Page 93 of Ghost

He reached for his board. “Let’s get cleaned up and go to George’s then.”

I glared. “Hold on a minute, Mister fast hands. Give me a minute to get up. Jeez. I’m worn out. It’s not every day I surf for six hours.”

He looked at his watch. “Five.”

“Six since we rented these piece of shit boards.”

He gestured toward the chipped piece of fiberglass. “The piece of shit board you’re keeping?”

I laughed. “I’m not keeping this piece of shit. If you’ve got good footage of me riding it, that’s enough. I am buying a board, though.”

Surfing would require nothing more than walking off my porch and to the beach, which was a matter of feet away from my home. It would be a new activity to add to my list of things to do with Porter on a regular basis.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go eat.”

An hour later, we’d cleaned up, changed clothes, and were seated in my favorite booth at George’s place. It was three in the afternoon. As always in the middle of the day, the place was empty.

George handed Porter a menu. “So, other than surfing, there’s no other new news, is there?”

Porter snatched the menu from George’s hand. “Not yet.”

I looked at George. “Like what?”

“Like.” He shrugged. “Anything.”

I glanced at Porter. He was glaring at George. I shifted my eyes to George. He had an ear-to-ear grin on his face and was staring blankly at me.

“What the F is going on?” I asked openly.

“Nothing,” Porter blurted.

“Just delivering menus,” George chided.

I alternated glances between them. “I don’t know what you two of you are doing, but you can stop it right now. You’re creeping me out.”

“Take your time looking over the menus,” George said with a smile. “I’ll be back as soon as you give me a wave.”

I squinted. “Give you a wave? Since when do we wave you in from the outfield?” I handed him the menu. “I’ll have pancakes. Times three, please.”

Porter handed his menu to George. “I’ll have the same, thank you.”

“Ham?” George asked.

“Please,” I responded.

He looked at Porter. “Bacon?”

“Please.”

“Short stack with ham, and a short stack with bacon,” George said cheerily. “You’ll have plenty of time to talk, we’ll have to mix the batter.”

“You always mix the batter,” I said. “It’s one of the reasons I eat here, remember?”

George grinned and turned toward the kitchen.

“Is it me, or are you two acting like a couple of goofballs?”

“Acting normal,” Porter replied.