Page 98 of Britta & the Beach Boy
“It’s nothing, really. I haven’t done much. Your brothers did most of the heavy lifting.” I try to lower my gaze, but her eyes won’t let me go.
“I can always count on my family to support me, because we’re family. They believe in me because I’m part of them.” She narrows her eyes, examining me. “But it’s different with you. You just believe in me because I’mme.That means everything, Dex.”
My chest swells. “I’m glad I could help.”
She pushes herself from the railing and takes a step, but stops again and looks at me. “That’s a talent, Dex, believing in people. Remember that when you think the only thing you’re good at is surfing. That’s what youdo,and you do it better than just about anybody. But it’s not who you are. You’re so much more than just a surfer.”
Britta continues her climb up the stairs, leaving me speechless.
Over the next week, while I get back on my training schedule, Britta is consumed with everything there is to do with running her own business. We hardly have a time to talk, let alone syncour schedules. She’s often asleep before I get in bed, and she gets up even earlier than I do.
We’ve got exactly what we wanted. No distractions. Complete focus on our careers.
Except, my surfing doesn’t get better. It doesn’t suck, but I’m not in the kind of form I’ll need to be come January.
Even when I come off a wave pleased with my ride, I don’t get the same confidence boost I’ve always gotten before. I still love surfing, but it doesn’t consume my every thought like it has for my entire life.
Now there’s a Britta-sized hole that only she can fill.
The afternoon before I leave, I come home from my surf sesh to find a giant dry-erase calendar taking up half the wall in the laundry room. I always come in from the outside door here so I can drop my towel and boardies in the wash without tracking sand through the house. Britta’s hung this calendar in the one place I won’t miss.
I peer at the squares for the last two weeks of November. Britta’s already filled them in with her own commitments. It’s the same thing every day:Frothed 5:00 am—2.She schedules herself for the morning shift, then usually ends up staying until closing at six.
I’m relieved to seeFamily Herewritten across the week of Thanksgiving, but seeing the same daily schedule written day after day reminds me I’m leaving Britta here alone when she needs me. I might not be actual help when it comes to handy stuff like her brothers, but I’m good—make that excellent—at moral support. Especially when it’s for Britta.
Frothedis a huge undertaking. Aside from running her own business, Britta is also training people to make a sustainable living—some of them for the first time. There are criteria she has to meet in order to keep her funding and standards that her employees have to reach in order to qualify for the programthat’s designed to lead them to housing and future education opportunities. Britta’s not just making coffee or running a business. She’s keeping single moms and kids off the streets and in secure employment.
I uncap the whiteboard marker hanging from twine next to the calendar and write in everything on my schedule that I can remember. It’s Archie’s job to keep track of my events and everything else, but it’s not his job to communicate with my wife, so I fill in as much as I can.
I draw a question mark after writingback from Oahuon November 29thsince we don’t have return tickets yet. But I’ll make sure we’re home as close to that date as possible. Then I circle the Saturday that follows it a half dozen times. In that square, I write DATE NIGHT.
That will give me something to look forward to while I’m away. Because, the thing I’ve figured out this week is that pretending I’m not in love with Britta is as much a distraction as being in love with her, but not even half the fun.
In fact, it sucks.
Chapter thirty-seven
Britta
My watch buzzes with a text butFrothedis slammed with a line out the door, my new trainee, Josh, needs a lot of guidance—heaps, as Dex would say—and someone laid a plastic spoon on one of my ebelskiver pans while it was hot, so I’m short one pan until I can clean that mess up. I don’t have time to look at my watch, let alone respond to a text if I did.
It’s hours later before I do. I smile when I read Dex’s name, then reach for my phone when I see he’s attached a picture. I pull up the message and laugh.
Hey darl, I’ve done my husbandly duty and filled in the calendar.
Only takes me a second to suss out darl is short for darling. Aussies are pros at clipping words.
I tap the picture and pull it big enough to see it’s a closeup of November thirtieth—the day my family is scheduled to leave—and the words DATE NIGHT.
My first thought is Dex has made the most romantic gesture I can think of. My mom and dad did the same thing for each other. If they didn’t schedule time together, it wouldn’t happen. Mom swore it’s what kept their marriage strong through really difficult times. Dad kept their date nights going even after Mom didn’t understand what he was doing.
My second thought—the one that opens a hole in my chest—is that Dex is teasing. He wouldn’t realize that the wordsdate nightsent a triple surge of excitement, hope, and nostalgia through me. With the memory of my parents and the longing to someday have what they had, heat surges through my veins.
Because maybe I already have what they had at the beginning of their marriage, but I’m too focused on ending up hurt if I act on my feelings. Maybe, despite what Mom always taught me, I’m letting fear about my future get in the way of enjoying my now.
I go back to work and spend a few minutes considering how to answer in a neutral way so that if he’s not teasing, he’ll understand I’m looking forward to an official date with him. But if he is teasing, I don’t want him to know how much I wanted him to not be.
I can’t think of anything. It’s already been a few hours since he texted, and I don’t want him to think I’m avoiding answering, so I just go with what I know how to do best. I’m direct.
