Archer perks up from Allie’s other side. She straightens, tossing him an incredulous eye roll before turning to me. “He tried to ultimatum me. Said I had to choose him or Archer.” She snorts. “I ignored him for a week. Then, before I left to see my parents, I explained to him that I get Archer for one month before he goes back to Texas, and Declan can have me the rest of the year.” She shrugs. “I gave him a hall pass. He has the remainder of July to do what—and who—ever he wants, and I won’t ask any questions. But,” she continues, “he can’t ever again question my friendship with Archer or ask me to stay away from him when he’s home.”
Archer rears back so far in his chair he nearly falls out. “Are you fucking kidding me, Allie?”
He’s loud enough that it pulls the attention of our parents. I turn my head in time to watch Dom’s snap sideways, dark eyes narrowing, gaze set on my cousin. “You wanna rephrase that?”
“Not really,” he scoffs, crossing his arms. “Did she tell you about her little arrangement withDeclan?” The name drips off Archer’s tongue with disgust.
“Yeah.” Dom sighs, wiping a hand down his face. “Don’t fucking cuss, but...” He nods. “Talk some sense into her if you can.”
“Sorry,” Archer murmurs, turning back to face the horizon with a grimace.
“I don’t need any sense!” Allie throws her hands up, shooting daggers between Archer and her dad. “I’m dropping this conversation now.” She tosses me a withering look. “Don’t bring him up around the two of them—or my mother, for that matter—they’re all insane.”
“You’reinsane,” I shoot back.
She rolls her eyes, settling back into her seat. “Anyway... how big is Weston’s dick?”
There she is.
Dropping the conversation regarding her shitty boyfriend, I lean closer, ensuring we’re out of anyone’s ear shot. “You have nofuckingidea.”
“How many inches?” she whispers.
“I didn’t measure it.” I laugh, smacking her arm as the announcer’s voice booms over the intercom, informing us the next heat—Weston’s session—will start in thirty minutes.
“Well. .. take an educated guess,” Allie calls over the sound of the speaker.
I extend my arm out in front of me, asking, “How long do you think my forearm is?” just as the announcement ends, and stark silence blankets us.
Every head inside our tent turns in my direction, and my skin sears under their horrified expressions. I’m frozen, still holding my arm in front of me, attempting to stretch my thumb and middle finger from the crease of my elbow to my wrist.
Zander bursts with laughter, and Lou hides a snicker of her own.
“Damn.” Allie wheezes. “Good for you, babe.”
I glance at Liv, whose mouth is gaping, eyes wide as she studies me before she cranes her head behind us, in the direction of where our parents stand. “You all raised some feral little weirdos.”
When my dad finds us fifteen minutes later, he asks why we’re all so quiet. I’m grateful nobody has the gall to explain.
Just before thestart of Wes’s heat, he finally comes into my line of sight as he walks onto the beach with his white and blue board in hand. He’s wearing a red dry-fit shirt over his wetsuit with the number twenty-eight on the back, and his last name, Ashford, over the shoulders.
There are two other surfers in his heat, but Weston is the only thing I focus on. Like I’m staring through a camera lens, and everything around him is blurred. Watching him wade into the water is reminiscent of slowly climbing the peak of a roller coaster. Every movement he makes tugs at my chest in an ascending tempo.
“Did he seem ready to go?” I ask Dad. “Was he nervous?”
“Oh, no. He was confident as ever.” He chuckles. “It’s windy today, though. Choppier than anticipated, that’s the only thing I worry about.”
I swallow, unease swirling inside my bones.
Dad turns to me, his features softening into a reassuring smile as he grabs my hand. “He knows when to avoid a rogue wave, Sugar. He’ll be all right.”
I nod, squeezing his palm as we turn back to the beach. Dad has the timer for this session on his phone—the objective is to drop in as many times as he can during the heat, completing as many tricks with as much precision as possible. He’ll be judged not only on performance, but on his form too.
I pull binoculars out of my bag, fixing them over my eyes and relocating him through the pin-pointed vision. He’s paddling—the muscles in his arms and back pronounced through the clinging fabric of his shirt. Once he’s passed the break, Weston slows down, sitting upright on his board, gaze narrowed on the Pacific, brow furrowed with concentration.
He’s fucking beautiful.
Utterly focused, and while entirely determined, he’s also at ease. Simply a boy who’s most himself inside the tides, and today, he’s choosing to share that connection with the rest of the world. It’s as if nothing can touch him out there—not his past, not his fear, not his future. I can see that peace on his face—the only other time he houses that look of convicted determination and fulfilled contentment is when he’s looking at me.
