“Weston gave you an eight-point-five. Said you could be riskier,” Leo says.
She huffs, rolling her eyes before fixing them on me, giving me a judgmental once-over.
“I told him to repeat it and make you give him a ten,” he continues.
Her lips twitch playfully. “Let’s see it, Wes. You get exactly one try, because I’ve got a breakfast date this morning.”
“A date?” her dad and I ask in unison, both heads whipping in her direction.
Leo’s eyes are narrowed, nose scrunched, lip curled—but it’s not directed at her. It’s directed at me, I’m sure he’s likely wondering why I’m giving Willow a mirrored expression.
I don’t know why I care, either.
“With Elena,” she explains, eyeing me curiously. “We’re paddleboarding in the harbor today.”
My gaze flits to Leo, who relaxes, taking a breath of relief. It’s odd because, despite how strict and demanding he is with me, it’s not how I’d expect him to act with his daughter. Even now, it was concern etched across his face, not control. I know the difference well.
He nods before turning to me. “Well, get the hell out there, kid.”
I grab my board—white with a blue stripe down the middle. Carter bought it for me just before I competed at Junior Worlds. It’s a high-quality brand that forges their boards with recycled materials, which is important to him. They’re expensive as hell, but worth it.
My heart beats wildly as I secure my ankle strap and wade into the waves—deep enough to lay down and paddle toward the break. I fight against the whitecaps until I make it past them, floating between uncrested swells. The swell period is nine seconds—not perfect conditions, but not terrible, either.
I let two troughs pass, hoping to snag a more powerful wave, but also to gather my nerves and swallow them down. Every lip of water that drifts beneath me feels less like floating and more like dropping down a roller coaster—every organ in my stomach lifting into my chest before being tossed around and clattering off my ribcage. My pulse pounds in my ears, and zaps of apprehension surge through my veins and gather in my feet where they dangle beneath the surface.
I know it’s because she’s watching.
One of the reasons I’m so fucking good at this sport is because it never made me feel this way. I’m relaxed and at ease when I’m out here. Being on the water, facing the horizon, creates this endless vastness of the world, while offering me the solace of being the only person in it. I can’t find that feeling anywhere else.
Right now, knowing not only my mentor is watching—judging—but Willow too? I give myself one final swell period, counting eight seconds this time, flipping my board just as the water begins to lift.
I paddle with every ounce of energy I hold, forcing all nerves into my arms as I push through the wave before planting my palms on the front of my board and leaping forward—visualizing the fluidity of the movement in my head as I pop up.
A whistle pierces my ears—so loud and commanding it cuts through the roaring of the waves all around me. A high-pitched cheer follows, and I know it can only belong to her.
A grin splits my face—so swift and fierce it causes my cheeks to ache.
I pump my board, carving along the face of the wave until it begins to crest, the sapphire blue water turning white and foamy. I rock back on my heels, swiveling my hips and bending my knees, snapping my board toward the lip. I press forward, cutting back sharply as I ride over the crashing of the wave, letting its current lead me to shore.
It’s been a long while since I felt that connected to the water. I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t competing—whether it was fighting me or fixing me. Before that day—the day I almost killed someone—it always felt like healing. Like as long as I was out there, I was okay. I’d be safer in the waves than I would at home, because the waves let me in. Let me become one of them for those brief periods of time that I was riding within them.
Ever since, I’ve questioned whether I’m worthy of being welcomed back.
Just now, I was completely fluid. I wasn’t even inside my body. I wasn't a solid mass. I was wind and water—floating and weightless and unworried. I was free. I’ve felt comfort and home and healing with surfing since the day I was released from lockup, but I haven’t yet feltfree.
It was as if the sound of Willow’s voice shot through the air between us. A tether—a life preserver—lassoing me out here in the open water, keeping me upright. It was support, and for all the encouragement I receive from my foster parents, from Leo now too, it’s never felt like that. Pure excitement and true joy—giddy. That’s how my mother used to describe it, the way she felt when she watched me surf.
I jump off my board, sprinting through the foam, vision blurred by the swiftness of my movement. I scan the shore for Willow, wanting to tell her that I heard her yell and whistle. I want to tell her how it made me feel—though I know I won’t voice that part.
All I find is her dad, eyeing me with his hands on his hips. In the distance behind him, Willow’s figure ascends the cliffside toward the house, the sight causing my stomach to descend into the depths of my body, disappointment taking its place.
I jog up to Leo, and he hands me a water bottle. “She had to go get ready,” he says. “But... she gave you a ten.”
That aching grin spreads over my cheeks again. Pride blooms inside me, expanding to the point that my head is floating.
“I gave you a six,” he continues. My coach’s words pierce the balloon in my chest, and I’m deflating. “So, what’s the real lesson of the morning, Weston?”
“I don’t know.” I sigh. “What is it?”
