Cinderella in the Surf

by Syms, Carly

  The days after were a blur of phone calls and visitors, funerals and flowers, and horrible black dresses.

  I had refused to wear black or gray or navy blue, or any of the muted, dark colors they want you to wear to a funeral because, well, who knows why?

  He always said it was his favorite dress.

  My red and orange dress, my sunset dress, as Alex liked to call it, seemed to be the only choice I could make. He always said it reminded him of our canoe, and the way the sun fell against the California sky.

  I mostly wore it on the beach, on the nights when we needed to get away and sneak a beer and sink our toes into the sand without thinking about much of anything at all.

  And I needed to be wearing it at the funeral, walking down the aisle, enveloped by the sickly, overwhelming sweet smell of the floral arrangements.

  I remember thinking Alex wouldn't have liked the flowers all that much. But that isn't something we ever talked about.

  Turns out, I really had no idea how Alex would have liked to have died at all.

  That's all I remember from his funeral. I talked at it, of course, gave a speech.

  But I don't know what I said, and I don't care.

  It's not like any of it would have brought him back.

  And as I'm walking home, reliving every moment of That Day, thinking about every breath I took, I feel something cool and wet pool around my ankles and rip through me.

  I shake my head, snapping out of the daze I haven't even realized I'm in, and look down.

  And I nearly jump at what I see.

  My feet are completely submerged in ocean water. I hadn't even known I was wandering through the sea. I turn around and see a line of footprints in the wet sand.

  My footprints.

  And as I stare at them, another wave rolls in, covers them, and washes them out to sea.

  Gone.

  Like they were never even here in the first place.

  It's so easy for the ocean to erase every trace of something that existed just seconds before.

  I stand here, not sure what to do or where to go or how I even got here.

  I can get back up on dry sand and walk the rest of the way home, as if this never happened, as if it's meaningless.

  Or I can do what Alex would want me to do.

  Wade out into the ocean and make damn sure I don't let the sea wash away every trace of me.

  Because as easy as it is for the ocean to get rid of all signs of me, I know I'll never be able to erase all the signs of it on my life.

  And so I take another step closer to the water, closer to the horizon, closer to where I imagine Alex is hanging out these days.

  Then I take another, and another. I'm up to my knees now, the chilly water dancing around me. It's calm today as it gently laps at my bare legs.

  I'm getting dangerously close to soaking the hem of my sundress.

  I feel the beginning of a smile start to flicker on my lips and take a few more steps, the water rising around me with each one.

  But when the cool wetness soaks through my clothes and the chill of the water seeps into my skin, I stop suddenly, almost in mid-step with my leg in the air.

  I can't take another step.

  I can't keep going.

  I'm frozen solid standing here in the ocean.

  The warm sun and light breeze aren't going to give me the push I need.

  Alex's nudging, that this is where I need to be, what I need to do, falls on deaf ears.

  I hear nothing but feel everything.

  And it's all the things I don't want to feel.

  My palms are damp but not from the mist of the ocean. I can't stand the idea of letting the water crash over my head. I want to keep going, want to push on with just one more step, and feel normal again but it isn't that easy, not even when it's right in front of me.

  Not when I'm confronting it head-on.

  I'd do anything to be ready, to just be able to do this already.

  Anything to make it easy.

  But it isn't going to happen today.

  I turn and slowly walk out of the water, each step heavy and hard, disappointment washing over me.

  I always thought I was strong enough to handle whatever life decided to toss my way, but this last month proves that's not true.

  Not at all.

  "Hey."

  I spin around as I'm heading up the beach toward the bungalow to bring Mom's groceries back.

  My forehead creases. "Oh," I say without even really thinking about it. "Hi."

  Walker smiles at me, dressed in paint-streaked jeans with a gray T-shirt this time even though it's hard to tell what the original color is underneath all the others.

  "'Oh hi?'" he says, his accent stronger now than I remember it being before. "That's all I get? Two words?"

  I shrug but it's hard not to smile at his teasing. "One more than you gave me."

  The grin on his face widens. "Touche," he says, and I notice he has a toothpick between his teeth today. "What are you doing wandering out here?"

  I point to the tote bag on my shoulder. "Heading home with some groceries for my family. I'm not wandering."

  He shrugs. "Sure looked like it to me. You were in the water in your dress."

  "That was a mistake," I say before I can stop the words from tumbling out of my mouth.

  He looks up at me sharply. "What?"

  "Nothing. Forget I said anything."

  "No," Walker says, shaking his head. "No way. What's up?"

  "I didn't mean anything by it."

  "Yeah, except I think you did. And I'm pretty sure when people really, really don't want anyone to know something, it usually doesn't come slipping out of their mouth."

  "What are you saying?"

  "Exactly what you think I am. That you want to talk about whatever it is that's going on in your head and the -- " A crease forms in his forehead now. "-- the ocean."

  I start walking again, and I'm not sure if he's going to follow me or let me go.

  "Look, I'm not trying to be rude," he goes on. "I just think -- this is the second time I've seen you out on the beach lookin' like someone stomped on your cat." He pauses, and I swallow hard. "I'm a good listener, you know."

  "No, I don't know. I don't know you at all."

  "Doesn't have to be that way."

  I don't say anything because I don't know what to say.

  "Come on," he prods.

  "I don't know what you're talking about," I tell him without slowing down or looking back, but that doesn't stop me from hearing his soft chuckle.

  "It's not hard, you know," he says. "Talkin' to someone's the easy part. It doesn't get sticky 'till you're deciding if you're gonna keep 'em around."

  I stop walking and spin around without warning, and he stops himself a split second before slamming right into me.

  We're standing here, practically nose-to-nose on the sand, and I have no idea what I'm doing, no idea what he's doing, and I'm confused and breathing kinda heavy and he's just standing so damn close to me and I wish he'd take a few steps back.

  We look at each other like this for what must be only two seconds or so before I back up, but my head's still foggy.

  "You want to get to know me?" I finally ask.

  He shrugs. "Not much else to do out here these days."

  "Painting business not doing so hot?" I shoot back, even though I'm pretty sure I'm being sarcastic.

  More chomps on the toothpick now. "Nah," he says after a second as he runs his left hand over his cropped hair.

  "Then what? What is about me you want to know?"

  "Your name, for starters."

  I blink. "Oh," I say, taking another step back. "Uh, I'm Rachel."

  He nods, then smiles. "See?" he says, pulling the stick from between his teeth and twirling it around his fingers. "Was that so hard?"

  I roll my eyes but I'm pretty sure I'm not upset.

  "Were you going swimming?" he pushes.

  And I have to give hi
m some credit, at least. Walker's persistent if he isn't anything else.

  "No," I say, and I take off walking again. "I don't swim much."

  At least this isn't a lie. If I'm in the water, it's usually because I'm with my board.

  "Then what? You fish?" He looks around. "I've never seen you with a pole."

  "No," I say, and I'm surprised to see disappointment flash across his face. "I don't know how to fish."

  "You've lived in California for how long?"

  "I'm 18. So that's 18 years."

  "And you don't know how to fish?" His voice rises several octaves.

  I shake my head.

  "That's ludicrous!" he exclaims, and I can't help but smile.

  "If you say so."

  "Okay," he says slowly. "Okay. So no swimming, no fishing. What is it? I'm not a good guesser." He slips the toothpick back between his lips. "Oh, wait!" Walker snaps his fingers. "I got it. Duh. You surf. Don't see a lot of that whenever we go down by the Gulf in Mobile."

  I sigh. "Yeah. I surfed."

  He grins. "Pretty hard to surf without a board, ain't it?"

  "I wasn't doing that today."

  Walker nods. "I know. I figured you said "surfed" in the past tense for a reason. You seem like the kind of girl who chooses her words carefully."

  I whip my head around to look at him, surprised he's said anything.

  He's right of course.

  "So, let me see if I've got this straight," Walker says after a minute. "You're out here surfing but you don't bring a surfboard."

  I nod even though I know how ridiculous this all sounds and that it's only going to lead to more questions I don't think I want to answer. "That's right."

  "And you don't think I'm gonna ask you to explain that?"

  "Look," I say at last. "There are a lot of reasons I don't get out on my board anymore. And all of them are none of your business."

  "Nope," he says cheerfully. "They're not, but I'm still asking. So give me one."

  "One?"

  "One reason you don't surf anymore."

  I sigh. As I take him in from his cropped blonde head to the toothpick poking out between his slightly crooked teeth to the paint-stained boots on his feet, something tells me he isn't going to give up on this.

  So I scan my brain for a reason to give him that isn't The Reason but still sounds believable. Something that may not be a total lie.

  "It got really rough out there the last time I went surfing," I say, which is most definitely still the truth. "It really shook me up. Haven't gone back out since."

  Walker eyes me. "So you didn't really like it that much to start with. Got it."

  I raise my eyebrows. "What?"

  He shrugs. "If you let something like one day of tough seas keep you down, then you weren't all that into it in the first place. Nothing wrong with that, but no one who loves something that much would let a single day ruin it."

  My cheeks sting as if I've been slapped because it's absolutely the events of one day that's keeping me off my board.

  "You don't think one day can change everything?"

  He shrugs. "Never really thought about it. No."

  I fold my arms across my chest. "No kidding. That's a stupid thing to say."

  "I'm starving," he says suddenly. "Where can I grab a good burger around here?"

  I should smile -- he's hungry and wants to go eat. Good. I can get rid of him without even having to be rude.

  "I usually go to Hilo's. It's right up the beach and down a block. Bright purple building, if you haven't painted it. You can't miss it."

  "Great." He grins. "Let's go."

  "What? I'm not hungry."

  But he only rolls his eyes as if he expects me to say this, and his response makes me think that he has.

  "What else are you gonna do?" he asks. "Besides, aren't you gonna tell me why I'm wrong?"

  I narrow my eyes. "I love surfing." The bite in my voice surprises even me, but it's there and impossible to miss.

  He nods. "Right, you keep saying that. So prove it."

  I take a few steps up the beach and know that he'll follow me. I have absolutely no desire to talk to anyone about why I don't surf anymore but somehow, Walker makes me feel like I need to.

  Like there's no other choice.

  And it doesn't even bother me that much.

  Okay, or as much as I thought it would, anyway.

  "Buy me a burger," I tell him without looking back. "And maybe I'll tell you a story."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Walker and I sit across from each other in a tiny wooden booth for two nestled against the slightly dirty window at Hilo's.

  He has a Volcano in front of him -- a burger topped with lettuce, tomato and onions, plus grilled pineapples, crunchy diced apples and it's all smothered in some magical barbecue glaze Hilo will never tell me how to make.

  It's my favorite thing on Ahe's brother's menu -- he says it's inspired by his time living in Maui -- but for whatever reason, my stomach's twisting into knots at the idea of scarfing one down now.

  Instead, I settle for taking Walker's volcano virginity.

  He's inspecting the burger like it's going to start spewing lava at him any second.

  I can't hide my giggle when he picks up the top of the pretzel bun and looks under it the same way a little kid cautiously peeks under the bed for monsters late at night.

  "Eat it already," I tell him. "It's so good."

  He wiggles his eyebrows. "So good I can't help but notice you went with a kid's meal instead."

  "I'm not that hungry."

  He nods and decides not to press me on it. Walker takes a deep breath, then picks up the mountainous burger, looks at me and winks so fast I'd have missed it if I wasn't intently watching his every move because he better like this damn burger, and finally, he takes a bite.

  Apple chunks and strips of red onions fall out the other end. He brings the burger down and chews slowly without looking at me.

  My heart rate speeds up slightly. It's the same thing they say happens when you watch your favorite movie or TV show with someone who's never seen it before. You're always looking over to make sure they're laughing at the funny parts or crying at the sad ones, and to make sure they get that subtle joke the best character just cracked.

  It's super stressful, and sometimes downright exhausting. Just like this.

  Walker meets my eye, smiles and chows down on a few more mouthfuls. I laugh and pick up my own pint-sized hamburger.

  I've finished eating it before he's even halfway done with his Volcano.

  "Okay," he says once he wipes the last crumbs from the corner of his mouth and washes the burger down with a sip of Coke. "Not bad, Rachel, not bad."

  I lift an eyebrow and smile at him. "Told you so."

  "I'm a little impressed," he says. "But don't start getting a big head on me or anything."

  I smile. "As long as you've learned never to doubt me, we're in good shape."

  Walker grins, then shifts slightly in his seat until he can slide a fresh toothpick out of the back pocket of his pants and sticks it in his mouth. He leans against the back of the seat and drapes his arm across the booth, the tiny little stick flicking up and down between his teeth.

  "Alright, I've bought you that thing you claimed was a burger," he says, nodding at the empty kid's meal box in front of me. "Now it's your turn to hold up your end of the deal. Don't tell me you're one of those girls who goes back on her promises, Rachel."

  He says it likes he's teasing but I know he isn't. Not completely. I let out a sigh and fiddle with the napkin in my hands, tearing it into tiny little shreds that slip through my fingers and litter the floor. Several land in my lap.

  "I don't know what you want from me."

  "Yeah, you do. I don't know what it is, but I can't get that look on your face out of my head. I've never seen anyone look so haunted. Not like that first day I saw you."

  The paper ripping gets faster.

  Walker move
s again, this time so he's leaning toward me, elbows on the table, hands clasped together.

  "Okay, look," I say at last. "I'm not lying when I tell you I love surfing. It's what I do. What I've always done, really. I mean, you ask me what I was doing when I was two years old, and I'm sure it had something to do with my board and the ocean."

  Walker smiles. "You sound like me with my fingerpainting."

  I nod. "Yeah, probably do. I knew what I loved from the beginning, and it was great."

  It's still easy talking about this now -- easier than I thought it'd be. But my stomach hasn't stopped turning because I'm the storyteller and I already know the plot twist.

  "But there was that day it changed," he says.

  I nod again. "There always is. When I was seven, this new guy moved onto the block one house over from ours. His name was Alex Perry, and he was from Montana so surfing wasn't exactly his thing."

  I pause and laugh to myself, thinking about the home videos we have of me trying to teach him how to surf within a week of him getting to town.

  I wish I could say I remember everything about the first day I took Alex on a board, but that'd be a lie. Truth is, I'd never know a damn thing about it if not for the pictures and videos that have grown dusty over time.

  "But he started to get really good," I say, twisting the slim sterling silver band on my finger. "And soon enough, surfing was all either one of us wanted to do. So we did. Every morning before the first bell and every afternoon after the last. For eleven years."

  "So it was something you did with someone else," Walker says. "It was never really just about it being you and the ocean."

  I shake my head. "No, not really. I mean, for me, it was just how I lived. Every morning I'd paddle out there as the sun came up and made the water all warm and wonderful, and I just knew it'd be a good day."

  "But you always did it with Alex."

  I study him for a few seconds before I say anything else. I don't know if I like the tone he's taking with his questions, like he's already trying to poke holes in my story. Like he's looking for every reason to believe surfing isn't part of my soul.

  "No," I say, and I don't think I do a very good job of keeping the bitterness at being interrogated out of my voice. "That's not right at all."

  Walker leans back and holds up his hands. "Sorry, sorry," he says. "My mistake."