It was warm for the end of January, sunlight brushing against her skin as they sat outside on a terrace for lunch before heading back to their apartment in Triana.
The next day she’d have her shoulder surgery, and despite how many people told her it was “routine surgery,” the word still echoed like a slap. She hated not being in control. And she especially hated the very non-fashionable black sling that had destroyed every single outfit she tried to wear. It was killing her vibe. And her symmetry. And, okay, maybe her spirit a little too.
Her parents were chatting animatedly, half arguing about whether or not the jamón was better sliced thick or thin, while Carlos was scrolling on his phone.
She just stared up at the Giralda, letting its ancient beauty distract her. The bell tower had seen worse days. Maybe it could absorb some of hers.
“Worried about tomorrow, hija?” her mother asked, squeezing her knee to get her attention.
“Not that much,” she lied. “I just really want recovery to be over so I can get back in the water.”
Carlos looked up, his green eyes locking onto hers. “You need to be patient, Ale. Or you’ll just fuck it up even more.”
“I know.” She sighed.
She wanted to recover properly. But she was already crawling out of her skin. The last few days had dragged like molasses. Traveling back to Spain had been a nightmare with the sling. Luckily, having Carlos with her had eased the fact that she had to carry three boards and two suitcases alone. And then, their parents had picked them up from the airport in Madrid and drove them down to Seville.
She had devoured all the books Callum had sent her during the flights, reading them in greedy stretches, underlining sentences, rereading paragraphs that made her think of him. And while she hadn’t texted him again, it wasn’t because she didn’t want to. It was because she was terrified.
Terrified that she liked him.
That in just forty-eight hours, she had felt something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in years. Not just attraction. But ease. Comfort. Curiosity. What unsettled her most was how effortless it felt. Dangerous, too. In two days, Callum had understood her better than Edward had in an entire year.
And that was precisely the problem.
Callum had met another version of Alejandra, the carefree one. The healthy one. The woman who woke up before dawn to chase waves and didn’t think twice about her body because it had never betrayed her. The woman who laughed too loudly, who moved without hesitation, who didn’t flinch when someone touched her shoulder.
This new Alejandra frowned at her own reflection half the time. The sling dug into her neck. The bandages itched. The scratches on her cheek were fading but still there.
Callum had slept with a different version of her.
How could he possibly be attracted to this one?
The thought lodged itself under her ribs and refused to move. She could still remember the way he had looked at her, like she was something to be discovered, not fixed. But that was before. Before the injury. Before the season was ripped away from her. Before she became the girl who needed help opening jars and couldn’t paddle into a wave.
What if she texted him and he answered out of politeness? Out of guilt? What if he thought she was reaching for him because she was bored, stuck, lonely? Because she needed a distraction?
She didn’t want to be anyone’s bandage.
Didn’t want him to think he was one.
The last thing she wanted was for Callum to believe she was using him to fill the space the ocean had left behind. That he was just something warm and steady to hold onto while she figured out how to stand on her own again. She needed to know that if she reached for him, it was because she wanted him, not because she was drowning and he happened to be there.
So she stayed silent.
Because silence felt safer than risking the possibility that what they’d had only belonged to the version of her that no longer existed.
“Did you think about retiring, cariño?” her dad asked. Not for the first time. Since she got back from Hawaii, everyone was treating her like she had one foot in the grave and she was the most fragile being on Earth. She hated it.
“Retiring doesn’t mean giving up surfing,” her mother added quickly. “It just means no more competitions.”
Alejandra squinted at her. “Look at Ilias. He stepped back for two years and now he’s top of the game again.”
“He’s retiring next year. And he’s 35. Just two years older than you,” her mother continued.
Alejandra tried to joke. “Are you calling me old?”
“No,” her dad said, “I’m calling you a thirty-three-year-old who just got seriously injured after decades of competing. Do you even remember what life’s like without touring?”
