I realize Weston studies me the way he studies the ocean, the way he counts the swells.
One wave rolls toward him—powerful and fierce. A murmured, “Go,” leaves my dad’s lips, and as if the word is echoed through the wind, Weston lays flat against his board and spins toward the shore.
As the wave drifts beneath him, Weston begins paddling with perfect form, muscles in his arms straining with every glide he makes through the water. When the wave crests, he’s in the perfect position, and as he pops up and drops in, my stomach sinks. I’m falling over the edge of that coaster, giving myself to gravity right along with him.
I pull the binoculars from my eyes, he’s moving too quickly to follow with the close-up sight. He glides over the face of the wavewith effortless ease, carving up toward the crest as the barrel crashes behind him. The waves today are likely too small to complete a successful tunnel, though in the back of every surfer’s mind, every time they’re on the water, it’s a coveted goal.
Weston makes a flawless off-the-lip, stirring cheers from the crowd along the beach. He continues down the wave, carving deep, nearly losing his balance before he makes a tight cut, springing toward the top of the whitecap and completing an aerial spin. My stomach launches into my throat as he goes airborne, and I’m still choking on oxygen when he lands back down—somehow steady as he drifts through the wave, slowing himself when it begins crashing around him, floating atop it until he sinks into the foam.
The crowd goes absolutely wild—it was by far the best run of the morning. Wes turns toward the horizon, throwing his arms in the air triumphantly. A deafening whistle that only could belong to my uncle Everett nearly blows out my eardrums as he sends it Wes’s way.
All of the other surfers in his session are yards away, near their starting places. Wes must’ve been the only one to drop in on that wave, though the others attempt to follow his lead as Wes slowly paddles back in their direction.
He drops in two more times during his session, completing another successful aerial and even an alley-oop, along with several basic tricks—his form near-perfect on each of those too.
“I’ve never seen him surf like this,” my dad murmurs, leaning forward on his knees as he rubs a hand over his jaw in astonishment. “If he keeps this up, he’s going to place first today.”
“No doubt,” Liv says beside him.
My cheeks hurt from the ache of my prideful grin, my throat is hoarse from the force of my cheers. It takes everything to rein in my excitement—to stop myself from jumping up and runningdown the beach, screaming in the face of every spectator, “See that one? He’s mine!”
Weston places first in his heat, and advances to the next round. The Challenger has a total of six, with eliminations in each one. Since Wes won his heat, he advances straight into the top sixteen, where he’ll face off head-to-head with the remaining competitors.
There is a lull between Weston’s sessions. Allie and I take a walk down the beach—where I try, and fail, to convince her to end her relationship with Declan. We eat breakfast with our families before my dad and Carter go to check on Wes. Both Penelope and I tried to convince them to take us too, but Dad doesn’t want to risk breaking his focus.
As much as I want to see him—touch him and kiss him and share in the excitement with him, because he deserves to know he’s not in this alone—I know it makes the most sense to wait until the Challenger is completely over.
The nerves from earlier stir inside me again as Weston paddles out for his second heat. This time, he’s head-to-head, the competition growing fiercer with each round. The wind has picked up, the waves rougher than they were this morning, meaning the number of opportunities to perform become fewer as the afternoon goes on. Not only does he have to choose each swell carefully, but each run has to be perfect to avoid elimination.
Weston passes several swells, and anticipation surges with each one that rolls near him. I’m antsy for him to drop in—not miss a single opportunity this session—but when his competitor takes a bad swell and is swallowed up by the tide, I remind myself to trust Weston’s instincts.
When he finally takes a wave, the other surfer is still recovering from his wipeout and misses the opportunity. Weston drops in, completing another near-perfect run. It lockshim in as a clear crowd favorite, because the entire beach is drowned out by the sound of cheers.
“He got lucky,” Dad says on a breath. “That was a choppy one.”
“You said he knows what he’s doing.”
He only huffs in response, tapping his fingers against his knee.
Weston paddles beyond the break, the time in his session is rapidly running down. I use the binoculars again to get a closer look at him—to try and gauge the expression on his face. The determination from earlier is still present, more fierce now.
“God-fucking-dammit,” my father mutters, just as Weston spins his board.
I lower the binoculars to find the largest swell I’ve seen all day barreling toward Weston as he paddles away from it, the power in his arms almost palpable with every swift, hard stroke through the water. When it crests, the wave is at least twice the size of any other we’ve seen today. It’s rushing toward the shore at an angle with the force of the wind.
Weston is fast, but not fast enough. By the time he springs up, the wave is already crashing. One second he’s there, haloed by whitecaps. The next, he’s wrecked by them, tumbling beneath their weight, swallowed by their impact.
CHAPTER 28
WESTON
That sucked.
“And how does that feel?” the medic asks as she presses down on my ribs.
It fucking hurts.
I suck in a breath, wincing at the pressure and the way it spreads a flame throughout my body. “It's... mildly uncomfortable.”
