Page 32 of Riptide

I remember dropping into my first wave, slicing it clean, feeling the high as I carved out along the face. When I turned back, Jared was paddling hard for the second set, his eyes locked on the biggest wave of the day.

He caught it. I watched him pop up, cut hard, and then he disappeared.

Wiped out, which isn’t unusual. But the seconds started stacking up.

Ten. Twenty. Still no sign of him.

I remember shouting. Ditching my board. Diving.

I remember the panic. The sound of blood rushing in my ears. The way my heart crashed against my ribs like the waves did against my body as I tried to get to him. And then the lifeguards came, and they pulled him out, and I knew that moment would haunt me forever.

I suck in a breath, sharp and slow, like it’ll help clear the tightness in my lungs. Pressing my fingers to the back of my neck, I count it out.

Birch. Oak. Fir. Palm. Redwood.

Jeez, that could’ve been bad. I haven’t thought about that particular moment for months… Maybe planning my future triggered something in my memories of Jared not being a part of that future anymore. Shit, I don’t know. I make a mental note to tell Dr. Hale, though.

I refocus and look down at Rosie playing on her mat, completely unaware of the turmoil in my brain.

Warming bottles and dodging questions is easier than trying to figure out what I want right this second. I’ve gotten good at pretending I don’t flinch every time someone mentions surfing like it doesn’t taste like blood in my mouth. I pretend it doesn’t affect me, but I feel the absence of it everywhere. I miss the salt in my lungs and the way my body used to move without thought—fluid, certain, like it belonged to the water more than land. I miss the sting of the wind cutting across my face, the adrenaline spike as I dropped into a wave, the deep quiet at the bottom of a wipeout. I miss the discipline of it, the ritual. Reading the sky like it held secrets meant only for me.

I miss feeling sure. Of who I was. Of what I was built to do. But now there’s a darkness there I can’t shake.

I’m just a guy with no direction and a browser history full of desperate Google searches. And a hookup who has no idea about parts of my past yet.

Maybe school isn’t the answer. But it’s something. I could do the prerequisites to begin with and maybe sign up for business classes and see where that takes me. I’ve always thought if I couldn’t surf, I’d still be involved with it somehow, but maybe I need to focus on actually being near the water before that particular dream manifests.

Rosie lets out a happy shriek as she kicks about. I glance at her and smile.

“Whatcha think, Rosie girl?” I ask. “Should Uncle Finn go back to school?”

She waves her arm in the air like she’s all for it.

“Yeah,” I say softly. “Maybe it’s time.”

Foxx might still linger in the back of my mind. But now I’ve got something else to think about.

A future. For me.

Chapter fourteen

Foxx

Theclockonthewall ticks softly, marking the seconds as I set up the projector for tonight’s lecture. Wednesday nights at the community college are usually the calmest part of my week—two hours of advanced calculus with a group of students who actually want to be here. No one’s trying to charm their way into extra credit. No restless undergrads struggling to juggle it all. Just numbers, logic, and the sweet predictability of formulas.

Numbers never surprise you. Hot young men do, though. Finn may or may not have a surprise waiting for him on his phone tonight, and even though I played it off like I wouldn’t be sending him one, the thrill and the satisfaction of knowing that I could get him there with a picture of me… Well, that had me reaching, and before I knew it, I’d pressed send on my first dick pic.

I adjust my tie, snapping my focus back to class, and run a hand through my hair as students file in. I need this calm tonight.

Turning back to the whiteboard, I start writing the night’s topic in neat, block letters:Integration Techniques: Partial Fractions. Numbers. Focus on the numbers.

The door creaks open once more. I glance at the clock, 6:05 p.m. Late, but it happens. I don’t bother looking. “Take a seat,” I say, capping the marker.

Silence stretches a little too long. And then a voice hits me like a sucker punch.

“Yes, sir.”

The marker slips from my fingers and clatters to the floor. My body freezes. Everything inside me draws tight as that voice registers, raspy and unmistakable. Slowly, I turn toward the door, and there he is. Standing just inside the classroom with a black backpack slung over one shoulder, wearing a Henley that clings to his chest and baggy jeans that hang low on his hips. His hair is a little damp, blond curls unruly, like he’s just come from the shower.Don’t think about him in the shower.

---