Summer's Kiss (The Boys of Ocean Beach 1)

I barely get the words out. If my mother knew how deep I’d gotten in this relationship. If she knew who I’d gotten in a relationship with…

She can’t ever know. No one can.

My mother must sense my panic because she lets it go, neither of us ready to spill our secrets.

* * *

The gravel in the lot crunches beneath my tires and I pull the SUV into the empty lot. It’s early, barely after six, and I’d laid awake for an hour, unable to go back to sleep before finally changing into exercise clothes and driving over the bridge to the beach.

It’s cool out and I zip my hoodie mid-chest and walk down the path to the beach. The fresh air and isolated shore reenergize me. Not gonna lie, the cramped quarters of the camper had started to get to me and just feeling the sand between my toes and the salty breeze makes me feel better.

I set my sights on the pier, which I estimate is about a mile away and start walking, willing the thoughts that ran through my head all night to go away.

Here’s the thing, I’m eighteen, I’m allowed to make mistakes. I’m allowed to do stupid things like fall in love with the wrong guy, who I was convinced, at the time, was the perfect guy.

Mason’s smart. Wise. Talented. Handsome in a hipstery-geek kind of way. He likes good music. Good food. Artsy films. Everything every other boy in my school has zero interest in. He also has the gift of reaching out to people and making them feel good about themselves. He did this to me, and even now I don’t doubt his genuineness. From the first time I saw him I knew there was a spark. I didn’t care if he was off limits. Or that we were playing with fire. He made me feel good and at that point, feeling good about myself was important. Because most of the time I felt like crap.

Having a famous mother is hard. Having an absentee father is worse. It was well known that Summer, the mature, responsible daughter would do the right thing. People loved to discuss my maturity. The fact I could talk to adults. That I was polite and gracious and helpful. I could cook my own dinner, do my own laundry. Pay for my own trip to France.

I was also lost. Struggling. Lonely.

But Mason? Mason made that better.

He was there for me…until he wasn’t.

He was my rock…until he slipped away like quicksand.

And I miss him. God, I miss him but there’s no way I could stay back home. No freaking way I could go on that trip and be so close to him but not be with him.

I wipe the tears off my face and step onto the boardwalk that leads to the pier. I’ve walked this whole way, wallowing in my misery

. I pad down the wooden slats, passing the edge of the sandy beach until I’m walking over the crashing waves and then on to the deeper water. Out here it’s quiet, away from the waves pounding on sand, just the rolling dark water and the sun peeking over the edge of the water. I spot a cluster of surfers way out past the pier and think how nice it would be to be that free.

At the end, I lean over the railing and let the wind dry the tears on my face. I can’t keep doing this to myself. I came on this trip to forget about him. To move on. Not cry like a baby every damn day.

“Hey,” a deep voice says next to me. “You okay?”

I look over at the man next to me. He’s a mix, really, part boy and part man, his face innocent, but his body large and muscular—an athlete’s build. His nose is a golden brown and it matches the rest of his skin. He has no hair, it’s shorn close to his head. Bright green eyes watch me carefully.

“I’m fine,” I say, not wanting to talk to anyone, much less a stranger. “I’m just, you know, having a pity-party of one over here.”

I notice the camera hanging around his neck. He holds it up and takes a few shots of the sunrise, then the surfers, before lowering it again.

“I find it hard to be depressed when I come out here.”

I stare at the sun inching up. The water sparkles in a line from here to the horizon. “It’s beautiful.”

His jaw tightens and he lifts the camera again, taking a few more shots, moving wider. I step out of the frame. “Sorry, I’m sure you don’t want me in the photo.”

“Why not? I’m out here taking pictures of beautiful things. I’m pretty sure you count.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay sure. I’ve got red eyes, a runny nose and my hair looks like it lost a fight with a tiger.”

He shrugs. “Haven’t you ever heard that beauty is in the eye of the beholder?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just takes a few steps back down the pier. I try to ignore him but can’t help taking a final look over my shoulder. I catch him angling the camera to his eye and taking one last shot before walking away for good.

I face the water again, inhaling and exhaling the early morning air and watching the sun creep toward the sky. I realize on my way back to my car that maybe that guy is right, it’s hard to be depressed out here.

* * *