It’s just after five when Tech’s mom parks behind the Surf Shack to drop me off. She is, in a word, furious. She called the station after hearing from some of the locals that we’d been arrested. Luckily, we were not under arrest, but I’m pretty sure Tech will be under Angela’s watchful eye for the next few weeks.
I murmur a thank-you, to which Angela doesn’t respond. She stares straight ahead like she can’t even look at me right now. She has the whole “disappointed parent” thing perfected; it cuts deep.
I glance across the backseat at Shawn, but her hat is pulled down over her eyes. There’s a bruise on her chest from hitting the steering wheel, darkening to an angry purple color. All in all, it’s been a pretty terrible day.
Wearily, I get out of the car and start toward the Shack. I’m here alone. Or at least, I’m supposed to be. My footsteps slow when I notice the tool bag on the porch—my father’s bag that he’d taken with him this morning. Uh-oh.
The sheriff let us all off with a warning today, thanks to Jamie not pressing charges. Honestly, it was the least he owed me. But now that I’m home, it doesn’t appear I got off free and clear.
I glance around the littered beach, the beach I should have cleaned today in preparation for tourists, and wonder what exactly I’m about to walk into. I’m usually pretty good at dodging trouble, so I’m not typically on this end of the argument.
Before I can think too much deeper, the screen door of the Shack opens and my father leans against the doorframe, holding a can of orange soda.
“Hello, Noa,” he says in a sort of controlled anger. “Busy day in Cape Hope?” He takes a loud sip from his can.
My father is on the smaller side, about five foot six with shaggy, salt-and-pepper hair, forever donning his royal-blue Surf Shack T-shirt. After years on the ocean, his skin is the color of warm leather with apermanent shadow of black stubble along his chin. Like Angela, he is also fluent in “disappointed parent.”
“I can explain,” I state calmly, holding up my hands.
He offers a sardonic smile but doesn’t stop me. He waits to hear what I have to say. I can’t read his expression. This is so much worse than yelling, and it’s the not knowing that makes me defensive.
“I’ll save you the trouble,” I say, admonishing myself before he can. “I broke your trust. I endangered my friends, myself, and our business. I won’t do it again, but you should still… ground me or something. I deserve it. I’m sorry, Dad.”
He waits a beat before taking another sip of his drink. He steps outside, and the screen door slams against the frame behind him. My dad nods to me.
“You know what I like about our father-daughter relationship?” he starts. “You always take responsibility for your actions. I don’t have to punish you—I never have. Even when you were a little kid, if you did something wrong, you’d take yourself to your room. You’d give me your toys and say you shouldn’t be allowed to play with them. You’ve made my job too easy, Noa. Which”—he pauses—“is why this stupidity was really next-level for you. I mean…” His cool drops slightly. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“You sound like Sheriff Castillo,” I say.
“Oh, trust me,” my father says. “I’m way more pissed than your uncle.”
“I’ll go to my room right now,” I offer. I start to walk toward the Shack when he laughs.
“Not so fast, kid,” he says. “Stay out here. We need to talk.”
I glance around, the air so sticky with humidity that it’s a little hard to breathe. The sky has grown cloudy, making the early evening murky and gray—as if it’s also disappointed in me.
And maybe I’m just stalling, but suddenly the sand on my legs itches uncontrollably and I have to brush it off where I can. Then thecuts on my arm burn, and I run my hand over my sleeve to tame them. When I finally look at my dad again, he’s waiting at the counter of the Surf Shack with his elbows leaned on top.
“You done?” he asks.
It strikes me then that he looks older. Tired. Worn down. My guilt is heavy, and I drop the pretenses and walk over to stand next to him. With all we’ve been through, my dad has always been my rock. Even if he’s been absent lately, I know it’s because he’s working hard to keep it all together. Since Ellis left, we’ve both had to pick up the slack around here. And ignore the gaping hole his absence has left in our lives.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I tell him, bumping my shoulder into his. “I’m sorry to stress you out.”
“Was it your idea?” he asks, looking sideways at me. His dark eyes are glassy, creased along the sides.
“No,” I say honestly. I’m relieved when he doesn’t ask why. Judging by the sheriff’s response earlier, I highly doubt my father would see it much differently. Truth is, most Chasers won’t go against the Collective. Not anymore.
My father finishes his soda before crushing the can and tossing it in the recycling bin. He sighs heavily before burying his head in his hands, rubbing roughly at his hair. I realize that something is wrong.
“What happened?” I ask. “Did the storm—?”
“It’s the resort,” my father says before straightening up. “They’ve lobbied the mayor to add more licensing restrictions, ones that affect us specifically.”
“Again?” I ask. “They can’t do that. We’ve done everything by the book. We could be charging twice as much, but they tied our hands so they’re the only ones making a profit.”
“That is the tactic,” he agrees. “Suffocating us until we move, or…” He winces. “Or until we sell to them.”
