Page 46 of Seven Summer Weekends

Folly had done him right though. The people were nice, and the best surfing spot, the Washout, had been consistently heavy since his arrival two days earlier. He wished he could stay. Even flipped through real estate listings in the local magazine he picked up at the entrance to the diner where he ate the night before. He had been feeling that way often lately. Dreaming of putting down roots somewhere, and with his parents now retired abroad, South Carolina seemed as good a place as any.

The magazine had been his companion until his server recognized him and wrote her name and phone number on the back of his check.

“I’m off at ten,” she said, in her thick southern drawl. He put her number in his pocket, unsure whether he would or wouldn’ttake her up on her southern hospitality. She would be the third woman that month who had propositioned him. Southern girls seemed to really know what they wanted, and while each was more fun than the last, he was tiring of it. Tired of living out of his duffel, tired of repeating the same stories and answering the same questions, even tired of the meaningless sex. He thought about that a lot lately. Suddenly longing for a greater attachment than his board being leashed to his ankle. After twenty or so years on the circuit, he was ripe for change.

The waitress, Carly, came out of the motel bathroom and fixed her name tag in the mirror.

“Breakfast?” he inquired hopefully.

“Nah, I have to get home.” She held up her phone and kneeled down next to him in bed. “Selfie?” she asked, snapping one before he could answer. He winced at the thought of her posting it—being that he was shirtless under a white sheet in a motel bed. Not that anyone would be surprised. His reputation preceded him.

Carly left, and before showering and getting ready to head to the airport for his flight to New York, he looked through the questions that the reporter fromSports Illustratedhad sent. Basic things about his childhood, riding his first wave, and whether his race was ever a factor for him. He figured the reporter was a white guy. A black man would never word the question that way, unless they wanted the answer to beDuh. Though there was no denying, as the first black surfer on the cover ofSurfmagazine, and the first to place in the Olympics, he had excelled in a sport dominated by blue-eyed, blond-haired Americans.

Terrence didn’t catch his first wave till he was sixteen—but once he had, he didn’t stop. The son of a navy doctor, Terrencehad moved with his family four times by the time he was in high school, when they landed at the naval base outside of LA in Ventura County. He had learned to swim in the ocean at an early age, while they were stationed in Jacksonville, and took to it like a fish, but had lived on landlocked bases in the years that followed in DC and Georgia. The ocean was the only consolation prize for leaving his friends and girlfriend in Atlanta. His dad promised him a surfboard and as soon as they arrived, they headed over to the Ventura Surf Shop to make good on his promise.

It didn’t take long before Terrence mastered the waves and ingratiated himself with the tight local community that stretched from Carlsbad to Pelican Point. He was a natural, and along with winning a couple of local competitions, Terrence was known as a really nice guy. The combo led to his first sponsorship. He traveled to competitions, making friends and sleeping on couches wherever he went. Soon, his nomadic ways led to a local newspaper reporter naming him the Vagabond Surfer. After that, he kind of leaned into the nomadic lifestyle.

The notoriety was fun, but didn’t really matter to Terrence. He was in it for the thrill and had been since his first nose-ride. Though lately there was no denying that the thrill had faded.

Terrence shook out the bedspread and looked under the bed one last time to make sure he hadn’t left anything behind before calling an UberXL for the airport.

Chapter Twenty-three

There was no amount of scrolling through Terrence Williams’s Instagram and YouTube videos capturing “great swells, man” that could have prepared Addie and Kizzy for the perfect specimen that walked off the Fire Island ferry. A vision in flip-flops, jeans, and a paper-thin tee that revealed a veiled view of his abs.

“That must be him. Is that him?” Addison enthusiastically asked Ben.

“The one with the surfboard? You must be psychic,” Ben grunted. His attitude made them lay it on even thicker, bugging him for sport.

Terrence approached and smiled, causing his dark brown eyes to crinkle at the sides. Addison and Kizzy both went weak at the knees. Not as a metaphor. They both had to steady themselves while simultaneously resisting poking the other to death in thatoh my God, do you see this man?kind of way. Ben stood aside like a tree, or a pole, or something that has always been there but you had never really noticed, until he stepped in, giving both women aget it togetherlook.

Ben introduced himself with an outstretched arm, which Terrence ignored, coming right in for the bro hug. Kizzy stepped in line after Ben, and he hugged her as well, which made Addison laugh out loud with no regard for this poor, gorgeous guy. She imagined he was used to it.

He had a duffel bag and his surfboard. The two women pulled both in Gicky’s wagon behind the two men, whispering ridiculous things to each other and staring at Terrence’s butt. Two intelligent, grown-ass women transformed into surf groupies on the set ofBeach Blanket Bingoin less than the time it took to hang ten.

After settling in, Terrence asked the women to point him to the beach and, of course, they jumped at the chance to show him personally. They were really just goofing around with all the attention they were giving him, partially to annoy Ben, partially to keep things light for Kizzy, who was trying her best to circumvent the disaster waiting for her at home. Rome had been searching for her for days now and was no closer to finding her than when she had stormed out of the Mark Hotel. He had left Addison near a dozen more messages, all of which she ignored. Still, it was only a matter of time.

It was a green flag day—good for swimming but not so good for surfing—and Terrence was quick to drop his chair in the sand and dive in. Kizzy whipped off her now favorite caftan and followed while Addison stared longingly from the sand.

“What’s with her?” Terrence asked as he and Kizzy bobbed up and down over the mild waves before the break. “Can’t she swim?’

“She can swim,” Kizzy shouted. “But she’s not a fan of waves. Of any kind actually.”

“I can fix that,” Terrence declared, heading back to shore as Ben and Shep were making their way toward the chairs. The sand was scorching, and they each plopped down on one to save their feet just as Terrence approached Addison.

“I’m teaching you to swim,” he said, offering her his hand.

“I swim,” Addison protested. “In a pool, or a lake. Waves are too unpredictable for me.”

“That’s because you never learned how to ride them—c’mon, these are ankle busters at best.” He reached his hand out again, and she let him pull her up.

“It’s far better than stepping in that swampy muck at the bottom of a lake!”

She certainly didn’t agree but followed him anyway.

Ben crossed his arms over his chest as he watched them descend to the shore. He calmed down after a minute, when it was quite obvious that Addison would not make it past the first break. Five false starts later, Terrence lifted her up in his arms and carried her in. Ben seemed as if he might explode with jealously. Shep looked him over before declaring, “Hold on, son. I said to be nice to her, not to sleep with her. You’re gonna have to change the name of your house from Love Shack to Heartbreak Hotel.”

Ben laughed—hard.

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