Authors: Anna Cruise
Down By The Water (30 page)
FOUR
People closed in around me as soon as I stepped back on to the beach. A sea of faces, a crush of bodies. But all I could see was Jay. Not the Jay I knew, the Jay who was whispering words of encouragement to me out on the water just an hour earlier. No. This Jay was different. The Jay I last saw, the Jay that haunted my memory every fucking chance it got.
A lifeless, motionless Jay, limp as a rag doll, as I dragged him to shore.
Fucking juice.
Steve Winslow, a reporter for Surfer, approached me. Decent guy, someone I'd talked to at length plenty of times. “Kellen, do you have a few minutes?”
I brushed past him.
An all too familiar blond hottie wearing her camera face, microphone in hand, approached me. “You looked great out there, Kellen. Congrats on the semifinals. Tell us how you're going to prepare.”
I just stared at her. I couldn't think. I couldn't speak. I couldn't breathe. I kept walking, my legs wobbly.
“Kellen,” the reporter called, her voice sharp. To someone else, she said, “Cut the damn camera.” To me, louder, “Kellen Handler. We have an interview. We're scheduled to go live in five minutes.”
I didn't stop.
Winslow jogged up to me, a hesitant smile on his face. “Dude. Lindsay is talking to you.”
I knew who she was. Reporter for ESPN. I'd almost slept with her two years earlier. But I hadn't. Because Jay had been there to intervene before I could cross that line.
And he wasn't here anymore.
Because of me.
“I don't wanna talk.” My voice was a whisper.
His smile disappeared and I couldn't tell what replaced it. A frown? A worried look? “You're the man, dude. You're the reason everyone is here. She needs to talk to you. Hell,
I
need to talk to you. But I'll give you a pass for the moment if you need it.” He glanced back at her. “She won't, though, and you know she'll go complain. You don't wanna deal with that crap right now, do you?”
I didn't care. I couldn't plaster a smile on my face and talk nonsense shit about the tour, about how the water was, about what my strategy would be for the next round of competition. I couldn't talk about my competitors, about what I expected or wanted from the tour. But, more than anything, I couldn't talk about Jay Torres.
Jay Torres. The guy I'd surfed with since I was just a grommet on the waves, unsteady and uncertain on the massive fiberglass board floating beneath me. Jay Torres, the guy I'd spent every day out on the water with. Skipping school and blowing off girlfriends for wicked swells and epic waves. Jay Torres who rose to the top with me—the only guy I could talk to and joke with when we were placed in the same heat, bobbing up and down on the water as we waited for the perfect set. Jay Torres, the dude who knew me better than I knew myself, both in the water and out of it.
Jay Torres. The guy who I'd let down, who I let drown six months ago..
**end of sample**
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