The north shore wasn’t just where I held the tournament; it was where Elliot’s turtle nests were. Eggs that wouldn’t hatch until the full moon, completely defenseless against the chaos a corporate surf circus would bring. The noise, the lights, the foot traffic, the generators, the crowds—all of it could be catastrophic.
“If they set up on the north shore—” I started.
“I know.”
“The light pollution alone?—”
“I know, Selena.”
We looked at each other across the counter, and the beach was quiet. There was just the distant sound of waves and the silence of two people who loved a place that was about to be treated like a backdrop.
“Placing a lot of blame on a single guy for this big competition,” I said slowly. “You’re not exactly an unbiased source, Ell.”
“I’m extremely biased. I’m also right.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive, but they don’t tend to work together.”
He grinned—the first real one since he’d walked in.
“You sound like a fortune cookie.”
“You sound like a guy who’s about to volunteer to help me fight a surf competition invasion.”
“I mean, obviously.” He stood up rapidly, slapping his hands on the counter. “Those turtles are my patients. If some energy drink bro and his film crew set up shop ten feet from an active nest, I will personally drag them into the water by their ankles. And then I will shift, and then things will get very uncomfortable for everyone.”
“Please don’t body-slam a RipTide executive in sea lion form. As funny as that would be.”
“No promises. So what’s the plan?”
I glanced at my phone, still face down on the counter. My mother had a way of making her plans sound inevitable.She was like the tide, already moving, and your only option was to move with it or get swept under.
But I’d had a lifetime of experience with her.
What was the plan?
The plan was the same as it always was. Show up. Do the work. Take care of the beach and the turtles and the tournament and every other small, unglamorous thing that kept Crescent Cove running while people like Chase Perez and companies like RipTide swept in with their cameras and branded tents and took whatever they wanted because small towns were too desperate to say no.
The plan was to be exactly who I’d always been: the girl who stayed. The girl who handled it. The girl whose magic was too small to matter but whose stubbornness was big enough to fill the gap. This was my town, my beach, and I was going to protect it.
“The plan,” I replied, “is that I’m going to call my mother back.”
Elliot raised his eyebrows.
“That bad, huh?”
“That bad.”
He nodded, gave me an encouraging salute, and left.
I picked up the phone. Stared at it for three long seconds.
Then I poured myself a shot of tequila from my emergency bottle, drank it in a single gulp for courage, and hit call back.
She picked up on the first ring. Of course she did. Marina Torres was always ready for an audience.
“Selena! Mi amor. Did you get my message?”
“Hey, Mom,” I said, and braced myself for the oncoming tide.
