It was so simple—innocent, really. Yet I fear I may spend the rest of my life playing that interaction on a loop.
“Wes, I need to clear the table and do the dishes, but when I’m finished, why don’t we chat in the office?” Leo says, sliding out of his chair and nodding toward the kitchen. “Down the hallway, you’ll see it to your left just before you reach the back door.”
Willow’s head snaps up, eyes meeting mine before drifting to her dad’s. His gaze is pinned on her before it slides back to me, and though he offers me a smile, it feels laced with something harsher.
Fuck.
He saw us in the kitchen earlier. Heard us. Maybe he noticed my hard-on.
Are there cameras in here? I swivel my head, searching the room. I don’t see anything, but there is no way to be sure. When my eyes find Willow again, she only shrugs, smiling softly before excusing herself from the table.
I rise from my seat, slowly making my way down the hall. My footsteps echo with every stride, sounding like a squealedfuck, fuck, fuckwith each press my heel makes into the floorboards.
I find the door Leo spoke of, and if I hadn’t been searching for it, I’m not sure I ever would’ve. I slide open the barn-style door, painted the same shade of cream as the wall, revealing a small corner room. Built-in, ceiling-high bookshelves line the entire space, with a corner nook beneath one window and a small desk between the shelves under the other. The room is painted sage green, with accent wallpaper dotted with yellow flowers. A small couch sits on the one bare wall beside the door.
I slip into the room and shut the door behind me, leaving it cracked just a sliver. Circling the space, I think it almost more resembles a reading nook or home library than an office. There must be hundreds of books, the entire room is lined with them.Almost every space on every shelf is taken up by spines, with the exception of a few knickknacks and framed photos.
One picture in particular pulls my attention. Leo and Darby ankle-deep in the waves, younger than they are now, on the beach I recognize as Celestia Cove. They’re both crouched over a baby Willow as she sits cross-legged on a green surfboard. She can’t be more than a year or so old. Pudgy fingers wrap around each of her parents' pointer fingers, and she’s laughing with her eyes closed.
I guess she wasn’t lying when she said she’d been surfing longer than she’d been walking.
I study more photos, each one a bright memory of a happy life. Willow grows throughout the room, from chubby baby to young girl to awkward teenager. She’s always smiling, though.
I’m not sure a single photo of me exists where I’m smiling outside the ones snapped by photographers after I won Junior Worlds years ago.
I grab a frame off one of the shelves—a photo of Willow holding up a painting of a wave from the perspective of being inside the barrel. The crest arches over the top of the canvas with a multi-colored sunset behind it. The water reflects every color in the sky, sparkling with sunlight, somehow creating the essence that you’re right there in the ocean itself. As if you can taste the salt on your skin, hear the waves crash, feel the heat of the sinking sun.
A gold first place ribbon is pinned in the top corner of the painting, and Willow beams into the camera as she holds it out in front of her.
“What’re you lookin’ at?” Leo drawls, startling me enough that I damn near toss the frame back onto the bookshelf, making the whole thing shake.
“I was...” I spin clumsily, knowing my cheeks are flushing at what I’ve been caught staring at. Leo cocks his head, focusingon the photo behind me. “Honestly... I’m not used to seeing family pictures.” I laugh awkwardly, rubbing the back of my neck.Might as well be somewhat honest. “I don’t even think I have any from my own childhood. Caught my attention. That’s all.”
To my surprise, Leo smiles wistfully. “I didn’t either. At least, not until I was brought in by my best friend’s parents. My mom for all intents and purposes—Monica—made sure to take a lot of photos after they began looking after me. But before then...” He circles the room in search of something before he pauses, plucking a photo off a shelf behind the desk. “This is the only photo I have left of my real mom and me.”
I step closer, narrowing my eyes to make out the faded image. A young towheaded blond boy, who must be Leo, sits on a surfboard as a brunette woman in a red swimsuit stands behind him, the grandest grin on her cheeks as she holds his hand the same way Leo holds Willow’s in the first photo I grabbed.
I knew the folks Leo called his parents weren’t his real parents. I know he refers to Everett as his brother even though they’re not related by blood, but I suppose I never questioned what must’ve happened to his birth family.
“She died when I was eleven. I was with her when it happened. My dad abandoned me about a year later.”
My eyes snap to his, and there is too much familiarity swirling in his gaze. The same perpetual pain I’ve seen in the mirror every day for the last seven years.
He was eleven, I was thirteen. I was with my mom too, and I couldn’t save her. My dad gave me up to the state, not that I would’ve preferred to stay with him anyway. Not after I watched him kill her.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“I’m sorry too,” he responds before turning to place the photo of his mother back on the shelf. “Do you know why I asked to speak to you here, Weston?”
Because I can’t stay away from your daughter like I promised I would.
I only shake my head.
“Because it’s time for you to make a choice.” He crosses his arms, facing me again.Fuck. “You know I told you before that you have raw skill—God-given talent that can’t be taught. I still think that’s true. I think you’ve been focused and determined. You’ve applied the corrections I’ve given you, even if you’ve had a bad attitude about it at times.” He pauses, eyes meeting mine. I swallow. “You’re learning. You’re getting better. And now... you need to decide what you want to do with it.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well...” He flops onto the couch, getting comfortable. “Your career can go two ways. We can start entering you into some competitions, work on landing you an agent. Sponsorships and championship titles. You’ll likely do well. You could make decent money. A comfortable living.” He shrugs. “Or you can buckle down and get serious. You could be an Olympian.”
