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A burst of guilt strikes me. She's only in San Diego because I am. "You could go now. You don't have to be here." It comes out a little bit harsher than I want, but she waves the suggestion off. "I'm fine here."
"Why?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at her. She starts to sit up, her face stoic. I shake my head, already knowing she's going to brush the question off. "Don't give me a bullshit answer. Tilly was gone for years and all the sudden now you have a problem with it?"
She plucks a string off my blanket and inspects it between her fingers. "I always had a problem with it. But…" she tilts her head to the side and a red hue tinges her cheeks. "My dad died, okay?" her voice chokes a bit and she clears her throat. "Maybe his stupid brainwashing wore off after he died, or maybe I realized now that he's gone, she's all I really have." With a weak smile, she adds, "I can't let her go this time and being around you…" A single tear drips from the corner of her eye. She swipes it away like it personally offends her. "She'll come back for you, but not for me."
My hand goes over hers on the mattress and she laughs. "Ignore me. Long day," she says and gives it a squeeze. I know what she's doing, but this time, I let it happen. "So, I'm gonna order something. You want a steak?"
I nod, and she leaves without probing what I've been up to, probably guessing I'm on another hunt for Tilly. That's been my constant state: searching for Tilly.
Even returning to a few tournaments hasn't been the same. My heart's not in it, leading to low scores and wasted efforts.
Miranda's been covering most of our expenses, and though I chip in when I can, leveraging my trust fund, I’ve always planned to find a "real" job eventually. But surfing and traveling made me happy once. At least, before Tilly left.
When the steak arrives an hour later, Miranda and I eat in silence at the dining room table. The steak is delicious, seared to perfection with a garlicky butter that makes it even more irresistible.
Miranda is absentmindedly pushing her potatoes around on her plate when she asks, "Are you still going to New Zealand?" I nod. The entrance fee was high and it’s too late to back out now. "I think that’s great, Tommy. You should go and have a good time. Do you need some money?"
Rolling my eyes, I reply, "No, Andy, I don’t need money."
She raises her hands in a defensive gesture but keeps her eyes on her plate. "I’m just trying to help."
I contemplate not telling her what I’ve been thinking, but it’s time she knows. "Afterwards, I was probably going to head back to Costa Rica."
I can feel her gaze on me, but don’t want to look up and see her concern. "I can google search from there just as easily as here. But it won’t matter, she’ll show up when she wants. Not any sooner."
"Yeah, Tilly kinda makes her own rules," Miranda says, returning to her food shuffling.
Suddenly, the steak in front of me loses its appeal, and I stand up with it only half-eaten. "I’m going to bed. I have an early flight."
"Okay. Text me when you get there," she says.
I promise I will and kiss the top of her head. Walking away, I’m feeling a mix of anticipation for the trip and a deep-seated longing for Tilly that doesn't seem to abate with distance or time.
***
Two days later, I'm out in the water off the coast of New Zealand. Boats buzz around, but there's no beach in sight. The air is humid and tinged with salt. Occasionally, I splash cool water on my face as I tread water with my legs dangling over the edge of the board. The ocean usually has a way of balancing me. No matter what's going on in my life, I can count on the beach to make it all better. Soft rolling waves, the call of seagulls overhead—it’s a sensory experience that calms my soul.
But not today. Not since Tilly left, honestly. It feels just as empty as the rest of the world.
It's the last run of the day, and I already know I haven't placed. As the next wave approaches, I paddle hard. It's an eight-footer breaking right. Popping up, my board catches the wave, and I'm flying down its face at breakneck speed. I carve along the bottom, then slice back up to the top, sending a spray of seawater over the wave's back. But the wave is closing out, and I stall, letting it pass. In past competitions, I might have tried a spin or an aerial maneuver, but today, the effort seems pointless; I'm just not feeling it.
I paddle back to the yacht that brought me here and start climbing aboard, turning back briefly to grab my board.
Some of the other pro surfers are lounging on the bow, their heats long since finished. "Hey Tommy! Come have a beer!" one of them calls out.
I grab a towel and shuffle over, placing my board with the others, exchanging fist bumps with a few guys I recognize. A woman hands me a beer.
"That was a pretty good run," says one of the younger surfers, whose name escapes me.
"Right. Gotta love hovering in the sevens," I say, and we all share a laugh, easing some of my tension.
"This is Stacey. She was asking about you," one of the guys says, nodding toward the woman who gave me the beer. She looks down, a bit shy. She's athletic, probably another competitor.
"Did you really get bit by a shark?" Stacey asks. I laugh.
"No, that's just an internet rumor. Got my forehead caught on a fin," I explain, lifting my hair to show the scar. "Seven stitches."
"That's not what Stacey wanted to ask," the younger surfer interjects, and the group bursts into giggles. I'm lost, not catching on.
