In Waves | ✔️

11 | breathless

Foamy water laps over my feet as I wait for Nate to respond. He's looking at me like he's trying to figure out if I'm messing with him.

"You want to learn how to surf?" he finally says. "I thought you didn't even like the beach."

"I don't. And I don't like the ocean. It scares me," I admit as my feet sink like I'm standing in quicksand. "Most things scare me. But I made a promise to my brother about getting out of my comfort zone this year, to take risks, and surfing is definitely out of my comfort zone. And being in an unpredictable ocean feels like a risk, so, this seems like a step in the right direction to make good on that promise."

Nate squints his eyes, water dripping over them from his hair. "And why me? You could take proper surf classes, right?"

"Right, I could. But... it sort of feels like you led me here. Like maybe us finding ourselves together so much these last few days was for a reason. This reason. I never would've considered this if I hadn't just seen you out there," I say, watching this dawn on him. "And if I'm going to learn then it might as well be from the best, shouldn't it?"

The corner of his mouth hooks up. "Save the ego stroking, DeMarco. I'll do it."

"You will?"

"Hell yes. By the time we're done, you'll be so in love with surfing you won't even remember a time when you were scared of the ocean." He pulls his board out of the sand. "And as a bonus, I'll make you fall in love with the beach, too."

I can't hold in my snort of laughter.

"I'm serious! So fair warning: you're going to develop an unhealthy obsession."

We start walking back to the group together. "Well fair warning to you, I'm pretty athletically challenged, so this might be as tough for you as it is for me."

"Bring it on."

I reluctantly pass on the offer to join them for a bite at Shelly's, the beach-side diner, opting to walk home instead. I want to have dinner on the table by the time Mom gets home from the restaurant. Anything to lighten her mood after Rob's fight. It's going to be sorely needed.

Everything feels flipped. My stomach, my brain, the world. Did I really lock into surf lessons with Nate Miller? Did I really ditch detention and race off with a bunch of seniors?

I'd usually be intimidated by breathing the same air as a group like that. A tightknit group so carefree and daring, but all of them were surprisingly easy to talk to.

And if I can hold my own with them, maybe I shouldn't be stressing so much about hanging out with Matt's friends. This whole 'putting myself out there' thing might be easier than I thought.

When I walk through the front door, I call up the stairs to Rob in his room. He'll be sulking up there, all sour-faced and grumpy. He stomps into the kitchen as I'm getting out a bag of flour.

"What?" he grunts. His mouth is a downward crescent moon, flawed by his cut lip.

"Wanna help me make chicken parm?" I ask, setting up a breading station on the island. "Might help you get in Mom's good graces."

He considers it, his annoyance so clear I can almost see it orbing around his head. "Doubtful, she already grounded me for two weeks. But fine."

Rob takes charge of breading the chicken cutlets while I prep the marinara.

"So are you going to tell me what happened today?" I ask, chopping up a clove of garlic. Renato always reminds me to chop it into chunks when I cook at the restaurant. He says mincing it makes it angry. Not him, the garlic. I make it angry at home.