Pulled Under

“For about forty-five minutes,” he says.

How did I not see him there? I wonder as I walk up toward him.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’ve got seventy-five dollars,” he replies, holding up his wallet. “I want to learn how to surf. I thought you might help me get—what did you call it—a used fish? Is that right?”

“Yeah,” I say. “That’s what it’s called.”

“Great. Where do we find one?”

“You could check online or I can ask around at the shop to see if anyone knows of one for sale.”

He walks right up to me and stops. “Did I do something wrong?” he asks. “Because if I did, I’m sorry.”

“No,” I say curtly. “You’re perfect.”

“Then why are you avoiding me? I thought you were going to teach me about the beach. I don’t want to look online for a surfboard. I want you to help me find one. I want you to teach me how to surf. I want to hang out with you.”

I close my eyes tightly and can feel the burn of the salt water. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because . . . I’m busy. I’ve got work . . . and—”

“I’ll work around your schedule,” he offers. “Besides . . . I thought we were friends.”

“‘Friends,’” I say. “Why does that sound so impersonal? Friends.”

“I take my friendships very seriously,” he replies.

“Of course you do,” I say. “Friends are the kind of people you talk to about other girls, right?”

“Is that what this is about? I’m sorry I talked to you about Beth,” he says. “But if you remember, you were the one who asked me about her. I never would have brought her up, but you asked and I’m not going to lie to you.”

“And what about your new friends, like Kayla?” I ask. “I heard her invite you to a party. Did you go?”

“Yes,” he says. “For about thirty minutes, just to be polite.”

“Is that what this is?” I ask. “You’re being polite?”

“No, this is me trying to figure out why you keep avoiding me. I don’t understand.”

“I know,” I say. “It doesn’t make any sense. I’m really sorry, but I have to head back home so I can go to work. I’m opening the shop today.”

Luckily I’m still dripping wet from the ocean, so he can’t tell that there are tears mixed in with the water on my face. I force a smile and start to walk past him toward my street.

“I knew it was a boogie board,” he blurts out.

“What?”

“When you held it up at camp. I knew it was a boogie board. But I always give a wrong answer so that the kids don’t feel bad if they don’t know something.”

“Then why did you act like you didn’t know later on?”

“I was flustered. I wanted to have an excuse to talk to you,” he says. “I figured if I looked pathetic enough, you might feel sorry for me and help.”

“You were flustered?” I say. “Because of me?”

“Wasn’t it obvious?”

“No. I’m not very good at picking up signs.”

He turns right to me and says, “Let’s see if you can pick up on this one.”

Even though I’m dripping wet and carrying a surfboard, he wraps one arm around my waist and the other around my shoulder and kisses me. To say the least, I’m caught off guard, but I drop my surfboard and start to kiss him back.

It is the first kiss of my life, and on a scale of one to ten I’d have to rate it at least a fifteen. I know I don’t have much to go on, but I have spent a great deal of time thinking about it and it far exceeds my wildest hopes.

There’s a cool breeze coming off the water, the sky is bursting with color and light, and my feet sink into the sand as I lose myself in his lips. I feel like I have caught the longest, sweetest wave, and I want to ride it for as long as possible before it crashes against the shore.

July

It’s Tuesday morning and in about fifteen minutes Ben and the summer campers will arrive for their weekly lesson. This will be the first time the kids are going to try to stand up on their boards, and I’ve recruited Nicole and Sophie to help me demonstrate good technique. It will also be the first time I’ve seen Ben since the kiss, so I’m hoping they’ll help me with that, too.

Since we’ve already established that I’m useless at picking up signs, I figure it can’t hurt to have my own signal-deciphering support staff. Of course that means I have to tell them about the kiss, which I haven’t done yet. I drop that bomb while we’re carrying all of the gear down from the shop to the beach.

“By the way,” I say as if early morning romantic encounters on the beach were just part of my every day. “Did I mention the passionate kiss I had with Ben?”

At first they think I’m joking, but then they see the expression on my face.

“Seriously?” Sophie says with total disbelief. “That seriously happened?”

I nod.

“When?” asks Nicole. “This morning? Last night?”

“Yesterday . . . morning,” I say sheepishly.

“And we’re only hearing about this now? We were with you all yesterday afternoon. How did it not come up?”

The truth is I didn’t tell them yesterday because I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I’m still not. I know it was awesome and wonderful and the most romantic moment of my life. But it almost feels like it was part of a movie I saw and not something that actually happened to me.

“Details,” Sophie says, more as a demand than a request. “Right now.”

“Okay,” I respond. “But we have to keep setting up. The kids and Ben will be here soon.”

I tell them everything as we lay a dozen soft boards out on the sand. After a day to analyze and obsess over every detail, it’s refreshing to actually tell the story. Hearing it aloud reinforces the fact that it really did happen and wasn’t just my imagination. I tell them about catching the last wave and walking up onto the beach. They both eat up the part about Ben sitting in the sand clapping.

“Cute, cute, cute,” Nicole says with a broad smile. “So very cute.”

And although I’m somewhat embarrassed by the melodramatic tone of my conversation with him, I give them an honest recounting of what was said. By the time I get to the kiss, they are eating out of the palm of my hand.

“And . . . ,” Nicole says when I finish.

“And what?” I ask.

“And . . . what happened next?” Sophie asks.

“You heard the part where we kissed, right? That was kind of the big finish.”

They look cheated.

“There’s got to be more!” Sophie claims. “Did he just vanish into thin air? Didn’t you say anything?”

“I’m sure I said something, but my head was spi

“Was there any sort of follow-up moment?” Nicole asks hopefully

I think about it and nod. “There was a part when I sort of manipulated the situation so that we could kiss again.”

“And yet you left that out?” Sophie asks, frustrated. “You know you’re terrible at telling this story.”

“How did you manipulate it?” asks Nicole.

“When we reached the house, we went around into the backyard and I asked him to help me put my board back on the rack. I told him it had to go on the top pegs but had trouble reaching that high by myself.”

Nicole laughs. “Why did you tell him it needed to be up there?”

I am almost too embarrassed to answer.

“I said it needed to be in direct sunlight to keep any condensation from contracting the foam core.”