Page 44 of The Surfer

He shrugs. “I dunno. What’s your favorite drink?”

“Easy,” I reply. “A chocolate milkshake.”

“Chocolate milkshakes? How old are you, like seven years old?”

“Hey, don’t knock it. Chocolate milkshakes are the best.”

“It’s pretty weird for a twenty-year-old to be into them.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Cove turns to me and smiled. “Yeah, it is.”

“Not if you make them the proper way. I bet you’ve never made them properly.”

“Okay, so what’s the proper way, then?”

“Well, I used to do them with my Mom. She’d get the nicestice cream to make them from the store, it’s gotta be fresh and vanilla. Then, when you do have the nicest ice cream, you also have to make sure you have the best chocolate syrup to mix it with. And then you do it all in a blender with some milk,” I say. I turn to look out the window. “Mom worked seven days a week as a nurse when I was a kid to keep a roof over our heads. The time when we got to make milkshakes together was the time when I saw my Mom be the happiest she’s ever been.”

Cove places his hand on my knee. “Okay, you’re only going to hear this from me one time, but that was very sweet.”

He’s cute.

I continue staring out the window so that he can’t see the tears in my eyes. I miss my Mom so much. I think of her going to work back home just to make sure I can go to college. That’s why I need the money offered by Sandy’s dad so that I can let her retire early.

That would be the best thing I could ever do for her after everything she’s done for me.

“So,” I say, wiping away the tears on the back of my hand. “What’s your favorite drink then?”

Cove pouts his kissable lips and sighs. “Beer, I guess.”

“Beer? Why?”

“I dunno, I just like it.”

“Right. That’s not as good or as interesting as my story.”

“No,” he laughed. “No, it isn’t.”

* * *

“Take my hand,”Cove says as we stand at the tree line leading down to the secret beach. He’s parked the car at the same place he always does, and we will have to stumble through the thick bush all the way down to reach the beach. And, like every time, Cove offers his hand for me to grip as he leads me through the foliage. Under his other arm is his teenage surfboard I practice on.

“Trust me, Ripley Sailor.”

Two weeks of going to the beach every day and Cove has yet to surf. He’s not even gone on the actual surfboard once. He really doesn’t want to get on the board at all. I’m sad for him, his one passion in life cut short by just one accident a year ago. I look at him, at his muscular frame, and see that the man is so ashamed of himself. He never wants to surf again.

He’s so full of shame.

I wish he could see himself the way I see him.

I take his hand and follow him down, careful not to fall over on any of the slippery rocks or upturned roots. This is always the hardest part to reach the beach. I hate having to crawl through the bushland to get to paradise.

But I do like doing it with Cove. I do like how he always, without fail, offers his hand to help me through.

Gripping his hand and feeling his soft, but masculine, hold on mine always makes my heart soar. He makes me feel like no other girl. I bet he never did this with anyone else. I bet all those girls he’s slept with never saw this side of him. He lets me into his vulnerable side, and I soak it up.

I know he’s letting me see a side to him no one else sees.