“Serena.” I smile at my eight-year-old Husky-German Shepherd mix, grateful this sidewalk cafe is pet friendly.
“She’s such a good dog. I don’t think I heard her bark once.” The waitress motions to another dog, then leans down saying, “Not like that chihuahua over there. Non-stop growls at me when I pass by.”
I angle my head to peer around her to peek at the little dog, then I stifle a laugh. “Maybe it’s Napoleon syndrome. Small dogs are like that.”
“Does she ever bark?”
I purse my lips and hold my breath for just a second as I recall the only time Serena barked ferociously. “Yes . . . at my ex-boyfriend.”
“Well, dogs have a sixth sense and that’ll explain why he’s your ex now.” The waitress shrugs then looks down at my sketchbook. “Did you draw all of those? They’re amazing.”
“Thanks,” I say shyly as I look at my artwork. “I’m trying to come up with a glamorous camping resort logo.”
“So, you must be in marketing,” she assumes.
I nod to her then I angle my head looking at my work so far. “I’m working on this new concept . . . glamping.”
“I have heard of those resorts. They cost an arm and a leg just to stay for a weekend.”
I show her an old brochure that I need to revamp. We glance at each photo and the inside of the sleeping quarters. Fur rugs, a mattress with a goose down bed, and a vanity. “This one has a TV in it.” I point to the photo as I stifle a laugh. “Not my kind of camping. I like the old-fashioned way. A pitched tent, a blazing fire, and my sleeping bag under the stars to wake up to the sunrise. Away from reality.”
The waitress tilts her head slightly. “Peace and quiet, right?”
“Yes, exactly,” I say as I gaze at the photos, wondering if I should take a road trip to understand the hype of glamping. Maybe this way, I can give a knock-out pitch on Friday.
“Well, I’ll let you be. Holler if you need anything else,” she says and skirts away.
The pencil twirls between my fingers as I people-watch to get my creative juices flowing again. I only have three logos and some taglines, not nearly enough variety. At least I have a whole week to turn everything in and present to the owners of this intimate resort, hoping they’ll like at least one of the logos and the ideas I have to make them more marketable.
I sketch a few more ideas and write whatever words come to mind.
Clean air. Retreat. Refuge. Haven. Hideaway.
I have been sitting here for the last few hours and the waitress was the only person I spoke to. Sydney’s right. I don’t have a social life. No friends to meet me like I have seen with the other people around me. And I haven’t looked at my phone once, since the only people that I do have conversations are with Sydney, Jenna, and my family.
I close my sketchbook and tuck it in my shoulder bag along with my plastic bin full of colored pencils and markers. I drop a few bills on the table for the tip then wave to the waitress as she smiles back at me.
With Serena’s leash wrapped around my wrist and my lemonade in my other hand, I opt out on heading to my Jeep and take a walk on the beach instead. I could easily go home, pop open a bottle of moscato, and watch the sunset and the same waves from my patio. But Serena needs a good long run today. She’s been cooped up in the house for the last couple of days because of the rainstorm.
I sit on the bench alongside the sidewalk, unhook the leash from Serena’s collar, and let her run. And she does.
Straight to the shoreline.
Biting a splash of water in midair.
I laugh then call her name and know that she will need a bath as soon as we get home. Serena runs back to me, wet sand on her paws, and she sees her tennis ball in my hand. I took it out of my bag when she beelined to the water.
After several throws, a few of the kids playing nearby ask to throw the ball to Serena, giving my arm some respite and my dog a few new playmates.
A girl catches my eye with a bright pink sun hat and a matching pink cast. She must be about five or six years old and holding—what I assume is—her dad’s hand. And I wonder how she hurt herself. Questions I have no right to know the answer to, yet I wonder. Was it an accident? Did someone hurt her?
I try to shrug off the memories, but as I watch the little girl at play, images flash of the days I wore my cast. Emotions race through me, the pain and agony, reminding me of how weak I was to defend myself and to leave him.
I’m in a better place now. I have a job at one of the most prestigious marketing firms in Los Angeles. Sydney has helped me crawl out of my shell, build my self-esteem, and made me realize I am not weak.
I survived his hateful words and I’m no longer his punching bag.
Chapter Ten
Brody
Being at the mercy of the ocean’s waves is primitive. Listening to the complicated sophistication of energy the water makes takes skill and talent. The waves aren’t that big, but after the storm it’s enough to get a decent ride or two.
Fighting against the current and riding through gives me some kind of control in this very moment. I need to forget the chaos that weighs heavily in my thoughts over Matt and his family, Dad’s journals, and the father that may never remember I’m his son.
The wind slaps against my face, the saltwater clings to my lips, and I breathe in the power and speed of the energy surging around me. With nothing but my feet connected to the surfboard as I skim the bumpy surface of the water.
There’s no other feeling like it.
It’s the feeling of freedom and separateness. It’s an adrenaline rush when I control my board, shifting my weight, exercising my bad leg so the board responds to my demands.
After a few waves, I head to my truck, and my thoughts veer to Dee when I see a few kids playing with a Husky in the distance.
There is something about her. Something overwhelming me with feelings, wanting to be with her and get lost in those topaz eyes. The red dress she wore at the club makes me think thoughts I know I shouldn’t but do. I know she felt that spark on her front doorstep when I almost kissed her knowing goddamn well her hesitancy toward me. Asshole move on my part.
I have spent the last six years shutting off emotion. Never getting serious with any woman. Using them as they did me. It was easier that way.
Especially after the conversation I remember verbatim. It was a day like today when Matt made me promise to watch over his family if anything ever happened to him.
We sat, straddling our boards off Virginia Beach, waiting for the next wave to ride.
He loved to surf like me. Understanding the waves, the solitude it brings, and never underestimating the power of the water bonded us, cementing our friendship.
In a heartbeat, I would trade places with Matthew Teals, my best friend and brother in arms.
Matt’s family is my family. I’ve eaten countless dinners with him, Laura, and their sons, Maximus and Jameson. Laura’s got the biggest heart and a whole lot of patience. Being married to a SEAL isn’t easy. Laura had to share Matt almost three hundred days of the year with the navy.
When Matt and I waited on the waves, he’d confide in me about the arguments he and Laura had. How things changed and what he’d missed while on deployment. It’s easy to forget that life goes on back at home while we fight thousands of miles away.