Her car slides into the space beside mine, tires crunching on gravel. My heartbeat picks up tempo. Before I can second-guess myself, my door's open, the salt air rushing in.
She emerges with one fluid movement, wetsuit peeled down to her waist, revealing sun-freckled shoulders and a blue sports bra. Those Dutch braids swing forward as she bends to grab her water bottle—tight, precise plaits that never unraveled no matter how many waves she takes.
The corner of her mouth quirks up when she spots me, and my throat goes dry.
“Morning, Bell.”
Her “Morning” carries a half-smile that hits me somewhere beneath my ribs. She rises onto her toes, arm extended toward the roof rack tie-downs, fingers straining an inch short. I step close enough to catch the lemon scent of her hair, reach past her shoulder. The back of my hand brushes warm skin.
“I can reach it,” she says, voice flat but not moving away.
“I know.” I work the strap free anyway, plastic buckle clicking open.
Our hands meet at the rail of her board, knuckles bumping. We ease it down against her bumper, and she leans into her car, rummaging through something I can't see.
Then she's in front of me, neoprene sliding over freckled skin, her shoulders disappearing beneath black synthetic rubber.
“God, I’ve missed this.” She squints past me toward the water, where waves thump against sand in a rhythm that feels like fucking home.
“Still mostly locals?” Her eyes narrow as she sweeps her gaze, her braids slipping over her shoulders.
“For now.” I nod toward three Mercedes SUVs parked near the entrance. “But I guarantee those assholes are not locals.”
She snorts. “Tourists?”
“Worse.” I nod toward a trio of guys walking into the ocean, awkwardly carrying their boards. “See that?” I yank my zipper up, the salt-crusted teeth catching at my throat.
She pulls her own zipper with one fluid motion, eyes narrowing at the guys as one tries and fails to get on his board. “Maybe they’re just new? Gotta start somewhere, right?”
“Maybe, but I doubt it.” My mouth twitches as I watch her eyes track the struggling surfer with something almost like compassion. She's always been this way—ready to believe the best when I'm already assuming the worst.
I study the curve of her neck, the tension in her shoulders, searching for something different since that night against the wall.
“I haven't seen you since Coco's party.” The words hang between us, suspended in salt air.
She tilts her head to look at me. “Did you miss me?”
I take two steps to stand next to her. My breath catches. There's that look—chin slightly tucked, gaze lifting through lashes that cast tiny shadows across her cheeks. Her bottom lip juts just enough to make my thumb itch to trace it. Those freckles scattered like stars across the bridge of her nose, constellations I used to count during long summer afternoons.
“For years.” The admission tumbles out raw, unplanned.
She pivots toward me, tilting her head back. Her smile falls into something serious. “You should’ve called me.”
“I did.”
Her brows furrow. “Today.”
My chest constricts. I nod three times, quick and shallow, thumb rubbing against the rough skin of my palm as her implication slams into me. “I'm glad you said yes.”
She lifts a shoulder, the wetsuit creasing at her collarbone. Her eyes don't quite meet mine, fixed somewhere around my chin. “I always say yes when it comes to you.”
Something flips in my chest, a coin tossed in deep water. My cheeks pull tight, teeth flashing before I can stop them. The salt air suddenly tastes sweeter on my tongue.
“Let's surf, Bell.” My voice comes out lower than I meant it to.
Her lips curve up at one corner as she reaches for her board. “If you think you can keep up,” she says, already turning toward the water.
When we start paddling, the world narrows to breath and waves and the slap of water under our arms. The cold bites through my wetsuit at the wrists and neck, salt stinging my chapped lips. My muscles burn with each stroke, shoulders working against the push of incoming swells. Out past the break, it's quieter, the sound changing from chaos to rhythm—the distant thunder of waves crashing behind us, replaced by gentle lapping against fiberglass and the hollow echo of water moving beneath my board.
