyer, okay? He sucks.

  And: But Danny was talking his usual shit about you after you left. And Sawyer broke his face for it.

  And finally: Ugh. Call me back already! So much to talk about!

  My phone dies as the last of her words reach my eyes.

  It takes a moment (a minute? An hour? A year?) for it all to sink it.

  Sawyer kicked Danny's ass for me.

  I…don't know what to make of it.

  But then, I do. Partially, at least.

  I realize he still cares.

  On some level, he still cares enough to defend me.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  QUINN

  SO HERE'S WHAT went down four years ago.

  Picture this…

  The boy I've loved without bounds for two years. Sawyer.

  The girl he's loved without restraint. Me.

  A night in early June, a little chilly in the beach breeze. One week after my seventeenth birthday. A tent on the sand under a clear and starry sky.

  The tent is lined with strands of white Christmas lights, though I'm confused at first as to where they're plugged in. Then I realize, they aren't. Knowing Sawyer the way I knew him then—and, believe me, I knew every inch of him, inside and out—he found solar-powered ones, or something like that.

  Somehow he's made it appear as though the stars in the sky have netted our tent, twinkling and fragile.

  Kicking off my flip-flops, I unzip the flap of the door and shove myself through, a little gangly and a lot eager to throw myself at him. A lot eager for the night we've planned. The one we've waited for.

  But the tent's empty of Sawyer.

  It smells like him though, all faintly sage and citrus spice, mingling with that familiarly musky beach aroma of sand and salt water. Worried, suddenly, that I'll ruin the perfect bouquet of scents, I steal a sniff under my arms. But the vanilla tones of my deodorant are holding strong.

  The side of the tent facing the ocean is unzipped, letting the breeze in through a screened window. The shushing sound of the waves calms me, and for a moment, I'm glad I have a second to myself. I stare out at the water, watching the stars and moon dance and flow in their reflections.

  The floor's padded with a thick blanket, soft against the bottoms of my feet and, beneath the tent lining, the sand squishes when I move. In the corner, as my eyes adjust to the weird orangish lighting coming through from the stranded lights above me, I make out a weathered wooden crate flipped upside down to support an old-school radio.

  I let my smile soar. He remembered.

  Must've been at least a year and a half before, I mentioned how much old technology makes me feel nostalgic, and sweet. Maybe, probably, because my parents' organic foods store was developing into a chain at that point, and they were going nuts with every modern thing they could buy. But I had a soft spot for old beater cars (like Sawyer drove back then…wonder if he still does) and rotary phones and rusty metal electronics… And the radio he's left for us tonight? It even has a crooked old antenna—and, because he knew it'd make me grin, he tied a sloppy bow around it with a big red ribbon.

  I swear I've never loved him more. Though I wake up pretty much every day feeling the same way.

  He's the punctuation to my sentence. I'm the grammar to his lines. We're made for each other. Perfectly.

  I've never been more ready to give him everything, never been more ready to take the exact same thing from him.

  I wonder where he is. Most likely, he ran out on a last-minute errand to grab something unnecessary, but thoughtful. I wish he'd finally understand the only thing I'll ever need is him.

  I sit cross-legged on the blanket to wait.

  I should probably feel nervous, but I don't. We may be virgins, but there's barely a spot on either of our bodies that hasn't been seen by the other, and kissed, and caressed… No, I'm not nervous. I'm ready.

  I run my tongue over my teeth; it's still a pleasant surprise not to find braces there, even two months later. I feel more mature with my new smile. Less like a kid.

  And tonight, I'll let Sawyer make me a woman.

  The thought makes me giggle. A woman? Is that still how girls refer to themselves after losing it?

  Who cares? I just can't wait to do it. Can't wait for Sawyer.

  I can barely contain myself, slapping my hands in different rhythms along my thighs, hurrying him in my thoughts. I hope he likes the matching bra and underwear I bought yesterday, preparing. My hair is straight down my back—actually cooperating through the beach humidity for once. My nails are freshly trimmed and pink. I doubt he'll notice, but they make me feel feminine. Pretty.

  So does he.

  Twenty minutes later, I'm still drumming against my thighs. But now I've grown a little nervous. Where is he?

  Did he forget? No. He set up the tent. Of course he didn't forget. He texted me where to meet him as soon as we found out the circuit's location for the night. As soon as we knew where it wouldn't be, and this cove is so private that if the bonfire isn't here, we knew we'd have total privacy. Romantic privacy, with the waves in the distance and the moon overhead…

  Maybe he stopped by the bonfire for a beer first? But…that doesn't jive with the boy I love. He's just as excited for tonight as I am. He'll want to be here with a clear mind.

  A gust of wind shakes the tent and a bit of sand flies into my face even though I'm mostly protected by the fabric walls around me. I wipe a few grains from my lips. "Come on, Sawyer. Where are you?"

  I grab my phone, call him. It goes to voice mail after two rings. Which…usually means someone's cleared the call instead of answering. But Sawyer wouldn't do that.

  I bite my nails.

  I force myself to stop biting my nails—don't want to ruin the effect of two painful years with braces. Plus, my manicure. And plus, there's nothing to be nervous about. He's out there. He's coming to me.

  This is our night.

  I crawl over to the radio, twisting knobs and dials and working through static until I find a slightly faded country station.

/>   There. Now I'm calm again. Twangy, honeyed love songs. Couldn't set a more perfect tempo for the rest of the night. Sawyer will be here soon. I just know it. I simper a little, anticipating everything we're about to do.

  But another twenty minutes later, I call Gianna. When she answers, I can barely hear her over the din of the bonfire. Music, breaking bottles, laughter. But I make out enough of what she says to understand that Sawyer's not there.

  I text him.

  Twice.

  A third time.

  When an hour hits, I push out of the tent for the fourth or fifth time, standing on the sand, stretching my legs and looking toward the beach exit, willing him to walk out through the dunes.

  Nervousness turns to fear. Has he been in an accident?

  No. He's the safest driver I know, and serious accidents here are rare with speed limits as low as they are. Just in case, though, I call his home line. His father.

  It rings and rings and rings.

  I try Sawyer's friend Danny, but he's at the bonfire, too. And he's drunk. But he swears he hasn't seen Sawyer.

  I call Jess, who just got his first cell phone. He was so excited to give me his number. The memory has me smiling. But this call goes straight to voice mail, and the smile slides off of my face. The fear inches back up along my spine, but I do my best to shake it off.

  Nothing's wrong.

  Everything's fine.

  I should just wait. Tomorrow we'll laugh about this, me being so nervous for nothing.

  When Sawyer gets here, though, I'm gonna let him have it…before I let him have it.

  I crawl back into the tent, playing with my phone, but distractedly. Really, I just want my phone right in my hands when he calls me…

  I play, and I play, and I play.

  See, at that point? My world just didn't make sense without Sawyer. It literally didn't cross my mind that he wouldn't ever show.

  Poor, stupid, naive girl.

  It took me three hours to leave that night.

  Three days to realize he was truly gone.

  And three years until I met Julian, and a few of the remaining crumpled pieces of tissue and muscle crawled back together between my ribs to form something resembling at least the outline of a heart.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SAWYER

  ORDINARILY, JIGSAWING THE form of a surfboard out of a roughly shaped sheet of foam is one of the few things in this world that shuts off my mind. The blank is my canvas, and I'm its shaper. There's something pure, soothing about the process. But today, in this small workroom behind the surf shop where I work, all it's doing is making the pounding under the bruise on my cheek harder. I carefully edge out the pointed shape of the shortboard's nose and lift the saw, letting the excess foam fall away and placing the tool on a table against the wall.

  I plane the underside, and then the top, only enough to graze the softer white foam beneath the surface. Next, I'll shape the curve of the rails, but damn, I need a break first. A Pepsi and some fucking Advil. It's not just my cheek throbbing. My head, too. And my knuckles. Danny's teeth really did a number on them last night, and I've been working them hard all morning. Trying to erase everything about last night. Uselessly.

  I peel the mask off my mouth and nose, letting it hang around my neck, unzip and step out of my dust coveralls, and then push through the door into the surf shop.

  It's brighter in here, and my headache has me squinting for a second. Rajesh is behind the counter with a customer.

  Actually, not with a customer. Not based on the tilt of his head, the flirtatious smile, the way he reaches out to stroke the guy's shoulder.

  Rajesh and his dudes. I bite back a smile, clearing my throat. They both glance over to me, but Rajesh doesn't remove his hand. Guy's got no sense of propriety.

  Probably one of the reasons we get along so well.

  "Your face," the other guy says. "What happened to you?"

  I ignore him, addressing Raj. "Inventory done?"

  "Yes." He sighs like he's hurt I'm even asking. "That guy Wyatt called about his fish hybrid," he adds, drolly, "again."

  "Tell him his board'll be finished tonight," I say. "The resin's curing for the next couple hours. I just have to drill the hole for the leash, set it, and then re-gloss the board. He'll still have to wait three days to pick it up. As I've already explained. Twice."

  "Why do you have to wait that long?" Rajesh's guy asks. I head toward the refrigerator at the side of the counter to swipe a Pepsi, leaving Rajesh to explain about resin and setting times. The guy whispers, "Is he always this cranky?"

  I know what Raj will say before he says it. "Yep."

  I duck under the counter, rooting around for the spare bottle of Advil that's around here somewhere. While I'm digging through the way-too-many piles of random crap on the floor—Rajesh needs to clean this place up—the bell over the shop's front door jangles. Next to me, Raj shoves a hand on my shoulder to keep me in place. "Heartbreaker. Incoming."

  A small part of me thinks maybe he's warning me that some gorgeous girl's just entered the store and that I need to get my game face on. Somehow, a much larger part of me knows it's that and so much more. Maybe I've been expecting it. Hoping.

  My knees crack when I rise, and there she is. Quinn. Standing in the doorway, glancing around the shop, her hair pulled back in a ponytail that swings opposite the direction of her face. I follow her gaze, trying to see it the way she might. Surfboards on the walls. Swimwear. Shades. Flops. Apparel. Nothing out of the ordinary, though I'm suddenly wishing there was something to make the place spectacular.

  Well, actually, there is. And she's standing in the doorway. And she's making my chest tighten like a screw twisted so hard the head strips.

  "Quinn." I say her name and her eyes zero in on me.

  Rajesh leans across the counter toward his guy, lowering his voice. "Let me show you the snorkeling equipment we just got in. It's in the back."

  "It's cool. Stay." I put a hand on his arm, stopping him. Quinn still hasn't moved. Neither of us has looked away yet. Like it's a game, a dare, a promise. "We'll go in the workroom."

  She quirks an eyebrow, as if to say, oh, really?

  I nod toward the door at the side of the shop. Oh, really.

  She moves first, which irks me for some reason. Like I couldn't find the balls enough to take a step before she did. So I beat her to the door. As if that levels anything. It's like I'm eighteen again, stupid and brutish.

  In love.

  But that's nothing new, doesn't matter if I'm eighteen or a hundred.

  I open the door, holding it for her, trying not to inhale as she walks through, failing. Sweet like honey and salty like the ocean. Same scents. Same Quinn.

  I shake my head. Not the same Quinn. I can't afford to think like this.

  One more glance back at the shop to make sure Rajesh has it covered. Okay? he mouths. I don't answer. I step over the threshold and close the door.

  Quinn turns to face me, standing in the middle of the space, between the shaping rack and glassing stand. She's crisp, clean. Beautiful. Out of place against the dusty blue walls and sandy floors, the old broken equipment… She's a stained-glass sculpture, somehow both delicate and strong, standing in a field of ashes.

  I don't want to shatter her.

  But at the same time, I want to yank her ponytail down, let that long chestnut hair cascade around her shoulders. Peel that dress off her body.

  Take what she offered all those years ago.

  Take what I've missed all this time.

  "Your face is totally fucked up." Her voice finds a way to come out sweet and bitchy all at once.

  I shrug against both tones. "How'd you find me?"

  "It was hard," she admits. "You don't exist online anywhere, which, let me tell you, is really annoying."

  I couldn't risk her finding me these past years. Couldn't risk what it'd do. To both of us. "And?"

  "And I searched all your old favorite spots aroun
d town." She doesn't say "our" favorite spots and it digs into my gut, like she's cut herself from the memories. Because every one of my favorite spots around here became that way with Quinn by my side. "Then," she continues, "I really thought about it. I figured you'd need a job, and we both know you don't handle waiting tables well."

  She hasn't forgotten everything then.

  "This is the third surf shop I've tried," she continues. "I knew I'd get to you eventually."

  "Guess you figured me out." I take a step down toward her and remember the mask and goggles hanging around my neck. I pull them off, tossing them on a small stand beside the stairs.

  "Not even close."

  "You still prefer dresses?" Another step. One left until we're on the same level.

  Not that we've ever been on the same level.

  "I guess." She glances down, pulling at the thin purple fabric that rests so enviably against her frame. When she looks up again, there's nothing fragile about her expression. "In case you're wondering, I came for an explanation."

  "What do you have to explain?" I ask, ignoring what she really means. "What you did with that guy last night is none of my business." I've been doing everything I can not to think about it. Because thinking about it, thinking about the girl Quinn is compared to the girl I used to know—and how I haven't been here for any of it—makes me want to punch the wall, break something. I shove my hands in my pockets.

  "Don't be an ass." She doesn't hesitate to put me in my place. "I want to know where you went, Sawyer. I want to know why you went. I want to know how you managed to pretend you had a heart for so long before you broke mine like it was nothing."

  Maybe I'm made of glass too—though I lack that fragile prettiness she so easily captures—because her words are strong enough to grind me into dust.

  There are so many things I could say right now, the most important that her heart's been my everything from the day I first met her, but I shake my head. Because she's not going to get to hear any of them.