Page 13 of Stick Break
A wave of guilt seeps through my blood. If I had anywhere to go, I would. I guess all I can do is try to make this week easy on him. Help him out with cooking and cleaning, and healing and whatever other things he might need help with, like yoga, stretching…doggy style.
Nope not going there.
He sets the toolbox on the ground, and I’m about to flick my hair over my shoulder before I bend to pick it up. That’s when I remember it’s cut short. My stomach tightens. I probably shouldn’t be out on the rocks, parading around the beach where someone might recognize me.
Rips phone pings, and he tugs it from the side pocket of his shorts. His entire body goes stiff as he reads the message, then he stands there like he’s debating his next move.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah, it’s…ah…she’s uh…”
“You don’t know who she is?”
“She’s my girlfriend,” he blurts out, and that takes me by surprise.
“Oh, yes, of course. I’ll just be over there, to give you privacy?” He rubs his eyebrow as I step away, which appears to be some kind of nervous tick. Are they having a fight? Is that why he looked unsure, maybe even a bit nervous when the message came in? Does she know about his injury? Is he hiding it from her, too?
Wow, for a girl who doesn’t want to get to know her roommate, I sure have a lot of questions.
Not your business, Charly.
Unless of course it is my business and he’s worried his girlfriend would be upset to find out he was cohabitation with a strange woman.
I walk away, and stand in the small driveway. I’m guessing Rip must have taken an Uber here too, since there’s no car in the driveway. If there had of been, I probably wouldn’t have shimmied the window open and snuck inside.
I examine the fishing pole and tug on the line, pretending to know something about the contraption as his fingers fly over his phone. A moment later, toolbox in hand and fishing rod in the other he steps up to me.
“All set?”
From the frown on his face, to the deep line in his forehead, it’s easy to tell he’s not okay. I’m not about to ask. Asking questions leads to more question and I don’t want any of those directed at me.
“Those rocks over there?” I say, pointing off toward the coastline, hoping to steer the conversation toward something he obviously enjoys. My finger arcs through the salty air, and Rip follows the line of my hand. “That’s where we’re going.”
He nods, and I ask, “He nods. “Have you been fishing this week?”
“Nearly every day.”
We fall into step, our feet crunching over a mix of crushed shells as we cross the road and reach the beach. We head toward the waterline.
“Catch anything?” I ask, brushing a wind-whipped strand of hair from my cheek.
A grin tugs at his mouth, and his shoulders lift in a dramatic shrug. “Yesterday I caught an old pair of gym shorts, followed by a wave of disappointment.”
I snort, nearly tripping over a driftwood log. “Tragic.”
“Don’t laugh,” he says, bumping my shoulder with his. I stumble sideways with a mock gasp, nearly losing a flip-flop. “I worked hard. I thought I had something big on the line.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, still giggling as I regain my balance. “Really, I am.”
Rip shoots me a sideways look. “Don’t be. There’s a fish market down the street. This is about relaxing.”
We reach a flat stretch of wet sand and slow our pace. I glance over at him. “So... did you keep them? The shorts, I mean.”
“No.”
I tap my chin. “Hmmm.”
“What?”
