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Tilly said yes. To spending time with me. ME. The guy she ghosted randomly in Costa Rica. The person I’m certain she left the country to forget about. And she’s giving me the time of day. Whatever happened with her dad last night, I’m almost thankful. It got her here and it’s giving me the chance to do what I’ve always wanted but never knew how.
Rushing back in, I find her waiting on the couch. “Ready?” I ask. She gets up, nodding.
I move quickly, reaching the passenger side of my rental car to open the door for her. She climbs in with a look of pleasant surprise. Jogging back to my side, I hop in, a little out of breath.
“Pick the tunes?” I suggest.
She connects her phone and soon the sound of The Kooks fill the car, a band I love. I cast a careful look at her and she furrows her brow. "What?" Shaking my head, I put the car in park. "Nothing, buckle up." Though I didn't admit it aloud, everything about this has me reeling.
She stayed last night.
She's coming with me.
She remembers my favorite songs.
Everything is adding up to equal one hell of a second chance with Tilly. I drive off, windows down, and can't help but feel a rush of adrenaline, my face stretching into a wide grin. Tilly is here and like hell am I going to let this opportunity go to waste.
Chapter five
Tilly
Standing on the rocky shoreline, the tide low, I find myself surrounded not by sand but by smooth stones of various sizes, typical of this stretch of the west coast. Despite promising myself I'd leave first thing in the morning, the moment I saw him shirtless and looking so damn good, that plan went out the window.
And the looks. Um, hello, how can I resist that? Tommy has been throwing lustful looks my way all day. He's always been a flirt, always checking me out when he thought I wasn’t looking. So nothing's changed, right? I try to dismiss the thought, convincing myself he invited me along for the sheer pleasure of attention. The man does love showing off. And I, all too willing to give it, find myself content just to watch him surf. He's incredible out there, and I can't deny the joy it brings me to be a part of his cheer squad.
The beach, the waves, they feel like home. I've always loved surfing here at San Onofre, though today isn't about me. I didn't even bring my wetsuit. Instead, I'm captivated by the sight of Tommy out in the water, his muscles defined beneath the tightness of his wetsuit. Watching him wrestle into it earlier was a highlight—somehow managing to be both adorable and irresistibly sexy. Tommy has been able to toe that line for as long as I can remember.
As he starts to paddle out, my heart races in anticipation of the incoming wave. It's a big one, about eight feet, and I know it's going to break right, just how he likes. He pops up, executes a flawless bottom turn, and then shoots back up the wave's face, cutting back with a spray of water that glistens in the sunlight. The small crowd gathered here bursts into cheers, and I join in, shouting encouragements.
"Come on, Tommy!" I yell as he gains speed, watching in awe as he carves at the wave's base before launching into a 360-degree turn, effortlessly riding the foam. It's like a scene straight out of our movie night, only Tommy surfs with a finesse those '60s surfers could only dream of. As he raises his hands triumphantly before letting himself fall back into the water, I scream along with the crowd, my heart swelling with pride.
He paddles back out, his heat not yet over, but the announcers are already calling out his score from the last run—a 9.2? I shoot a glare over my shoulder, convinced the judges must be blind not to score him higher. Fuck them. I’ll be happy to find those old salty surf bums in the parking lot later and toss some seaweed at them. If they want to act like disparaging monsters of the deep, the least I can do is help their appearance match their jilted judgments. At least it put him in first place. He’s good enough to place in most tournaments, but I know that he hasn’t had a win in a while. Not that I’ve been following his career or anything.
Yeah, okay, that’s a lie. My phone is set up to alert me every time his name is mentioned on all the social media platforms.
The next surfer, some unknown from Australia, attempts a few turns but hardly compares. None of the competitors that follow manage anything close to Tommy's aerial or 360, leaving the impression that today, the beach belongs to him.
Tommy is up again, and as I stare at him, he scans the crowd. Stepping into the water with my sandals still on, I can't contain myself.
"Tommy!" I scream at the top of my lungs. He quickly turns his head toward me, and even from this distance, I see his smile. Instead of waving back, he flexes his arms theatrically, prompting a giggle from me as he begins paddling for a wave.
But something feels off. The wave looming ahead of him is going to close out, and it is massive, possibly a ten-footer. I almost yell for him to back off, but I know he won't listen. In his mind, catching and riding this wave, even if just on the foam, will score better than ditching it.
While my heart jumps into my throat, he manages to stand up. I clutch both hands to my chest, my breathing shallow. When he loses his balance momentarily, I gasp. He’s too close to shore to fall off safely now. For a moment, I get relief. He’s regained his footing, turning just as the wave crashes down behind him, the foam exploding into a tumultuous roar that’s head high and churning angrily. He peeks over his shoulder just as the remnants of the massive wave overtake him. His face pales and at the last second, he dives off his board.
My heart seizes. Fuck, Tommy. No! The rocky bottom of San Onofre is too shallow for that. I step into the water, my chest rising and falling in quick bursts. Helplessness washes over me like the waves I'm watching. There’s nothing I can do. Getting in will mean being in the way. Still, my toes itch to sprint into the ocean, to swim to him, and pull him to the beach. Seconds go by, each one feeling heavier than the last. Tommy hasn't surfaced. His board shoots up to the sky after tumbling through the white wash, the leash unattached to his ankle. That's really not good. Getting tumbled in the ocean can leave a person disoriented. One time, I had to follow my leash to know which way was up. Both hands fly to my mouth. "Come on, Tommy," I whisper into them. "Swim, you stupid bastard!"
My gaze shoots to the lifeguards already speeding toward his crash on jet skis, circling the spot where he disappeared. The crowd has fallen deathly silent. The words of the announcer barely register. They’re saying something about the dangers of surfing. Yeah, no shit assholes.
Then, suddenly, his head breaks the surface, streaked with blood. My stomach rolls, bile coating my throat. He’s hurt. I’m frozen in place as the lifeguards reach him, hauling him from the water. Regaining control of my body, I sprint across the shore towards the incoming jet ski. Every fiber of my body is screaming to get to him. To touch him and make sure he's okay.
EMTs, already on standby, rush forward, medical kits in hand. As the lifeguards carry Tommy to the beach, I get a good look.
Oh lord, I roll my eyes, some of my concern immediately fleeing. His stupid, battered yet still handsome face is split by a grin wide enough to land a plane. I hurry over as they lay him down on a red board.
"Shit guys, I'm fine. Just a fin cut," he says, his tone as easy and dismissive as ever.
"Lay still, sir," one of the EMTs instructs firmly.
