She grins. “Maybe. But I’m not wrong though.”
I laugh. “You are actually. I’m actually thinking about how I’m going to keep you and Beck from murdering each other when you both get hangry on the job.”
Lola rolls her eyes and flops back to float on her board, arms out, fingers trailing through the water. “Coward. Deflection isa classic Bellamy move, but it’s not gonna work on me.” She glances over, her gaze serious for a second. “You know you can talk to me, right? Even if it’s about the Calloways.”
Something in her voice makes me go soft around the edges. I tread water, watching the way the morning light plays off her cheekbones and her nose crinkle in a way that makes me want to hug her until she shuts up or punches me, whichever comes first.
The thought makes me smile, and the smile feels like it might split me in half. I don’t know how to say any of it out loud—how much I missed her, how much I want to keep her safe, how I wish I could carve out a world that doesn’t hurt the people I love. Every time I try to form the words, they stick and turn bitter.
So instead I duck my head and let the water close over my ears for a heartbeat, let the noise and the pressure drown the need for language.
When I come up, Lola is still there, watching, her face unreadable in the white sunlight.
We float a while, not speaking, the boards bobbing and rocking, letting the ebb and flow do the heavy lifting. The silence is different now—gentler. Like maybe she gets it. Or maybe she knows I’m a second away from unraveling and is just giving me time to catch my own thread.
After a long minute, Lola says, “You think we’re gonna pull this off?”
The question is quiet, careful, almost reverent. Not like her usual bravado, not the kind of thing she’d normally ask. It’s a small, spiky thing, and it slips between my ribs before I can brace for impact.
I want to tell her the truth: that I have no fucking clue. That I can see the math and the logic and the odds, but still—there’s this feeling in the pit of my gut, some animal instinct that says the world is about to slide out from under us. That the Calloways are a swirling, beautiful disaster that might save us or drown us,and I’m stupid enough to think I can ride the wave all the way to shore.
But Lola’s looking at me like she needs something sturdy to hold.
So I give it to her. “Yeah,” I say, and the word comes out stronger than I expect. “Yeah, I do. Between us and the Calloways, I think we’ve got it handled.”
She lets out a long, slow exhale. “That’s all I wanted to hear,” she says, voice light but eyes serious. “Because, Bells? If anyone else on earth tried to drag me into a job with the Calloways, I’d tell them to eat shit. And you know it.”
I do know it. The thought cracks something open in my chest, brief and bright. “If it goes south, I’ll get you and Beck out. No matter what.”
Lola paddles closer, her knuckles knocking mine under the water. “I know.” She says it like it’s already a forgone conclusion. “And I’ll getyouout.”
I don’t bother arguing with her. It’s the same conversation we’ve had dozens of times.
I love you too, I think, too thick with emotion to say it out loud. I let the ocean do the talking for me, salt and light and the deep, endless hush you only get underwater. I dive again, pushing down through the cold, chasing the sun-spun patterns shivering along the sandy bottom.
When I surface, the world is loud—the smacks of waves, cackling gulls, Lola’s laughter riding the wind. For a moment, I let myself pretend that’s all there is. That the world is only ocean and sky, and there’s nothing waiting for us on the shore except more sunlight and maybe a breakfast burrito if we hustle.
I float on my back, blinking up at the endless blue, and I almost believe it’s possible.
We paddle in when our arms are jelly and the sun has burned away the last of the morning fog. Lola sprints up the sand, feetbarely touching the ground, and I follow, dragging my board and shaking water from my hair.
My limbs feel heavy in a good way, wrung out and alive. There’s a moment after a long surf when your body is so tired that you’ve been emptied out, a bucket with nothing left to give, but it’s all right because you’re clean inside and the universe is quiet.
For the briefest moment, it makes me think maybe I can live like this—always a little sore, always a little sunburned, always a little empty in a way that feels almost holy.
Lola’s already halfway to the car, calling over her shoulder. “If you don’t hurry, I’m gonna order food without you!”
I’m jogging to catch up when the hairs on my arms lift. A prickle of awareness, a shift in the air I can’t explain.
My gaze sweeps the parking lot—the salt-crusted Jeep that belongs to the old guy who surfs every morning, a cluster of motorcycles gleaming in the sun, and a black SUV cutting diagonally across two spaces like whoever parked it was in a hurry or didn't care.
It’s familiar in a way that snaps my pulse like a rubber band. Maybe I’m just overtired, but it kind of looks like one of the Calloway’s trucks.
The sun glints off the windshield, blinding me for a beat. When the light clears, my stomach drops. There’s someone in the driver’s seat.
Lola follows my line of sight. “What’re you looking at?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly.
