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Rock Bottom

I’m flying down the road, seeking quiet. I’m almost at my destination when flashing lights appear in my rearview mirror. I glance at my speedometer. Fifty-five. Fuck, what’s the speed limit? Thirty up here, maybe? Fuck, fuck, fuck. The police car catches up with me just as I pass the overlook and I pull to the side of the road. I kill the engine and remove my helmet. Cool air rushes over me, but sweat pours from my brow.

A flashlight beam hits my eyes as the officer stands at a safe distance.

“Dismount the vehicle,” he calls.

I toss my leg over the bike. “I was going too fast, wasn’t I?”

The officer approaches and shines the light in my face and just stares for a few short seconds. “Have you been drinking?”

I contemplate lying, but I’m pretty sure I was swerving a little too much. “Yes, I have.” When I say those words, all that runs through my head is how fucking stupid I am to have put myself in this situation.

“Stand with your heels together and raise your arms to your sides,” he says.

“Now raise your left leg six inches from the ground while counting out loud to ten,” he instructs me, and I try, but by the time I get to five, I have to hop to keep my balance and by the time I get to eight I have to set my foot down. Shit, I don’t even think I could do that sober.

He’s conducting a field sobriety test. I’ve seen them on TV a million times. I’ve also heard they do nothing in terms of affirming or disproving one’s state, but I do what he asks. I already admitted to drinking. What more does he want—a formal confirmation? Fine.

“Touch your finger to your nose,” he says next, not saying a word about my inability to stand on one leg.

I think I manage that, though I’m not sure.

He has me complete two other tests and I have no fucking idea whether I pass either one. All I can hear is the sound of his pen scratching the surface of his clipboard. He looks up at me to ask, “Will you agree to a Breathalyzer?”

“Yes.” I’m scared shitless at this point and just want this to end. I breathe in and then blow into the plastic tube. Fuck, the gauge indicates my blood alcohol level is 0.079. And with that final result, I’m promptly arrested, cuffed, and escorted into the back of the police car. I stay silent during the ride to the station. My pulse is pounding and my ears are ringing. Fuck, what have I done?

Once we arrive, I am formally charged with driving while intoxicated. My photo is snapped and I’m moved to sit at a chair near a desk. Within a few minutes my belongings are confiscated—they say they’ll be returned upon release. I’m shoved into a holding area with at least ten other drunk men—derelicts, winos, scum, bottom of the earth. Fuck—I’m not like them! I’m not! My nerves get the better of me and I sit on the wooden bench with my head hung low just wanting to get out of here.

Once I’m booked, I’m shoved into a cell with no one to call to get me out. Serena’s in Hawaii with Trent, Caleb is God knows where, and I’d call Beck or Ruby but I never got their numbers. Who the hell do I know who would fork out the one thousand dollars needed to post as bond to bail me out?

As I lay there in the tiny jail cell, suited up in an Orange County prison shirt, it occurs to me how far I am from the road I started on in life, far from where my mother would want me to be. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be chained up like a criminal. Fuck—I need to get out of here. Leaning my head against the bars, I know there’s only one person I can call—one person who possibly couldn’t think any worse of me than she already does.

Back at the desk, I squeeze my eyes shut as I dial the number and the phone rings. When she answers I’m both surprised and relieved. “It’s me, Ben. I need your help. I’ve been arrested.” It comes out on a rush full of shame and regret. My voice is low, maybe too low for her to hear because there’s no response. I repeat myself, this time louder.

“I’m here. I can hear you, Ben.”

Sometime later, in the early hours of the morning, I’m taken back to the booking area where I’m asked to sign a release form. What is this—my get out of jail free card? I still can’t believe I’m even here. The officer explains how lucky I am that my level wasn’t bumped up to .08. He says that I’m free to go. I glance above and silently say thank you. I’ve learned my lesson. I’m handed my clothes and the rest of my shit and directed toward the bathroom. When I come out, I hand back the orange shirt and I’m ushered through a door. Once I get through it, I’m on my own. It must be the central admittance area. It’s crowded. There are people everywhere. I look around and there she sits, on a black upholstered bench—Dahl.

My body starts to shake. I can’t believe she’s actually here for me. I cross the room, slowly; my walk is full of shame. She meets me halfway and when I lift my head, our faces are so close. I stare at her, the face of the girl I knew my whole life, and all I see, all I want from her is comfort and understanding—I want her to be my friend, I need her. Her eyes lock on mine. Her gaze is unyielding and I feel like she’s studying me. Nothing comes out of my mouth. I have no words.

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s go somewhere and talk.”

She leads and I follow, her converse sneakers squeaking against the shiny green floor. The exit doors slide open and she fumbles in her purse, pulling out her keys. Finally, I turn to look at her before she starts the car and swallow the lump in my throat. “Thank you for bailing me out.”

“Ben,” she says. “I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you.”

I shake my head. It wasn’t her job to be there for me.

Her fingers fly to her cheeks and she wipes away a few tears. “But, I am now. I want to help you.” Her hand finds mine in the early morning light and as she squeezes it, all I can think is—I am so thankful for her just being here.

She breaks our connection quickly and twists the key in the ignition. “I read the diary you gave me last year,” she says. “Before I came to get you, I read through it. I’m just sorry I didn’t read it sooner. And I want to find a way for us to be in each other’s lives.”

My gaze travels over her face and once again her eyes meet mine. In this moment I know we’re both silently agreeing that we are friends, that’s all—and honestly, I accept it. I’m okay with it.

As she turns out of the parking lot, I watch the large three story building fade from my vision and thank God I’m out of there. I rest my head back against the seat and close my eyes. I pay no attention to where she’s taking me. Dahl turns the radio off and we drive in silence. When she gets off at an exit, I open my eyes. We pass so many familiar places in Laguna Beach and a rush of memories from days long gone flood me. This town is our old stomping ground and we spent so much time here. She pulls into the corner coffee shop that I know so well and turns to look at me. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

She hops out of the car and I look around. I love this place. Why did I leave? This is where I belong. When she gets back in it’s with a tray of two coffees. The sun starts to rise as we sit in the parking lot and I tell her everything—everything that I hate in my life, everything I am, and everything that I don’t want to be. I even manage the excruciatingly embarrassing details. And most of all, I apologize. I apologize for the way I treated her when I first came back. I saw she had a new life and that she was happy, I should never have thought I could change that. I had to get it all out—to confess my sins, to cleanse my soul.

By the time we pull into my mother’s driveway I already feel a little more like myself. We get out of the car and she starts toward the old weathered plank bridge. I keep my distance, not wanting her to think anything other than how grateful I am for her help. She stops to wait for me before crossing and when I catch up, she grabs my hand and locks our thumbs, then leads me to the beach. This is the one place we always held hands. Every time we walked over this bridge our hands were connected, since we were five years old. But now, those fond memories are just that—memories. I look at the girl leading me and smile at the woman she has become.

The beach stretches for miles and we sit close to the shore. I throw myself back in the sand and cover my eyes with my arm. “What am I going to do, Dahl?”

She pulls her knees up to her chest and looks over at me. “Ben, it’s okay to grieve, it’s even okay to be a little lost, but you have a life in front of you. I can’t tell you what to do with it, but I hope whatever you decide makes you happy.”

Silence passes between us for a long moment as I think about what she’s said. “Are you happy?”

She stretches her fingers out and looks at her ring. Her face lights up. “Yeah, I am. Really happy.”

“Dahl, I know I’ve fucked up a thousand times. But I am sorry for everything I did. I just need you to know all I ever wanted for you was for you to be happy.”

“I know that now, Ben. I may never understand it. But I get it.”

I sit up and bow my head.

She looks at me. “Ben,” she says softly.

I glance up at her.

“You need to figure out what is going to make you happy.”

“Yeah, happy. Shit, I don’t remember the last time I felt that way.”

Waves crash against the rocks and birds fly overhead squawking. I shift my eyes toward the water and we sit there in silence for the longest time, but it’s not uncomfortable or awkward.

“You know me so I’m going to tell it to you like it is—you need to get your head out of your ass and get on with your life because life’s too short not to.”

I can’t hold back my grin. That’s the girl who was always my friend—the one who told it like she saw it.

A few moments later, I see her shiver. I stand up and wipe the sand from my pants and then extend a hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

She takes it and I pull her up. And as we walk over the old weathered plank bridge, I turn and look back at the refuge I’ve sought so many times in my life and I know it’s where I belong.

New Beginnings

Memorial Day weekend has always been one for barbeques and hanging out at the beach. That’s just what I plan to do.

My heart races as my hair whips in the wind. I run as fast as I can across the sand, my breathing heavy. I open my mouth wider to get more oxygen in my lungs.

“You got this Uncle Ben,” Trent cheers.

I come to a halt and look into the bright blue sky. Where is it? I shield my eyes from the sun and crane my neck further back. I follow the lead from the plastic in my hand to the string to . . . son of a bitch, there it is—the rainbow-colored diamond bobbing and weaving in the wind at least ten feet above my head. For a moment, I’m entranced. I watch as the kite dances wildly in the wind and beam at my nephew.

“We did it!” I shout.

“You did it,” he responds.

“Yeah, I guess I did,” I gloat.

“Boys, come on. That’s enough playing. It’s time to finish packing up,” Serena calls.

I look at Trent and shrug my shoulders. “Playtime’s over for now.”

“Fuck,” he says.

I tug the string down and the fabric loses its sail, descending immediately. When I’m close enough, I pop Trent in the back of the head.

He rubs it and looks at me questioningly. “What was that for?”

“Don’t swear.”

“Are you kidding me? You swear all the time.”

I grin at him. “Yeah, but that’s me. Not you. And you know how mad it makes your mother.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll try to keep it cleaner around her. I promise,” he responds.

I put an arm around his shoulder and walk with him up the beach toward the house. “Did I ever tell you about the time Grandma put a whole bar of soap in my mouth?”

He looks over to me. “My mom used to do that to me all the time when I was little.”

I laugh at the memory. “No, Trent, she did it the day I graduated high school.”

“Fuck, then that’s where my mom gets it from.” He laughs.

I pull his head to me. “Damn straight, so cut the fucking swearing already.”

“What’s so funny?” Serena asks, tugging the door to the rental truck down.

“Just boy talk. Nothing for you to worry about big sis,” I tell her.

“Right.” She smirks.

I nod my head toward the house. “Let me just give it a once over, then we’ll head out.”

She nods in response, moving to swipe Trent’s hair from his eyes.

I walk through my family’s house, which now seems so much emptier without some of my mother’s things, and slowly walk from room to room. My sister came back from Hawaii the minute I called her after my arrest and we both cried for forgiveness. I love her and I need her in my life—I finally told her that. We handled our grief in different ways, and I’m not saying either was right or wrong, but we now know we need to stick together no matter what.

We are all moving into the beach house for the summer and we’ll decide what to do with it in the fall. Right now we are donating some of my mother’s things to charity to make room for all of us to live there. This way I can train Trent and when the fall comes and he heads to the University of Hawaii, he’ll be ready to enter any surfing competition he wants.

As for Jason, he was involved in the case. When Caleb finally called me back almost two weeks after Bass told me that Hart was one of Jason’s informants, he confirmed that it was Jason who gave him the name. At first he told me Jason hadn’t worked the beat in years and just threw the name at him when he asked for someone to help him out, someone looking for money who was willing to take the fall. But I knew he was lying, I felt in my gut he was the missing piece of the puzzle.

When I confronted Jason, he pulled me aside. He told me to trust him. That he was way more involved than Caleb or I knew and he’d be able to tell me soon. Whether or not he is on the up and up—I still haven’t been able to figure that out.

I circle back through the living room and stand where my mother’s desk once stood. I look down at the naked space and it doesn’t feel right. I rush out the door and fly down the stairs.

“Serena, toss me the keys,” I tell her.

She looks at me. “Did you forget to pack something?”

“No, I decided I want to keep the desk.”

“Come on, Ben, it’s so old and broken. You can buy a newer, more functional one.”

“Just toss me the keys. I want that one.”

She looks at Trent. “Here, go help him so we can get out of here.”

I unlock the door and hop up on the platform. I move a few boxes aside and drag the desk to the end. We ease it out of the truck, but it’s top heavy and tumbles over, crashing to the ground.

“Fuck!” I yell.

“Fuck,” Trent mutters.

“Trent!” Serena says with her hands on her hips.

Something shiny catches my eye as I survey the damage and I bend down to retrieve it. It’s a key.

“What’s this?” I turn around to show Serena, who is still scowling at Trent.

She takes it from me. “It looks like a safety deposit box key.”

“Did Mom have one?”

“Not that I know of,” Serena answers. “But I’ll call Hale on our way to the church and see if he knows.”

I nod at her and think about how long it has been since I’ve seen my mother’s attorney. I motion for Trent to get in the truck. He points to the pile on the ground.

“We’ll clean it up when we get back. Let’s go,” I holler back as I hoist myself into the cab.

I pull out of the large circular driveway and glance back at the heap of wood in my rearview mirror, hoping I can put the desk back together.

As Serena and Trent argue about what station to put the radio on I reflect back on the last two weeks and how my life has changed. After Dahlia and I left the beach, she drove me back to LA and dropped me off at the impound lot. She was shocked to see I had a motorcycle, but then just grinned and said, “You always did like to feel the wind against your face. So it makes sense.”

“Don’t say it,” I teased her as I got out of the car.

“Say what?” she called back.

“That I’m a dog,” I said.

“That you’re a dog,” she said in unison.

It was an inside joke we’d had since we were kids. She always made fun of me for loving speed—the speed I felt while pedaling fast on my bicycle, the speed I felt taking a steep hill on my skateboard, or the speed I felt catching a wave on my surfboard. I glanced at her one last time before I walked away from her that day. There was no discussion as to when we’d talk again, but I knew we would and I knew that somehow we would be all right—that we would find our way back to a friendship that worked for both of us.

After the arrest, I promptly gave my two weeks notice to the
LA Times
, opting to freelance for a bit. My last day was probably the most interesting one of my stint as a wedding columnist. I had the very distinct pleasure of meeting with the infamous Damon Wolf. Damon Wolf and Ivy Taylor were engaged sometime last year, but hadn’t set a wedding date. The wedding column doesn’t usually run stories on engagements, but Christine made an exception. I guess when you own a magazine you get special treatment.

My interview was with Damon only and he wanted to meet at
Sound Music Magazine
. When I arrived he was reaming out Dahlia’s friend Aerie for forgetting to arrange a lunch date for him for some interview. I tried not to get involved, I really did, but I’ve known Aerie for so long that I had to step in. Let’s just say when I did—my day and my job ended early. What an assshole!

“Did you hear me?” my sister asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I put the truck in park and turn toward her. “No, sorry.”

“Hale said he’s been trying to reach us for months. I’m pretty sure he was calling Mom’s house phone. Either way he wants us to meet him at the bank as soon as we finish. He wants to read Mom’s will.”

I blink my eyes and try to take what she said in. “Did you know she had a will?”

Serena shakes her head. “He seems to know what’s in the box though.”

“You should have let me take Uncle Ben’s motorcycle,” Trent tells his mother as he hops out of the truck.

“I told you, you are never allowed to ride that. And I’m not kidding!” she yells to him.

“Come on, Trent. Let’s unload and we’ll drop you at the coffee shop while we go over to the bank.”

He smiles. “Hell, yeah. Hot chicks are always in there.”

I just grin and shake my head. I notice my sister roll her eyes.

***

Serena and I file into the conference room with Hale Reed behind us—box in hand. He’s been our family’s attorney for as long as I can remember. He’s been in and out of the hospital so it’s understandable that we haven’t connected until now. My sister takes a seat at the table and I choose to stand at the window. Hale sets the box down and pulls an envelope out of his pocket, along with a pair of reading glasses. He clears his throat. “Serena and Ben,” he says, as he slips his glasses on and then unfolds the document in his hand. “This is your mother’s will. She hadn’t updated it in a while. It was drafted more than ten years ago, but I am confident these were still her wishes.”

I lean back against the sill and thump my fingers nervously on it.

He unlocks the box and takes out a dark blue bankbook. I walk over and glance in the metal case to see if it contains anything else, but there’s nothing there.

“Hale, what’s with the formality of meeting us for a bankbook? I already have all her account information. Ben and I just haven’t sat down yet to figure it all out,” Serena inquires.

“No, Serena, you don’t have everything. I manage this account. I’m the trustee.”

“Okay, why?” Serena asks.

He clears his throat again. “This account contains a ten million dollar settlement fund issued to your mother. She never touched the principle; but rather she lived off the interest. Your father didn’t have life insurance, so this was how she supported you both. Every year since the year your father died, I’ve dispersed the interest to her but she never wanted more. She said it was for you both.”

My mouth drops and Serena pales. I make my way to the table and sit next to my sister and take her hand in mine. I’m speechless. Ten million dollars. How could we not have known this?

There are sounds sputtering out of Serena’s mouth, but none are comprehensible. I make an effort to speak. “Hale, why would our mother have ten million dollars from a settlement? And why wouldn’t she tell us?”

He slides the box to the side and pushes the stack of papers toward us. “Ben, Serena, a couple of weeks after your father’s death his boat was found.”

My heart pounds at the news. “Was he alive?” I ask.

“No, son, he wasn’t. The boat was new and when he took it out and tried to raise the sail, one of the lines malfunctioned. Faulty mechanics—so the company stated.”

I look at him feeling terrorized by this news and squeeze my sister’s hand tighter.

“He was . . . ,” he pauses before saying, “hung by the sail’s ropes.”

I don’t say anything, I can’t.

Serena’s hand flies to her mouth. “Oh my God, my Daddy,” Serena cries.

I hear a voice that I think is mine comforting my sister. I pull her to me and hold her. After a few moments I lean away and look at Hale. “Why wouldn’t Mom have told us?”

“She didn’t want her children to picture their Dad the way you are right now.”

I nod and draw my sister back in to my arms. All the while hushing her cries and trying to will away my own.

***

The shock took us both a while to absorb. Over the past few weeks we discussed in detail why Mom would never have touched the money. All we could surmise was that she didn’t need it. We’d talk about our parents again and again and how lucky we were to have had them. We talked about Dad’s surf shop and our parents’ love for each other. We talked and helped each other through the rough spots. It took us months to be able to go back to the bank and transfer the money into three separate accounts—per my mother’s will. But we did it last week. And now, as we sit together at the kitchen table in the house we grew up in, we watch through the glass as fireworks shoot off into the dark sky and the country celebrates Independence Day.

Trent closes the pizza box in shock. “We’re fucking rich?” he asks.

Serena snaps her head toward him and my eyes dart to his.

“Trent!” we both say.

He shrugs. “We are,” he answers.

We hadn’t told him about the money when we first learned about it. We both needed to wrap our heads around it first. And also, truth be told, we were watching him, looking for signs of any possible relapse. But there were none—he was clean and as far as I can tell, he was going to stay that way.

Serena reaches across the table and pushes the hair from his eyes before putting both her hands on his face. “Honey, we are not anything. That money has been split between the three of us as Grandma wished, but yours will be put in trust until after you finish college.”

“But, Mom . . .”

“No buts, Trent. After college we’ll discuss your best investment opportunities.”

He stands up and tosses the paper plates in the trash. “For the record, you should know I think that sucks.”

“Trent . . .”

I leave my sister and nephew to argue about the fairness of having money and not being able to spend it. I pass through the family room and see that the TV is on. The news report catches my attention. Bass called me earlier and informed me about the news. But I still stop in my tracks to watch the reporter share the details.

“Two more members of the Mexican drug cartel have been arrested. Along with the bust—more than one hundred pounds of methamphetamine, ten pounds of cocaine, and half a pound of heroin was seized in the raid. Vice squad detective Jason Holt said he estimates to have removed nearly five million dollars of trash from the streets. The almost five-year long investigation culminated late last night when a long undercover operation targeting the remaining members of the Cortez Family was brought to a successful end. The Department of Justice said that they believe the trafficking organization run under this family is now shut down. In related news, Josh Hart, believed to be linked to the cartel, was found guilty of aggravated assault and battery in March and was sentenced to three years in prison today.”