Cinderella in the Surf (19 page)

"I sure as hell hope this is because of Alex and not how you've always been because I have no idea how he put up with you for so long if this is just who you are."

I stare at him, tears pooling in my eyes and blurring my vision, bottom lip shaking, and I have to fight the urge to hunch over and clutch my stomach because it feels like he's just gutted me.

And he must know it because his steely eyes go soft and he reaches out to touch my shoulder but I quickly jerk away.

"No," I say. "No. Don't."
 

"Rach, I'm sorry. Really, I didn't mean that." He looks miserable, a deep crease in his forehead, and I believe him. "I know you're having a hard time. Trust me, I get it more than most people would."
 

"Sure you do."

"You don't know this," he says, dropping down onto a wrought iron bench. I stay standing. "But my best friend died, too."

I stare at him, arms folded across my chest, waiting for him to continue, refusing to give an inch until I know where he's going with this.

"I don't talk about it," Walker goes on. "People don't see it the same way they do when you lose someone young. It's not unexpected so it's like, I don't know, I'm supposed to grieve differently or something because I was supposed to see it coming."
 

He takes a breath. I still have no idea what he's talking about, but the vulnerability in his voice is doing its best to soften me up, and I'm not sure I like it.
 

"Cigarettes," he says. "Papa smoked for fifty years without a problem and then that was it. Lung cancer. He fought it for as long as he could, but he was almost ninety and didn't have a whole lot left to give, y'know?" Walker reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his cigarette holder, twisting it over in his hands. "It's why I quit."
 

"I'm sorry you lost him."
 

"Yeah, thanks, so am I." He lets out a sigh and leans back in the chair. "I lived with him for awhile. When my parents decided I was on the "wrong path" or whatever it is they say about my art plans, they sent me to move in with him. I guess they thought a former marine would be able to talk some sense into me." Walker chuckles. "Didn't work, obviously."
 

I offer him a small smile. "And so they tried again when they sent you here." Walker's story is interesting, but I'm still not sure why he's sharing it with me now.
 

"Yeah." He shakes his head. "Still not gonna happen. It's funny, too, because Papa's the one who taught me how to fish and he got me that whole canvas set I showed you."
 

"It's where you started smoking too, right?"

"Yep. Stopped the day he was diagnosed and then the whole toothpick thing was born." He smiles as he slides one from the holder. "That was Papa's idea, too. I don't know. It's probably dumb to try to compare this to what you went through with Alex, but it doesn't feel that way to me."

I turn his words over in my head, trying to make sense of everything he's telling me, but it's hard to work it out.

Or to tell if it even changes anything at all.

"I'm sorry," I say again. "Really. Losing anyone you're close to sucks." I carefully sit down next to him on the black bench, perching on the edge. "But why are you telling me this?"

Walker looks up at me sharply. "You don't get it?"

I shake my head. "Not really."

He rubs his hands over his face and blows out a sigh. "Look, Rachel, I'm lost here, with you. I don't know what you want me to do anymore. I thought -- I mean, it felt like we had something and now it's just a whole lot of crap."
 

I look at him, and I'm startled to see he's staring back at me sadly. I open my mouth to respond, but he doesn't let me talk.

"No, I have to get this out. I need you to figure out what you want. I know you've been hurt and you're not yourself since Alex died, but my god, Rachel, you're not the only one who's gone through something like this. And if we haven't, we will. Losing things is the way of the world. And the thing is, I never knew you before Alex, and I still love being around you. But if you can't get your head on straight, I don't know if I can keep trying."
 

His green eyes are pleading with me to understand, for some switch to go off in my brain, but I can't find it. He's right in front of me, everything I've ever wanted, and I don't know why I can't close the six inches between us and kiss him the way I could just a week ago.

What's happening to me?

"Walker, I -- I can't," I choke out, not expecting to feel the lump that's forming in my throat, making it hard to talk. "I can't do what you want me to."
 

He doesn't say anything for a long time, so long that I start to wonder if he's just going to get up and walk away. And the worst part is, I can't blame him if he does.

"I'm sorry," I tell him weakly.

My palms are sweaty when he finally opens his mouth.
 

"Nah, not as sorry as I am." Walker leans in and brushes a light kiss across my lips -- his good-bye. And just like that, he's on his feet and walk steadily across the beautiful, romantic courtyard and he disappears inside the hotel.

No doubt going back to find Piper.

She's not broken. She can give him what he wants.

 
I know I've done the right thing, the
only
thing, but it feels like I've just been hit by a train. My hands are clammy, heart pounding, knees weak.

Walker's gone.

Not because he wants to go, but because I told him to.

I'm a mess, and it's been this way since Alex died.

I just don't know how I'm going to clean up all the shattered pieces of me.
 

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I'm still on the bench.

It's been minutes or maybe hours since Walker walked away, but I have no idea which.
 

I need to see Alex. That much is obvious to me. I need to be with someone who knows me, the only person who's ever been able to see what I can't.

And just like that, I'm running, tearing my way through the hotel's courtyard and back onto the boardwalk, my sneakers slapping against the wood with every step I take.

I'm already out of breath from crying, and sprinting isn't doing a lot to make my body happy. It's late, but still a beautiful summer night in California, and that means people.

People are everywhere, on the sand, on the boardwalk, heading toward the amusement park, sitting on patios sipping cocktails. Laughter and good conversation are the staples of any perfect summer evening, and it's something I've always loved about life on the beach, but tonight I wish I had a magic wand that could wipe away it all.

The bungalow isn't far, and I'm planning on running inside to grab the keys to my car so I can drive to Alex's grave, when I freeze as soon as I let the sound of the rushing waves a few yards away fill my ears.

Yeah, Alex is buried at the cemetery in town just twenty minutes away, but suddenly, I'm not so sure that's where I'll find him.

He's always been his happiest at the canoe; it's the place where all of our adventures started. It's the only place left on the whole island that I can stand to be near.
 

And it's where I have to go if I'm going to talk to him now.

So I don't stop running, even while my lungs ache and my legs burn. I jump off the boardwalk and sprint through the dry sand until it's right here.

The canoe.

Even in the dark, I can make out the fiery red and orange swirls. I drop down onto my knees in the sand just a few feet from it and watch.

It's quieter down on the beach than it had been on the boardwalk, but it doesn't matter. I'm only hearing the whispers of the water.

The thing is, I don't know what I'm supposed to do now. I'd been so focused on getting here that I'm not sure what I expected to happen when I actually arrived.

I think for a long time part of me still thought Alex would pop up from the other side of the canoe.

And that still hasn't happened.

And I guess maybe it never will.

"What the heck am I doing?" I wonder out loud, crawling closer toward the canoe so I can lean up against it and feel the splinters beneath my fingertips.

My hands roam the sea-worn wood, my mind wandering to all the days, years and years worth of days, spent in this spot, on this sand, with Alex.

Days of lounging on the beach, days of surfing, days of talking when his dad got sick and we weren't sure how he'd recover, if he'd recover.

Our lives, so intertwined, happened right here.

And I wonder what I'd be doing if Alex was with me now.

Prepping for the competition, no doubt. We both would be; me, ready to claim the girls' title and him confident as ever that he'd beat all the guys.

As much as I want it, that's not my reality, it never will be, and I'm going to have to figure out how to accept things for what they are now.

"What do I do, Alex? What do I do?" I murmur as if the rush of the ocean will hear me and carry my words off to him.

And as I sit here, letting the sand drip through my fingers, I imagine what he'd tell me if he had even just seconds to get a message to me.

Live
.

The word slams into me so hard, my breath catches in my throat when it comes to me.
 

Live.

It's so simple, so obvious, so Alex.

It's perfect.
 

And it's everything I'm not doing right now.

The exact opposite of what every piece of my body knows he would want for me.

I'm not living; I'm going through the motions, and even then, I barely care about that.

There have only been a handful of times in the last two months where I've really felt
alive
-- and they've all come when I was with Walker.
 

But even though that isn't an option anymore, I know there are other ways to get it back, to feel the fire in my belly again, to let go of everything bad, even if it's only for a little while.

It's better than where I am right now.

I want to tell Walker about this, but I know I can't. My mind drifts back to the last day we spent together teaching him how to surf, and I start aching all over again at his broken promise.
 

I distinctly remember asking him to promise never to surf alone.

And I distinctly remember Piper Monaghan popping up out of nowhere, interrupting the day.

I freeze.

Piper.

All the air rushes out of my lungs as the memory comes back to me so clearly, it's like it's happening again.

Me, asking Walker to promise.

Piper, showing up uninvited.

Walker, never answering my question.

Oh, my God.
 

He's right. He never promised he wouldn't surf alone.

For a few frantic seconds, I dig through my bag, trying to find my phone to call him, but then I stop.

Even if I tell him I'm sorry, that I was wrong, what does it change?
 

I still can't give him what he wants, and I'm still figuring myself out.

Besides, why would he bother giving me another chance when he's got perfect Piper around to keep him company?

I'm going to have to do this on my own.

I get to my knees and press my lips against the rough wood of the canoe.

"Thank you," I whisper to Alex.
 

The sand shifts as I climb to my feet and run my hand along the length of the boat as I make my way slowly back up the beach toward the boardwalk.

It's different this time, like everything has suddenly changed.

If the world isn't a little bit brighter tonight, it's at least coming into focus more clearly.

Everything I have to do is laid out right in front of me, and there's no other path I can take.
 

I'm not sure there ever was, really.

I just couldn't see it until now.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

It feels like any other morning when I wake up the next day.

The sun's still shining, the birds are still chirping, the waves are still rolling into shore.

But it doesn't take long for the fog to lift out of my brain and reality to set in. My eyes dart to my computer, sure I've dreamed it all.

The laptop is open on my desk, but the screen's gone black with sleep, and I spring out of bed and rush over to it, hurtling myself into the chair.

A few keystrokes later, and my stomach sinks to the floor.

The Invitational's website is still up on my desktop, but that's not the part that's got me reaching for the garbage can because I'm pretty sure I'm about to puke everywhere.

No, it's the big, bold red words at the top of the page that I can't stop reading:

Congratulations on entering the 25
th
Annual International Invitational! Good luck.
 

There's even a confirmation email and entry fee receipt in my inbox when I frantically check there, too.

I've done it.

I've signed up for the Invitational.

The e-mail informs me I need to be on the beach and checked in by 10:15 this morning -- and it's already 9:45. Apparently, I hadn't considered setting an alarm even after signing up last night.

I don't bother with a shower since I'm already up and out of the chair, rooting around in my drawers until I find my favorite competition wetsuit. It goes on a little tighter than it did last time, and I grimace.

I'm about to jump into the most important surfing competition of my life, and I'm so out of shape, I've gotta do jumping jacks just to get into my old clothes.

Great.

My feet slam against the wooden steps as I run down to the main floor, beach bag slung over one shoulder. Mom and Seth are hanging out in the kitchen over mugs of coffee, but I don't stop. I'm running out of time.

"Rachel!" Mom calls after me. "Your wetsuit?"

"I'm surfing!" I shout back, and then the front door slams behind me as I hurry under the bungalow to dig out my surfboard and jump into my car.