Page 24 of Ripple Effect

But just as quickly, I shut down my laptop, the reality of the situation sinking in. I’m not quite ready to watch any videos yet, to start up a web chat or join a texting room. I think I should just give it some time, take it slow.

Logan’s parting words are still flitting around my head, and I don’t want them to be the driving force behind all of this. Pushing me to explore this side myself just to prove him wrong.

Besides, the journey is the fun part, right? And it will always be there waiting for me when I’m ready.

* * *

The next morning,I’m up before the sun again. Slipping out of my car in the empty parking lot, I grab my New Flyer board, the leash bouncing against my leg as I make my way toward the beach.

The cool morning air nips at my skin, late summer finally giving way to my favorite season. Although it’s chillier now, it’s still so beautiful and fresh out here in the early morning—the stillness, the way everything feels suspended in time before the world wakes up.

Once I reach the shore, I take a moment to appreciate the scene before me. The water’s a dark, tranquil blue under the pale dawn light. It’s vast, open and free, and it feels like there’s a world of possibilities stretching out before me.

Off to my right, there’s a fishing pier that extends a few hundred feet into the water. At this hour, it stands desolate and quiet, its usual bustle of activity yet to come alive. But I’ve bumped into the guy who runs the place a couple of times, and he carries a certain charm that’s impossible to ignore—always ready with a warm smile and a friendly wave.

Plus, he seems to have a soft spot for the lifeguard who works the weekend shifts. It’s pretty cute, watching them steal quick glances at each other from across the beach, trying—and failing—to hide the way they flirt well into the late-morning hours.

I’ll admit, I love the prospect of people-watching, especially following my morning surf. The silent exchanges, the quiet connections, stories being told in every smile and gesture.

It’s not a busy scene at this time of day, but when someone inevitably shows up, it adds a touch of color to the hush of the beach.

Hoisting my board under my arm, I slowly wade into the ocean. The initial chill of the water is stark, but soon, my body heat works in tandem with the insulation of my wet suit, gradually warding off the cold. It’s a feeling I’ve come to love, to cherish, over the years.

It all brings me clarity—the cold touch of the sea, the slow warming of my heart.

With a deep breath, I paddle out, pushing through the familiar dance of waves. As I navigate through the rolling water, the mental fog lifts, washing away everything but the pulse of the ocean and the thrill of what’s to come.

In the gentle lull of my movements, my thoughts inexplicably find their way to Elio. Our little talks, his quiet company, his soft brown eyes that seem to hide a world of stories. I’m hoping to see him out on the beach again, to share another morning under the hazy glow of dawn.

But after a few hours, when I’ve finally caught my breath on the beachfront, half peeled out of my wet suit, there’s still no sign of him. And for the next three days, I find myself in the same predicament—constantly getting my hopes up for nothing.

* * *

Over the nextcouple of mornings, I make it a habit to visit the café where I ran into Elio, hoping for another chance encounter. By now, the staff likely recognize me—the early bird with the stack of textbooks, nursing a London Fog, along with a strawberry-and-cream-cheese muffin.

But despite my attempts, I keep coming up empty. No signs of Elio in sight.

I catch myself glancing at that blue doorway more often than I should, hoping to spot a mop of dark hair. Although it’s only been a few days so far, his absence has left an odd sort of emptiness inside me. I’ve come to value our easy, flowing conversations and the comfortable silences we share.

Things feel simple between us, easy, like maybe we were meant to meet all along.

So, when Friday night rolls around and Max and LJ join us for a movie night at our place, I decide to probe for information.

Max was part of Coastal’s engineering program as an undergraduate. He only finished his courses this past year, which makes it likely that they knew each other, at least in some capacity.

“Max,” I say, my gaze flickering from the glow of the TV to his focused profile.

We’re all huddled together in the dimmed living room, LJ curled into Max’s side next to me, Gracie on her own in the reclining chair. The air is thick with the smell of buttery popcorn and the warm scent of our pumpkin spice candle.

He grunts a nonresponse, eyes still glued to the screen, tracking Cady Heron’s every movement. You’d think he’d never seenMean Girlsbefore, but I know for a fact that it’s at least his third time watching it.

“You knew some of the EE students here, right?” I ask, tucking my hands underneath my thighs.

He tilts his head away from the screen, sparing me just an ounce of his attention. “Yeah, we shared a lot of classes. Why?”

“Do you remember when I ran off on the beach last week to talk to that guy?”

He arches a skeptical brow. “Yeah, of course.”

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