But then, something kind of miraculous did happen. The lines in Trey’s forehead disappeared, and he smiled, and said, “Sure.”
Thanks, Universe.
Chapter 8
Trey slipped my flip-flop back on my foot, and when I went to stand, I stumbled. The pain was still there in hiding. Putting pressure on the wound brought it screaming back to the surface. With my hand on his shoulder for balance, I propped myself up on one foot and slapped a fake smile on my face. “Where to?”
“I’m not sure you can walk yet.”
“Pssh.” Eager to get on with our dinner date, I waved away his very valid concern. “I can hobble. Probably.”
Another laugh, another crinkle of his eyes. “Do you want me to carry you?”
“As grateful as I am for your beach rescue, I’m not sure I’d be comfortable parading down Mission Boulevard like a cavewoman thrown over your shoulder.”
“Then I can carry you piggyback.” At once, he crouched down in front of me, his bare back at my hips, his arms spread and ready to take hold. “Get on.”
This was too much. Wasn’t this too much?
“Are you sure?” I said. “Won’t I hurt your back?”
He side-eyed me over his shoulder. “Are you saying I’m not strong?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then get on.”
At this point, it would’ve been rude to turn him down, so I complied, hugging his shoulders close to my chest as he threaded his arms around my legs.
“You good?” he asked.
“I’m good.”
We took off, and I quickly realized how silly I was to think I’d hurt his back. He carried me the same way he carried his surfboard, like I weighed nothing. His arms were massive, and now that I got a closer look, they were much bigger than I’d originally thought. Firm and muscular, just like his hands, which grasped the backs of my knees with a touch that was strong yet soft. And his skin felt as buttery as it looked, smooth against mine as I squeezed my thighs tightly around his hips and—
“Bree?”
“Huh?”
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” Just fantasizing about my thighs on your hips. “Why?”
“You didn’t answer me. I asked if you were down with Roberto’s.”
“Oh, yeah, definitely.”
Pacific Beach—and San Diego, in general—was blessed with a proliferation of casual taco shops, one more delicious than the next. Many of them were open 24/7, like Roberto’s, meaning you could get your Mexican food fix whenever you needed it. The way my stomach was still growling, I could have easily housed an entire tray of taquitos, but when Trey set me down on a bench outside the restaurant, I kept my gluttony in check and told him I’d have “one California burrito, please, and a horchata.”
As I sat alone waiting for him to bring back our dinner, I scrolled through my Instagram notifications, of which there were a surprising number. Considering I’d posted next to no original content, I had an awful lot of engagement. Over one hundred likes and a few dozen followers—my very first followers!—in only a matter of hours. Must have been the #choosehappy and #noexcuses hashtags. Demi DiPalma clearly had a significant presence on this platform.
When Trey returned, we unwrapped our respective burritos and dove in. The first bite was sheer heaven. Whoever had the bright idea to stuff meat, cheese, and French fries into an oversize flour tortilla was a culinary genius.
Wiping a glob of guacamole from my chin, I smiled at Trey. “Thanks for this.”
“The pleasure’s all mine. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
“I never should’ve gone in the water.”
“That’s the trauma speaking.”
“Right.” I took a long creamy sip of horchata and watched Trey bite into his burrito. This guy could be anywhere he wanted right now: surfing waves in Indonesia or partying in Hollywood or making out with an Instagram model. Yet he appeared totally content to be here, outside an ordinary taco shop, eating an ordinary burrito, with me, an ordinary girl.
What was his deal?
“I feel like there’s an imbalance of power between us,” I said.
Trey stopped chewing and shot me a hesitant look. His mouth full, he mumbled, “What does that mean?”
“It means I’ve told you about one of my most formative traumatic experiences, yet I feel like I know nothing about you. Tell me something.”
He swallowed. “What do you wanna know?”
“Anything. Let’s start with the basics. How did you get into surfing?”
“I was raised in Hawaii and grew up on the beach.”
Rather than elaborate, he polished off his burrito and crumpled the wrapper in one hand. Clearly, he was uninterested in sharing his origin story.
I tried a different tack. “Where are you off to next?”
“What makes you think I’m going somewhere?”
“According to that poster, you just came off a championship tour. And since I’ve never seen you around in the four years I’ve lived next door to your house, I kind of assumed you’d be taking off again at some point. Aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure.” Then he clammed up again.
“You’re not giving me much to go on here.” Holding up my phone, I said, “If you prefer, I could just google you.”
That got a laugh, albeit a weak one. “Okay. I’m not sure where I’m going next, or if I’m going anywhere at all.” He paused, weighing his next words carefully, almost as if he was afraid to speak them. “I’m thinking I might be done with the whole pro thing.”
Trey’s eyes went dull and droopy, and his lips became a fine line. I felt bad for pushing him this far, so I backed off and muttered a feeble, “I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about. I just realized it’s not the life I want to live.”
“What kind of life do you want to live, then?”
He lifted the corner of his mouth in a sad little half smile. “One that’s real. One where people are honest and like you for who you are and not what you can do for them. One where surfing is about the love of the sport and not about corporate sponsorships or media coverage. That’s not why I do it.”
“So why do you do it?”
The sad smile turned happy. “When I’m out there, it’s nothing else but me, my board, and the ocean. It’s a spiritual experience. You learn to read the waves, you commune with the water. You develop a connection with the earth, the sky, the whole universe.”