Page 25 of Britta & the Beach Boy
By the time we walk to the Sprinter van, Archie has already calmed down a bit. Stella talks his ear off as we load our stuff, then she sits up front by him. She’s not his type—too peppy—but I think he gets a kick out of her.
We take Britta and Stella to their car, which is parked at least a mile away, then drop it at the house so we can all go to lunch together. When Britta comes back to the van, she’s carrying a paper bag with thin handles, and I know exactly what it is.
“Don’t let Archie see that,” I whisper to her as soon as she climbs in.
Archie breaks in before she can respond. “Too late. Already saw it. No lamingtons until after you win.” Archie motions for Britta to pass it to him, and, for whatever reason, she follows this order.
“Sorry!” she says and hands the bag to him. “I agreed to not be a distraction.”
“Annie’s cake doesn’t count as a distraction. She makes it for me special.” Does a whine creep into my voice? Yes. But that’s because I’m hungry and nervous and Annie’s cake always soothes what’s bugging me.
“It’s not on your nutritionist’s list, so it’s a distraction.” Archie meets my eye in the rearview mirror while backing out of the tight driveway. “No sugar.”
I growl, and my stomach joins me. “Then we need to get lunch now.”
After some back and forth about whether ten o’clock is too early for lunch, Archie drives us to a farm-to-table restaurant that makes healthy food so delicious you forget it’s healthy.
Another bonus is that it’s twenty minutes from the beach, so there are fewer people to recognize me or ask about the finals, the shark, or anything else having to do with surfing. I don’t want to talk to strangers about surfing. The only people I wantto talk to about the Finals are the people on my team, including Britta.
Thirty minutes with Britta has convinced me I didn’t make a mistake inviting her to stay. Even though, technically, she’s a traitor for taking Archie’s side about the lamingtons, joking around with her gives me something else to think about other than how Iwill notmake the same mistakes tomorrow that I made today in the water.
She is a distraction, but exactly the distraction I need to keep from losing my chill.
While we wait to get into the restaurant, my phone buzzes. I take it from my pocket, then smile when I see whose face is on the screen.
“Rhys wants to FaceTime.” I hold my phone for Archie to see. “Should I answer, or does he count as a distraction?”
Archie glares at me, then swipes the phone from my hand.
“Rhys James?” Stella’s eyes fill her entire face, and she looks like she’s not sure if she should faint, scream, or yak.
She goes on her toes to peek over Archie’s shoulder as he accepts the call.
“You want to talk to Rhys?” I ask Stella while Archie lectures Rhys about what he is and isn’t allowed to say to me.
“Do I want to talk to Rhys James?Peoplemagazine’s official 2024 Sexiest Man Alive? Over Face Time?” she says dryly.
“So that’s a no?” I take my phone from Archie, hold it close so she can’t see, then dodge the bullets she shoots from her eyeballs. “Hey, mate! How’s London? Did you hear about the shark?”
“Rainy, and I’m not allowed to ask you about the shark. How close was it?” My best mate’s face fills the screen, his black hair sweaty and sticking to his forehead.
“Three, maybe four meters.” I don’t miss the surprise on Britta’s face. “That’s not so close,” Rhys says.
“Closer than you’ve ever been, outside an aquarium.”
Britta is playing cool. Her tapping foot is the only tell that she’s interested in my conversation with one of the biggest musical artists in the world. Stella, on the other hand, may spontaneously combust if I don’t give her at least a peek at Rhys.
Despite his fame, though, Rhys is shy. He gets nervous meeting new people, almost to the point of panic attacks. There’s a physical and emotional distance between him and a crowd of people that makes him feel safe. One-on-one, though, isn’t his thing.
“Hey, we’ve got a couple friends here who’d like to meet you,” I say to him. “You up for it?”
His shoulders drop, and I already know the answer.
“No worries if it’s not a good time,” I say.
“I just got back from the gym,” he says, like an apology.
It’s an excuse—a flimsy one, at that—but it’s fine. He has to protect his privacy in a way I only get a tiny taste of.
