Page 14 of The Summer I First Saw You
“What you’re seeing, Daisy, isirritation. We had a whole conversation the other day about the fact that I don’t want you surfing out there, one Iknowyou understood, yet here we are.”
She walks ahead of me to the garage and leans her board against the wall.
“You didn’t say Icouldn’tsurf,” she argues, grabbing a towelfrom the stack kept by the outdoor shower and pressing it to her face. “You said it wasn’t advisable and I disagreed. I’ve surfed down there twice without incident, so maybe you were wrong.”
“Or maybe it’s an accident waiting to happen,” I snap. “Just because you surfed there twice doesn’t make it safe. You know we had a friend die in college in a surf accident, right? You know what happened to your dad? Shit goes wrong.”
She tugs at the zipper of her wetsuit. “You bought a house here for a reason. Because at some point, you thought you’d want to surf across the street. So why the hell can’tIsurf there?”
There’s a whole lot of cleavage on display while she struggles to get her arms free of the wetsuit. I look away. “Because I grew up surfing, and I did it a lot longer than you did.”
“Harrison, I grew up surfing too. And just because you left for college and didn’tseeme surfing as a teenager doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Or were you under the impression that I just ceased to exist once I was out of sight?”
The accusation hits a little close to home. “I don’t think he even remembers he has a wife when he leaves for the day,” Audrey once said in couples counseling. I argued with her about it. I promised to change. And a month later, I called a realtor and told her I wanted this house before it ever even occurred to me that I should mention it to my wife.
“You’ve lived in DC for the past four years,” I counter. “Even if you surfed in high school, you haven’t been doing much of it since. If you’re going to surf, and especially if you’re going to surf alone, go down by the wharf.”
Her eyes darken. “Thewharf? Are you shitting me? The waves there are a foot high. Do me a favor and stop commenting on what I’m capable of until you’ve witnessed it firsthand. I surf as well as you do.”
I’m entirely certain that’s not true, but I know from experience that arguing with Daisy is pointless. As a toddler she’ddemand one particular food—a hot dog or Goldfish or candy—and refuse to eat anything until she’d received it. She once went thirty-six hours without so much as a bite until Bridget broke down and gave her a lollipop. Beneath that all-too-adult body, she’s still the exact same kid who’d go three days without food until she got what she wanted.
“Well, until I’ve witnessed it, you’re not going back out there—are we clear? You benefit from this blackmail situation a lot more than I do. I’ll blow the whole thing up if I think you’re taking your life in your hands.”
There’s an angry glimmer in her eyes, but her mouth is curving upward. “Fine. Come out tomorrow then.”
How shocking that the little freeloader has forgotten about this thing known as ‘work’.“Iactually have a job. We’ll go down to the wharf on Saturday and see how you do.”
“The wharf? For fuck’s sake, Harrison. That’s where you teach a five-year-old. We’ll go across the street Friday.”
She finally gets her other arm out of the wetsuit and pulls it down to her waist, revealing yet another bikini that is barely containing her assets and through which it is amply apparent she is cold—very, very cold. Jesus Christ, I’d give up all of my limbs to remove that bikini entirely and—
Stop, Harrison. For the love of God, stop.
“Saturday,” I repeat firmly.
“For someone who negotiates for a living,” she says, shimmying the wetsuit around her hips, “you’re spectacularly bad at it.”
“That’s because I’m not fucking negotiating with you. I can’t spend an hour surfing at the crack of dawn and then go put in a full day.”
“Fine, we can wait until Saturday, but if I surf well enough, you have to go for a run with me on Sunday morning.”
“And ifI’mright, you leave, no questions asked.”
She bends down to peel the wetsuit off her legs. The bikini bottoms are wedged in the crack of her ass.
“Jesus Christ, Daisy,” I say hoarsely, turning toward my car, “buy a one-piece. I just got a view of your cleavageandyour ass that no one but your husband should ever get. Maybe not even him.”
“Maybe you should stop looking, then.”
“That’s why I need you out of my house,” I reply under my breath.
10
DAISY
Ishiver with pleasure as I step into the outdoor shower and the warm water hits my icy skin. I’d forgotten how much I love this. I forgot how much I love the ocean breeze against my shins as the water hits me, how much I love my shampoo, the one that smells like roses, and the body gel that smells like suntan lotion. I forgot how amplified everything is after a few hours in the water, that foam is decadent and the silkiness of my legs post-shave is a seduction all on its own.
What scares me about that dark time last winter is that I forgot that I could love things at all. I knew I’d been a girl who once loved her life, who wanted to inhale and devour her days, but last winter I was so empty that it felt like a trick, a false memory. As if maybe I’d just been too dumb and naïve to see how hollow real life is.
