I assume this means Gabe and I will part ways, and I can get some time to collect myself.
Unfortunately, he tells the instructor he’s never surfed before. Even more unfortunately, everyone else has some experience, so the two of us are paired off to learn the basics on the shore while the rest of the group starts off in the shallows.
We’re given boards and coached on paddling, popping up, and catching a wave. We practice on the sand. Neither of us can master the popping up part. I’m too top-heavy and keep instinctively using my hands. Gabe, who is lithe and strong and always moves athletically, for some reason keeps falling over.
It makes me a little suspicious that he’s just doing this to make me feel better about my own clumsiness.
The instructor, Rufio, is patient, but it’s clear that our inability to master the fundamentals frustrates him. He suggests we take our boards out into the water to practice paddling, then come back to try standing again. I look longingly past Rufio’s shoulders to the people sunning themselves on the lounge chairs.
“Or,” Gabe says to me, “we could admit we’re terrible at this and catch up at the restaurant.”
I follow his gaze past the chairs to a covered patio with a circular bar. Blenders buzz, glasses sweat, ceiling fans whir.
My entire soulachesto be there and not here.
I know that hunkering down with Gabe at a bar is, on the surface, a bad move. But having one cold drink in the blissful shade after hauling myself up and down on a hard, sandy surfboard under the glaring sun feels like a justifiable tradeoff.
“You know what, Rufio?” I say. “You’ve been great but I think we’re going to call it a day.”
“Thanks, man,” Gabe says, handing him a couple of twenties.
Rufio shrugs and tells us to have a good trip.
“And now,” Gabe says. “Margaritas.”
We perch on high-backed stools and order drinks. Under the shade, I can actually appreciate the beautiful day and idyllic surroundings. The bartender puts two drinks in front of us. Gabe lifts his glass to mine.
“To not surfing,” he says.
This, at least, I don’t feel conflicted about. “To notfuckingsurfing,” I say, clinking.
My drink is amazing—icy and citric in a way that perfectly cuts the humidity. I decide this was the right move.
Until Gabe takes my hand.
I freeze at his touch.
“I’ve missed you terribly,” he says. “I’ve tried calling you, but I couldn’t get through.”
“That would be because I blocked you,” I say. “Everywhere.”
Though not immediately. There were months when the only thing in the world I wanted was for him to say he was sorry and ask to try again. But after an entire fiscal quarter of radio silence, Lauren finally succeeded in convincing me that any shred of hope was counterproductive. It was better not to know.
“I also stopped by Lauren’s, but she wouldn’t tell me where you were.”
I didn’t know that. I’m sure she did it to protect me, but it feels like information I was entitled to.
Not that I would say that tohim.
“That’s because you fucked up my life. You get that, right?”
“I do,” he says, looking into my eyes. “I understand. I know that I hurt you. I’m so sorry.”
Right. He’s sorry. Just like he said he was when he did it in the first place. Doesn’t change anything.
“It’s just… us both being here,” he says. “Doesn’t it feel like fate?”
The sentiment is so overblown that it knocks some coherence back into me.
