Losing It

“Oh.”

“He can’t admit he’s still in love with her.”

“That must suck.”

“Yeah. He’s just—he’s as asshole about his righteous indignation, honestly. He doesn’t forgive anything. Still hates me for that time I wrote Chase Keating Eats Boogers on his door.”

“How old were you?”

“Eight.”

I laugh, even though there’s something in Wes’s voice. He’s teasing, yeah, and he’s serious.

He really does believe his brother is holding that against him.

Maybe he is.

The times I’ve spoken with Chase… he’s always been… difficult.

“He hasn’t forgiven her?” I ask.

Wes nods. “Idiot can’t get over himself.”

“What an idiot.”

“Tell me about it.” His eyes move to me. “You want to try now.”

“How?”

“Get the board going as fast as you can.”

“But…”

“But what?”

“It’s hard,” I say.

“So?”

I can’t really argue with that logic.

“Just try.”

“What do I get for it?”

“Pride of accomplishment.”

“What if that’s not enough?”

“Too bad.”

That’s another fair point.

Yes, I might fall.

I might make a fool of myself.

But I can do it.

I have to try.

I nod okay. “How?”

“Paddle faster.”

I do.

“Then stand as quickly as you can. Hop up like a surfboard. Or push yourself. Either as long as it’s fast.”

Okay, fast.

I grab the paddle with one hand. Press the other to the board.

There.

With one movement, I push myself up.

I wobble.

Catch myself.

Wobble more.

Fuck—

I fall sideways.

Right into the water.

Shit.

It’s cold.

But good cold.

Refreshing.

And, well…

It’s not so bad.

Sure, I fell.

But so what?

I tried.

And I… I can get it. Eventually, I’ll get it.

I surface with a gasp.

Wes’s lips curl into a smile. “You look good wet.”

“Thanks.”

“You all right?” he asks.

I nod. “I am.” Right now, I am. He does that to me.

“You want to try again?”

“Yeah, I do.” I really do.

Chapter Eighteen

Wes

“Why did you decide LA?” I ask.

Quinn rolls onto one side. Her eyes meet mine. Then they travel down my body and up it again. “You really want to talk at this moment?”

“You gonna climb over here and fuck me?”

It’s peaceful, lying on our paddle boards after gliding around the marina.

I have to hand it to Quinn—she fucking went for it. She fell a few times, but she kept trying. She’s not quite a pro, but she’s getting there.

I’m ready to ask her to come back tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that.

“I don’t think I have the balance.” She pushes herself up. Slides her legs into the water. Lets out a heavy sigh. “It’s so beautiful here.”

It is. But the ocean and the sun are a hell of a lot less interesting than her.

Fuck, I think I’d rather stare into those hazel eyes than stare at her tits.

And she’s in a perfect bikini.

It’s all adorable and feminine and pure Quinn.

She brushes her wet hair behind her ear. It’s different wet. Casual. Loose. Like she just got out of the shower after a particularly athletic fuck.

“Honestly? I wanted to get as far away from home as possible,” she says.

“Did it work?”

She nods. “California is different than anywhere else. There are the shallow things. But there’s this easiness too. It’s hard to explain.”

She looks to the beach opposite us—we’re hanging out in front of the buoys by Mother’s Beach. It’s usually a popular spot for kids to swim—it’s a bay, so the waves are tame—but it’s quiet today.

I guess kids aren’t ready to brave the water.

It’s not freezing but it’s not exactly warm.

Her eyes meet mine. “More laid back, I guess.”

“You have a thing for surfer boys?”

“Don’t laugh.”

“You do.”

“No…” She bites her lips. “Just one.”

“Oh?”

“You’re laughing.”

“Look at my face.”

She does.

“You see any laughter?”

“I guess not.” She scoots a little closer. Until she can slide her legs onto my board. “Can we stay here forever?”

“Sure. But you won’t make it to school.”

“Yeah.” All the energy drops out of her voice at once.

It’s crystal clear: Quinn doesn’t want to go back to Chicago in August.

But I can’t tell if it’s the school or the place that disgusts her.

I want to know what she wants. I want to help her realize how little her plan appeals to her. But right now, I want to make her smile. “The surfer boy?”

“Dylan.”

“Sounds nice.”

“He was very nice. And very laid back. He had a loose idea of time. Would show up late or early. And he, well… he was just so chill.”

“It was infuriating?”

She nods. “Yeah, everything was fine and whatever and he didn’t have opinions about anything besides different strains of weed and Anchorman.”

“Ah.”

“What do you mean ah?”

“You don’t seem like you could handle a stoner.”

“We dated for a month. If that.”

“Did he?” I motion to her chest.

Her cheeks flush. “Yeah, we made out a lot.”

“He a good kisser?”

She makes that kinda motion.

“Have you been with anyone who really set you on fire?”

“No… I mean not counting last week.”

My balls tighten. She’s adorable. This time, I came prepared. I, well, came. I rubbed one out first thing this morning.

But, fuck, that was hours ago now.

I’m already raring to go.

Never thought I’d curse my quick refractory time, but here we are.