Page 10 of Britta & the Beach Boy
Archie’s thongs thwack with every step he takes, taunting me to deny that the only time I stop thinking about Britta is when I’m in the water.
Lucky for me, I spend a lot of the time in the water. “Not interested in dating anyone right now, anyway. My eyesareon the prize, and I’m not letting anything get in the way of the title or staying on the Tour next year.”
The only answer I get is the sound of Archie’s thongs. When we hit the sand, they go quiet, and he finally speaks. “She shouldn’t come Monday. She’ll be a distraction. Worse, she doesn’t respect the sport. Only fans should be on that beach.”
“Yeah. You’ve got a point.”
I say nothing else until we get close to the water. We drop our bags on the beach and take out rashies. I get mine on faster than Archie. I’m pulling the spandex over my chest and stomach, while he’s barely got one arm in his.
I grab my board. A wave crashes, and I offer Archie a broad grin. “On the other hand, I’m keen to show her what I can really do—you heard the dig about me not having an actual job, right?”
Then I jog to the water, duck dive under a wave, and paddle out to the lineup. The waves come to me like Britta’s smile when I tease her—easy and heart-pumping—and I surf better than I have in weeks.
Chapter five
Britta
Stella keeps me busy all day Saturday. After exploring the Farmer’s Market at the Grove, the surprise she has planned is a live music screening ofLa La Landin the LA Historic Park. I’m not sure what any of that means until we get to an enormous park in the middle of LA. A giant movie screen is set up in a grassy area and an orchestra is warming up next to it.
“How did you find out about this?” I ask as Stella spreads a blanket for us to sit on, along with at least a thousand other people laying down their own blankets.
“I’ve done my research.” She lifts a shoulder and closes her eyes like she’s waiting for me to throw flowers at her feet.
For the record, I don’t, even though we’ve watchedLa La Landtogether roughly one million times and can sing every song. So, the fact we’re here, about to sing along with the composer who wrote all the music leading a live orchestra, is pretty epic. Definitely not something we could do in Paradise.
Stella is four years younger than I am, but we grew up surrounded by her brother and all three of mine. We banded together out of necessity, but as we grew older, we became genuine friends. Especially over the past year, after she came back to Paradise to work as Georgia’s social media manager. Stella is the one person I’ve talked to about Mom.
Which, I guess, is why the following day, she thinks she needs to fill our entire Sunday, too. She, more than anyone, knows how broken I am.
So, we check out the stars on the Walk of Fame, eat delicious Mexican food in Koreatown, and go to a Dodgers game. It’s not hockey, but it’s fun, and while I’ll never stop thinking of Mom, I almost don’t have time to think about the fact Archie hasn’t texted me any details about Dex’s tournament.
Tournament?
No, he called it a competition.
When Monday morning comes, I wake after the sun, which is something I haven’t done in years. I sit with my back against the headboard and scan the still-unfamiliar room. Thin lines of daylight poke through the vinyl blinds opposite my bed. Everything is quiet except for a low hum coming from the ceiling fan. I close my eyes and breathe in the silence, bracing for the morning’s first sense of urgency to pummel me.
Then I remember: I have nothing to do today.Nothing. Nada.
The stillness that should be peaceful is disconcerting. The usual urgency I feel every morning is replaced with anxiety. A few days without obligations or responsibilities is a vacation. But a few weeks? How am I supposed to fill entireweekswith nocoffee or ebelskiver to make? No dad or brothers to help. No mom to take care of.
I haven’t unpacked my bags yet, despite Georgia’s empty dresser and closet. I haven’t had time, but suddenly, I’m not sure how long I can stay.
I wanted to be here. Living in LA was a dream of mine in college—a dream I gave up when Mom got sick. But when Georgia offered me the opportunity to visit LA for six weeks, it sounded like a chance to at least get a taste of something I’ll never fully experience. Like a magic pill offered to someone who’s lactose intolerant that allows her to have one scoop of the best ice cream in the world before going back to her boring, dairy-free life.
Now that I’m here, though?
Six weeks feels like a lifetime. My skin itches when I think about whether Dad is lonely and wonder if the construction atBritta’sis going okay. I can’t get over the nagging feeling that I should be back home with Dad andBritta’s.
Then I remember,Britta’sisn’t mine.
We chose not to read Mom’s will until after the summer season. The grief was too much, and we all needed to focus on our businesses. When we finally read it last week, I learned she’d leftBritta’sto my whole family, not just me.
I was so angry at Mom; I couldn’t stand to look at all the places that held memories of her. She might call my expectation thatBritta’swould be mine a sense of entitlement. I call it what I’d earned by working there, with her, for most of my life.
That’s what finally pushed me to accept Georgia’s offer to take advantage of her empty apartment. I thought LA would be an escape from my anger and hurt—a way to work through it. But two days in, I can’t standnotto see Mom everywhere I look.
Maybe that’s the reason I haven’t unpacked. Stella and I have no plans today, so it’d be easy enough to get out of bed andempty my suitcases. Tuck them away with my hurt until it’s time to go home. Hopefully, by then, I can leave the hurt smoldering here in the closet and go back to Paradise healed and happy.
