“I was halfway through my heat. I’d completed a handful of solid waves but only one high-scoring one. A surfer’s final score is the combination of their two highest waves, so I needed another high one.” I take a breath and blow it out. “That’s when one of my bracelets broke. It didn’t matter that I’d initially paddled out with seven, I watched the string float away and mentally fell apart.”
The memory of missing every set and then wiping out whenever I popped up plays before my vision like a bad movie.
“After that, I saw a therapist and worked really hard to not only become a better surfer but to knock every single one of those superstitions out of the way. Nothing was going to stop me from making it to the Olympics. Except, the next time…”
I let the sentence taper off because Tenny knows what happened next.
Tenny nods, letting silence settle peacefully between us for a few beats. It’s the first time I’ve retold this story and haven’t felt completely gutted by it. If anything, I have more compassion for my younger self. I’d been a teenager and hadn’t fully understood the necessary mental aspect of professional athletics. It’s notenough to have great instincts and to feel like your board is an extension of your body. I needed to strengthen my mind as well.
The irony isn’t lost on me that I should be using some of that mental fortitude to get myself back in the ocean. It’s just a hangup I can’t seem to get over, thus the idea for this crazy alliance.
I’m about to explain how Tenny will be helping me translate my lap swimming at the local YMCA back to open water when a seagull lands on top of the railing.
Tenny makes an amused sound before the bird launches itself at the sandwich in his hand just as he takes a bite. His scream is muffled by sausage and eggs while the seagull hovers in the air, wings flapping and beak snapping. Its murderous beady eyes raise the hairs on the back of my neck as it lurches toward Tenny. Before his fingers release the sandwich, the bird bites his hand, drawing blood.
“Oh my gosh!” I jump up, knocking over the table between us.
Strawberries and raspberries tumble everywhere. Donuts go flying. Tenny drops his cup of coffee, swatting his arms to cover his face. Warm liquid splashes my bare feet before we’reinundated.
Seriously, there must be forty birds. It’s a seagullarmy. And they’re too organized. This isn’t nature anymore—it’s strategy.
“Get inside,” Tenny says, batting away birds like they’re wild pitches.
“Not. Without. You.” Each word is accented with a thrown pastry.
My goal was to whack the gulls in the head to deter them from pecking our eyes out, but several birds stop swarming us to chase the tossed treats. I’m feeling pretty heroic when a gull gets a little too close. Screeching, I toss my coffee cup at it.
My paper cup misses its target, hitting the railing and ricocheting back at me, colliding with my stomach like a caffeinated bomb. Liquid seeps into my sweatshirt, my pants, my underwear, but I barely have time to register it as Tenny’s body pins me against my sliding glass door.
“Enough, Alex. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
Using one hand to open the door and the other to flail wildly to keep the seagulls at bay, Tenny pushes me into my apartment. After tumbling through the door, Tenny slams the glass shut and locks it. We stand there, staring wide-eyed while catching our breath.
I don’t know who starts first, him or me, but a barely there chuckle turns into a snort. One of us giggles at the sound, which morphs into a chortle. I fold my arms over my wet stomach as boisterous guffaws leave my mouth. Tenny leans one hand on the glass door, shoulders bouncing as he laughs.
Our laughter overtakes my sad, unfurnished apartment, filling it with effervescent light. Tenny’s shoulder accidentally bumps mine, and I snort again. He tries to catch his breath but can’t contain himself. Our eyes meet mid-guffaw, and it’sridiculous—both of us grinning like idiots, his hair a chaotic jumble around his head, coffee dripping between my toes.
Somewhere between a wheeze and a hiccup, I try to speak, but my incoherent squeaky sounds only make Tenny laugh even harder. We are unhinged in our joy, and beyond the glass, a successful army of seagulls enjoys the spoils of war.
It’s not until Tenny runs his hand through his hair, leaving a streak of blood on his forehead, that I stop. Everything sobers in an instant as I step forward and grab his wrist with both hands.
“Tenny.” I turn his hand over, examining it from every angle. “We have to get this cleaned up.”
“It’s just a scrape.”
“It’s abite,” I tell him. “We need to wash it and use a massive amount of antibacterial soap.” I tsk. “And it’s your throwing hand. I hope this won’t affect your game tomorrow.”
“It won’t.”
“You’re sure?” But when I glance up, Tenny’s not looking at his bleeding hand. He’s looking at me.
Goosebumps sprint down my arms before he rips his gaze away, clearing his throat.
“Maybe I should use your sink. Is the bathroom…” His words drop off as he gently pulls back his hand, moving through the empty living room toward the lone door. “Ah.” He stops, realizing the bathroom is through the bedroom, and strides toward the kitchen.
It takes me a few seconds to snap out of my sodden statue routine. Once I enter the kitchen, I turn the cold running water to warm, hop up on the counter, and lather my hands with soap.
“What are you doing?”
