Page 76 of Wilder Love
Then I got the call from the hospital, and I returned home.
There was a big difference between living and just surviving. I used to know how to live. I used to be pretty damn good at it.
* * *
“Now we’re talking,”my dad said, a big smile on his face as I stapled the plastic sheeting to the wood frame around the shaping bay I’d built in the garage. The fluorescent lights hung at waist level to highlight any imperfections, and my new tools lined the shelves—electric planer, block plane, surform, various grits of sandpaper.
“You’ve lost your parking spot.”
“Small price to pay.”
“Yeah, well, reserve that judgment until you see the finished product. It might be shit.”
“It might be. But if it is, you can make another surfboard. And that one will be better. What are you thinking?” he asked as I set the EPS foam blank on the shaping stand.
“A seven-foot-six. Thick nose, low rocker, pintail.”
My dad nodded his approval. “Good on the small, mushy waves but easily maneuverable on the bigger, steeper days.”
“That’s the idea.”
He knew who the board was for without having to ask.
Over the next week, I devoted all my free time to shaping, glassing, and finning that surfboard. I lost all track of time, sometimes not stopping until two in the morning. I did so much sanding, the inside of the shaping bay looked like a snow globe. The perfectionist in me wouldn’t stand for hills, bumps or dips. It had to be a smooth, solid curve from tip to tail. It took me six hours to shape the board. At least a hundred times, I ran my hand along the rail, then sanded. Ran my hand along the rail, more sanding.
Shaping was a skill and an art form, I’d come to learn. It was also highly addictive. By the time I finished glassing the board, I was hooked, and already thinking about the next board I wanted to make.
31
Shane
On Saturday morning, I was leaning against the back of my Jeep, waiting for Remy. She jogged into the parking lot and slowed to a walk, stopping in front of me.
“Why aren’t you out there already?”
“I was waiting for you.”
“If you’re going to argue, you’ll be wasting your breath.”
I didn’t say anything. I just stared at her. Her skin was covered in a sheen of sweat, her hands planted on her hips, chest heaving from the exertion of running. Her jet-black hair was pulled into a high ponytail, the style accentuating her sculpted cheekbones. What was it about Remy that made her so beautiful it knocked the breath out of your lungs just to look at her? The camera loved her. She was a chameleon. When I’d looked at some of her photos in magazines, I’d barely recognized her.
Over the years, she’d only gotten more beautiful, if that was possible. More polished. More refined. Even her running clothes looked like designer items, her running shoes top of the line. When she had shown up at the demolition site, she looked like she’d just stepped off a catwalk. The guys I worked with were still talking about her. Her ass. Her mile-long legs. Her tits. Her everything. It still stirred up the beast in me. Made me jealous of any man who wasn’t me, for even looking at her.
I wanted her all to myself. Always had. Probably always would. But there was no place in my life for her now.
Why did you have to return to my world and turn it upside down again, Remy? Why do you make me want you all over again?
Remy averted her head, showing me her profile, also perfection. She was looking in the direction of the ocean even though we couldn’t see it from here. “Where have you been?”
“Busy.”
“Too busy to surf?” Her gaze returned to my face, her dark brows furrowed in confusion.
“I’ve been surfing. Just not here.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders sagged. “Shane, I don’t want… if you’re not surfing here because of me, I won’t come here anymore. I’ll just—”
“I have something for you.”
