Page 134 of Bring You Back

“You know the sun just came up.”

He looks out the window, deadpans, “I wondered what that light was.”

I laugh as I move around him, heading for the door. He follows behind, and I stop his steps with mine, unable to keep myself from facing him and questioning the part of his script that’s been subtly nagging at me. “Whydoeshe smell?”

Banks moves past me, a lift in his chin, a strut in his step. “You’d know if you read it.”

I shake my head with a slight smile as we leave, my hand slapping his when he tries to shut off the porch light.

Camille

I watch Julian out in the water as he unknowingly shows me what I have no intention of doing more than once, and a smile forms. I’ve seen other guys surf—aperkof growing up in a beach town—but I’ve never seenmyguy surf. He catches every single wave, swimming through the current, jumping up on the board like he’s been doing this his entire life instead of the last year. He looks so comfortable as he rides, so fluid, the sun glowing on him like a spotlight. It’s mesmerizing, and I realize I could start a lot of my mornings off with this.

I’m early. We left the house around the same time, missing each other by a couple minutes. We were awake at the same time, ready to leave at the same time, but I heard Banks’s jaw flapping and decided to hang back, savoring what I could of my semi-decent morning. I had to stop at C&C and sign a waiver. I got fitted for a wetsuit and I smell like sunblock. The only thing I have yet to do is tie up my hair. But I’m waiting for Julian to get closer so he can watch. I discovered last spring that exposing my neck always draws his eyes there. And as someone who prefers to leave her hair down, I now have an excuse to need it up.

After a few more rides, he comes back to shore. I stand in place, arms crossed, as he walks up to meet me, his board clutched to his side. He’s soaked—rivulets clinging to the tips of his hair, running down his neck to his wetsuit. It’s a good look for him. I would love to see him emerge from the ocean now without a suit, see the water running down his bare chest.

Wet Julian is boyish Julian. Boyish Julian is happy Julian. Happy Julian is happy Camille.

For the most part.

There’s not a single hard edge in the way he looks at me. A hesitancy, a bit of worry, but no sharp points. He stops in front of me, holding my stare, his shoulders lifting and dropping with his breaths.

I’m impressed by the performance he just gave, but I still tease him. “Nice show. Your arms could use some work, though.”

“My arms,” he repeats, a smile playing on his lips.

I perform a hyperbolized interpretation of surfing—my arms spread out, wagging up and down. I’m rewarded with a slow smirk, and I drop the charade with a laugh.

His eyes trail down my wetsuit, the way the material clings to every inch of my body, his lips parting, his jaw clenching on a swallow the further he goes. I feel this stare glide over me like it’s his hands, and I draw in a needed breath. When his eyes finally land on the board resting flat in the sand at my feet, he chuckles, and his stare trails back up, quicker to meet mine as another smirk shapes his mouth. “This is gonna be fun.”

Thisis going to be his only chance to instruct me. I’ll be instructing him with something else soon enough. Something else that takes a skill I’m sure he has, with a few extra notes of what I like.

“Let’s get started,” he says, done with distractions. Fine by me. I got the stare I wanted, so I just throw up my hair once he’s preoccupied with setting up our boards.

He spends the next several minutes explaining the basics, from the board I need to be using—the one I have now—to safety to being out in the water. He demonstrates paddling—not“swimming” if you want to get technical, and he does—and jumping up onto the board to catch a wave. He goes over balance, then ends the talking part of the lesson by telling me how I have to see the ocean through a surfer’s eyes. His passion keeps me from rolling my eyes at the sentiment. When his focus is on surfing, whether he’s on a board out in the water or simply talking about it, nothing else matters. Nothing else exists. He’s Julian, but magnified.

“You have to say all this during each lesson?” I might not roll my eyes, but the question still rolls from my mouth.

“Yeah,” he says with a small smile, feeding into my mocking disbelief. “There are different types of lessons, but in general, yeah.”

My brows raise with a tight smile. “Whatever makes you happy,” I say, then half tease, “Cold Julian is sexy, but warm Julian is. . .” I trail off, my face forming an expression more serious as I think how I’ve been reminded of how it feels to smile and laugh with him. To have a normal conversation, one that’s not coiled with tension. At least not the hostile kind.

“Is what?” he presses. There’s a weight to his voice, his stare just as heavy.

When I finally have the right word, the calming I’ve been seeking finds me now, my answer a tug. “Home.”

His throat bobs, his face almost pained.

“Great, I ruined it,” I tease again to tamp the frustration I’m now feeling at his ever-present struggle.

“That’s not what you did,” he says through a breath, still holding my stare. I try to make him see that I want him closer.Touch me.As soon as I have the thought, he flinches like he heard it. In the next moment, he tears his eyes away and drops to his board. I follow suit with my own board, unleashing an audible sigh, and it’s back to business.

When we’re both in the correct position on our boards, paddling through the sand, I laugh. Mostly to relieve the restlessness, the pulling sensation in my muscles trying to guide me closer to Julian.

“Will you take this seriously?” he admonishes, failing to hide the amusement in his voice.

“I am,” I state, looking over at him with a smile. “I’m actually having fun.”

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