Page 9 of Endurance

“I don’t know yet. After I hang up with you, I’ll shoot my father a text to let him know I’m in. He has a travel agent that will handle all of the arrangements for me. Once I know, I’ll forward you the itinerary.”

“My appointment schedule is full tomorrow, so I probably won’t be able to see you off.”

My heart sank—but not for the reason it should have. I was disappointed because, deep down, I knew Dean wouldn’t have been there even if he didn’t have a packed schedule. He was never a big believer in nonsensical, tear-filled goodbyes. I’d gone on numerous short business trips in the past, and rarely did he see me off. If I saw him at all, it was simply to give me a ride to the airport, and I never expected more than a quick peck on the lips before he drove off.

“Okay. I’ll text you when I land then,” I replied, desperately trying to keep the sadness out of my voice. “Goodnight, Dean.”

“Night.”

The line went dead. There were no I love you’s or air kisses through the phone. Just silence.

I tossed my phone to the side. Shaking off feelings of melancholy, I stood from the bed, walked over to my closet, and tried to focus on something positive. Buried behind a plethora of shoes and handbags were a couple of suitcases. I pulled each one out and laid them on the bed.

Unintentionally, I found myself humming the tune of “Leaving on a Jet Plane” by Peter, Paul, and Mary as I began to pack my clothes. Was I still frustrated after my phone call with Dean? Yes. I was sad too. But I also couldn’t help feeling a little excited about whatever possibilities lay ahead.

3

Sloan

There was a particular atmosphere that came with a good beach bar. It was more than just the music blaring from a jukebox loaded only with beach-vibe songs. With a fruity drink in hand and toes in the sand, people were able to leave their worries behind, lay back, and enjoy a carefree life—even if just for a few days. The Soggy Sand Dollar in Long Beach offered precisely that. It was the reason their crowd ranged from tourists showing off their new vacation clothes to local sea-drenched surfers with tanned cheeks. Everyone was happy. There was no misery—just an escape from everyday life.

And I loved it here.

Location was key, and a bustling boardwalk on a white sandy shoreline made for prime real estate. The front of my favorite hole-in-the-wall bar was wide open to the beach and always packed, day or night. Not only were the drinks cheap and readily flowing, but the cabanas out back were a convenient place to crash for the night after having a few too many. All I had to do was slip the bartender a fifty, and a cabana under the stars was all mine. It had become a regular thing for me, and today would probably be no different. I had arrived at three in the afternoon and managed to get a steady buzz going by five. With any luck, I'd be well past drunk in an hour. After all, it wasn't like I had any place to be.

The more beers I knocked back, the less I found myself caring that I had been served the cheap kind. I looked down at the silver can in my hand. Beach rules dictated that The Soggy Sand Dollar maintain a no-glass policy, making aluminum and plastic part of the official serving ware. Coors Light was watery and barely even beer, but it was getting the job done—especially when I poured it into a red Solo cup with a shot of Jack Daniels and chugged it as a boilermaker. Fortunately for me, that was on the menu today.

"Johnny!" I called out to the bartender. "I'm almost empty."

The aging, lifelong bartender glanced my way and grinned. His eyes crinkled in the corners, and I wasn't sure if it was because of too many late nights slinging whiskey or too much time in the sun. Perhaps it was a little of both.

"Almost is the keyword, my friend. Don't worry. I've got you covered," Johnny assured.

I returned his smile, then shifted on the barstool to gaze out at the beach. Waves crashed into the surf, and there was a slight breeze in the salty air, whispering just enough to make the blazing California sun more tolerable. I decided right then and there that my night would be spent in the cabana. Tonight, I planned on being lulled to sleep under the stars by the sounds of the ocean.

My cellphone vibrated in my pocket. Pulling it out, I glanced at the screen. The sun was so bright, and I couldn't read it. Turning back toward the bar, I leaned forward and balanced my elbows on the polished oak top. I blinked a few times, struggling to focus. The words were fuzzy, the letters seeming to blur together momentarily. I thought about the painkiller I took after I'd first arrived at The Soggy Sand Dollar. I probably shouldn't have popped prescription oxy on an empty stomach. I would need to order up a couple of the chef's famous fish tacos sooner rather than later. Combined with the booze, I was feeling the effects of the pill more than usual.

Forcing myself to focus on the cell phone screen, I groaned when I saw it was a text message from my agent, Milo Birx. He had an annoying habit of checking in on me daily. Not bothering to read his message, I switched over to my voicemail inbox. Scrolling down the list, I selected a voicemail I'd received a month earlier and brought the phone to my ear.

"Mr. Atwood. This is Dr. Haskell. After going over your test results with your physical therapist, I'm sorry to say this, but I can't clear you to race again. The risks are just too great. Please call the office at your earliest convenience. I'd like to schedule an appointment to go over the test results in more detail, as well as discuss alternate options for pain management."

Just as it had on the day when I first heard the message, my stomach sank. I'd had to replay it three times before I grasped the words. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to will away the memories from over one year ago, but the effort was in vain. Flashbacks from the crash assaulted me, reminding me once again that my life was now permanently altered.

I could still hear the crunch of metal on concrete when I swerved to avoid a slowing car, spun out, and hit the wall—driver's side first—at high speed. The screeching tires and the scraping sound of the car along the wall until it finally slid to a complete stop would not be something I'd soon forget. I'd been conscious when my crew arrived to cut me from the wreckage but passed out before making it to the ambulance. I barely remembered the weeks and months that followed.

I raked my hands through my hair, painfully yanking at the roots in an attempt to drown out the sounds in my memory. I shouldn't have listened to the doctor's message again. I wasn't sure what compelled me to do it. I certainly didn't need a reminder of all that was lost—I'd spent every day of the past month trying to escape it.

I looked down at the drink in front of me, realizing I wasn't just buzzed—I was drunk—just like I wanted to be. A few more boilermakers and I could be out back, fast asleep in a cabana.

"Johnny!" I called out again.

"I hear ya. I'm coming."

As I waited for my refill, I let my gaze wander over the faces throughout the bar. I'd been all over the world, and if there was one thing I'd noticed, it was that everyone looked the same as they did everywhere else. Short, tall, thin, overweight. Blonde, brunette, old, young. They may have had different skin tones or worn different clothes, but they were still all very much the same.

Until now.

Out on the beach, a woman emerged from the water, sparkling in the sunlight where the surf kissed her skin. Rainbows flowed from her head and cascaded over her shoulders as she moved across the sand, stopping only to tie a turquoise-colored wrap around her shapely waist. She moved without purpose, defying gravity, and I wondered if her feet were even touching the ground. I couldn't be sure. It was as if I were staring at a mystical mermaid sent from the depths of the ocean straight to me. I didn't know where she'd been or where she was going—I only knew I wanted to go to wherever she was headed.

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