Page 10 of Reckless Hearts

The Pipe Dream grows busier within seconds, and I’m lost in my thoughts. Flynn’s waiting for me to answer, and without thinking too much, I quickly jot my number down on a scrap of paper and hand it to him. I have no idea what I’m doing, but something about it feels right.

I watch him slip it in his pocket, his gorgeous smile on display, as he walks out, leaving me wondering what the hell I just got myself into.

The day goes quickly, and by the time the sun sets, I’m exhausted. The shop was busy nearly all day with two buses of tourists coming by and locals coming in to pick up new boards. Mitch was always so good to the locals, allowing interest-freepayment plans and layaway orders, and Nate and Sage have continued this too.

When I pull into the driveway, I notice Sloane and Daisy aren’t home yet. Sloane is probably hunkered down somewhere on campus trying to get some studying done, and Daisy, who knows. She’s such a free spirit, comes and goes as she pleases.

The house is dark when I walk in, the air blowing through the open windows, the smell of the ocean permeating the space. I can hear the waves lapping at the shore, calling to me, reminding me I should be out there.

Today was the perfect morning for Pipe. Owen was out there, and I was on Tanner’s boat having some of the best orgasms of my life.

I missed the double overhead waves. I missed the feeling of my body sailing on the water so effortlessly. I missed the opportunity to train.

I’ve been missing the opportunity every single day since Mitch died. And I need to pull myself out of this, but I just can’t seem to do it.

It feels like my body isn’t my own, my head’s a mess, feeling numb and lost, but I’m starting to think it isn’t just because I lost Mitch. I need the ocean like I need air, and I’ve been suffocating ever since.

When I walk into my bedroom, I’m hit with the letter, just like I am every time I come in here. I tossed it onto the little table that sits beside my bed, and it hasn’t moved since. I haven’t even picked it up, too afraid to open it, afraid of what it might say.

I remember the day Nate handed it to me, my name scrawled across the front, recognizing the handwriting instantly. The tears started flowing before I could even try to stop them, and Nate pulled me in for a hug, letting me cry into his T-shirt.

We each got one. Nate and Sage read theirs together, and mine has just sat, unopened, unread, a sad reminder of what was lost.

I know Mitch didn’t write the letter to remind me of what it was like when he was still here. He would never want us mourning him, but it’s been so damn hard not to.

Yet, I still can’t bring myself to read it.

I run my fingers over my name. Next to it is a hand-drawn shaka with a little heart. It makes me smile, but there’s also an ache in my chest, painful and deep. He’d be so disappointed in me right now, and a tear spills down my cheek at the thought.

Picking it up for the first time since Nate gave it to me, the weight of it in my hands feels almost too heavy to hold.

Nate has offered to sit with me while I read it, just like he and Sage did, but I declined, too caught up in the idea of needing to read it alone. But I’m not even sure it’s that, more worried about what the letter might say, and how I’ll react to it.

It’s ridiculous, though, to tell Nate I didn’t want him there. We’ve been friends since we were kids, and we’ve seen each other through the worst times in our lives. Mitch’s passing being one of the hardest things we dealt with together.

I turn it over in my hand, looking at the seal on the back, wanting to slide my finger under it and just open it. I swallow hard, pushing back the sob I feel building in my throat. The last thing I need is for Sloane or Daisy to come home and find me a sobbing mess on the floor of my bedroom.

Nate was right. I should read it with him. He’s the only other person who will understand. But I still find myself wanting to open it, needing Mitch’s words today more than anything.

He’d never tell me what to do, but there was always something about the way he looked at life that put things into perspective. I need that perspective right now, and a part of me knows this letter will hold just that.

My finger slips under the slightly curled-up corner, ready to glide it underneath and open it, when a knock comes on the door.

No one here knocks. If the door is open, people just come in. We only lock it at night because it makes Sloane more comfortable. Before her, Daisy and I would even sleep with the front door open, letting the ocean breeze cool the house at night.

“It’s open!” I call out from my bedroom. It’s not like the house is so big that I can’t be heard from in here.

It’s a tiny little beach cottage, rundown and in need of maintenance, but it’s a rental and a cheap one at that. But it’s the location that can’t be beat, the ocean is literally steps out our back door, quiet, secluded and untouched by locals and tourists. It makes for some of the best surfing on the island.

I toss the letter onto the table where it once was, letting out a hard sigh, the interruption welcome but also not.

A knock comes again, and this time, instead of calling out, I roll my eyes, bothered, and realizing it must be someone who doesn’t know us.

“I said you could come in, but since you didn’t, it’s ob…” I trail off the second I see who is standing on the other side of the screen door.

Flynn

“How’d you figure out where I live?” I now ask, changing gears so fast I nearly forget that I was annoyed. “You stalking me, Flynn?” My thoughts are instantly back to the morning we spent together, wondering if we’re going to end up back there again.

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