Page 92 of On the Slopes of Tahoe
“I don’t know. We haven’t talked in weeks.” Admitting it out loud makes my heart hurt, but I guess I’m done ignoring this now. “I know he’s trying to figure out his life there. I don’t want to overrun it with my stuff. I don’t know if I’m making it all up in my head—what I felt when he was here, what I thought he felt too.”
Wes sits quietly, and I appreciate that he’s such a good listener, just letting me talk.
“I thought if I could come visit and see him—in his element, see that he’s good there, that he’s where he’s supposed to be—I could let go.”
“Or you could come visit and see he misses you just as much as you miss him.”
“You think so?” I ask with too much eagerness in my voice, too much hope.
“Yeah. I do. Send me those dates and I’ll get you a flight.”
“I can get—”
“I know you can.” His lips tip up in a grin. “Or you could let your big brother do something for you for once.”
I nod, love for him filling my chest and butterflies filling my stomach.
I’m going to Sydney.
“Thank you, Wes.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Breck
Isit astride my surfboard, bobbing in the waves. The heat of the sun warms my face, my chest, my arms. I’ve sat on this board, with this view of the beach and the city beyond, more times than I can count, but something about today feels different.
Willow and I have been home for almost seven weeks, but with the little progress I’ve made it feels like no time has passed. I’m still sleeping in the guest room. I’m still just as unsure of what I want to do here—build another business, find a new company to work for… I was fortunate to have the AdventureChasers money to live off these past five months, but I can’t continue on this way. I want to feel the way I did in Tahoe, like I was doing something useful and productive. Like I was wanted and worthy.
A wave lifts me, but I don’t paddle to catch it, letting it pass me by. I’ve been out here nearly every day since we got back. I thought the quiet and the serenity of the ocean would bring me answers, help me find my center again, but I continue to feel off-kilter.
The truth is, I don’t need help finding my center. I know where it is, and it’s not in Sydney. It’s not even in this hemisphere.
It’s in Tahoe, with Rory.
Beyond a few business-related emails—that felt too formal, foreign even—and the postcard she sent to Willow a couple weeks back, we haven’t talked. That was easier initially. I thought it would help us both move on with our separate lives, but the longer our silence stretches, the harder it is. I don’t want to accept that our lives are meant to be separate. It doesn’t feel right.
Another wave lifts me, and this time, I let my instincts take over. I dig in, using my arms to paddle and catch up. I’m a little behind it now, but I want it and I’m not going to let this one pass me by. I stretch every muscle of my arms to their limit until I’m right at the crest. I push against the board to jump to my feet, and when the water sprays across my body, it’s invigorating.
This is the most awake I’ve felt in weeks. Pumping my legs, I roller-coaster up and down the face. This is my wave. The one I was meant for today. With my thoughts on Rory and my body in this wave, they feel connected. This wave is the one, and maybe Rory was too. I fall back just enough to allow the tube to engulf me, surround me, until it spits me out and I ride the whitewater as far as it will take me. I’m unwilling to let this ride go…
Just like I keep wishing I hadn’t let Rory go.
I paddle into the shore until it’s shallow enough I can hop off my board and walk my way up to the beach. The crackling sound of the Velcro on my leash grits against my sensitive nerves. I lay the board down and find my space next to it. I don’t care that I’m covered in sand, instead reveling in the gritty texture against my skin. I press my hands in, letting it flow between my fingers.
I turn my head and envision Rory lying beside me, sand in her hair, freckles on sun-kissed cheeks. Would she love to surf? Would she give me a run for my money every day if she was here? The vision changes to the three of us in the snow, making snow angels, and how her hand brushed mine. The mountain is her wave, and she rides it with ease. I know she could take on the ocean, but Tahoe’s where she feels at home.
I felt at home there too. I grew up the same as her, on mountains with a board strapped to my feet. I just had to adapt to a different board, to the water, when I moved from the Perisher Valley to Sydney.
My eyes are closed against the sun and I attempt to quiet my brain. I could go back out, but I don’t want another wave today. I’m happy to go home with that as my final ride.
I roll over, the sand sticking to my skin as I move to get my board.
On the drive home, I nearly hit Rory’s name on my contact list a dozen times.
What am I so afraid of?
Pulling into the driveway, I decide I can at least shoot her a text—try to open that line of communication again.
