Page 64 of A Deal with the Devil

“I suppose Matt was extremely good at surfing,” he says, his lip curling.

“He was kind of good at everything,” I reply as I head to the door. Except it no longer feels true. I’m mostly saying it to annoy Hayes…which it does.

“I can think of one or two things he wasn’t so good at,” Hayes mutters from behind me.

At Starbucks, the line takes longer than it should, thanks to the woman taking ninety minutes to choose a cake pop.

We get our drinks, and he stirs in his very own sugar like a big boy. “So,” he says, glancing at the door, “we’re about to experience the magic of walking outside. Will it feel like absolute inner peace or more like an orgasm that lasts and lasts?”

My shoulders sag. I’d hoped to make Hayes see the value in time off, but how can I when he’s hell-bent on proving me wrong? “I knew you’d be an asshole about it.”

I walk out without him and turn my face to the sun. The air smells like scrub oak and primrose, the weather is perfect and I have a day at the beach ahead of me. It will have to be enough, whether Hayes is grousing the entire time or not.

He comes up beside me, and his arm brushes mine.

“I’m having fun, Tali,” he says softly. “For some reason complaining to you about things I don’t actually mind is just my favorite thing to do.”

It’s not an apology, but it’s close enough and something inside me warms a little.

“Better than banging three girls at once?” I nudge him with my shoulder.

He looks around. “Is that an option at the moment? Is that what you meant when you said we’re surfing? Because if so, I’m one hundred percent in.”

“Sadly, no,” I reply.

“Alas,” he says. “But yes, this will be fun too.”

* * *

I arranged for the surf instructor to meet us out in front of the property at ten. I slip on my bikini, grab sunscreen, and wander to the deck where Hayes is already waiting.

His eyes roam over me—face to chest to legs, back to the chest where they remain. My body reacts to his obvious approval—skin tingling, nipples hardening under my bikini top. I try not to squirm, to let him see how his attention affects me. He turns away and I see him adjust his shorts. I like that I affect him too.

“I kind of figured you for the sporty-swim-shorts-and-tank-top kind of gal,” he says.

“The surf instructor is bringing us wet suits. Otherwise, you’d be correct.”

He turns and his eyes flicker over me again, and linger. “Probably for the best. That top looks like a light breeze could send it flying.”

We walk down a flight of the stairs to the beach, where Gus, our young, shaggy-haired instructor, waits. We struggle into wetsuits and then he makes us practice popping up on the board until he’s deemed us ready to paddle out.

He nods toward the surf and leads the way, but Hayes hesitates, looking from me to the water. “You’re sure you’re going to be okay? Those don’t look like pygmy-size waves.”

I fight an affectionate smile as I nod. In every important relationship I’ve ever had—with Matt and with my family—I’ve been the rock, the one who worries, not the one who is worried about. It’s a role I think Hayes would refuse to let me play, and there’s a part of me that is so, so tired of playing it, that wishes badly I could lean on someone the way my family leans on me.

I catch a few waves while Gus helps Hayes. After several false starts, Hayes manages to stay upright for a solid ten seconds. Within an hour, he’s better at it than I am.

We’re straddling our boards and staring at the horizon, waiting for the next set, when Gus points ahead of us.

“Whales,” he says, and they emerge not thirty feet from where we sit. Out of nowhere, grief hits. It was a dream of my father’s, to go on a whale-watching tour and for a moment I allow myself to think of him here with me. The sun on his shoulders, the water lapping at his legs, a huge smile on his face as he enjoys the wonder of it all. I pinch my lips together and swallow hard as a sharp pain pierces my heart.

Hayes says nothing, but he reaches out and pulls my surfboard so we are side by side, knees bumping, as they pass.

“Are you happy?” I ask quietly.

His hand rests on my knee, making small circles with his thumb. “Very,” he says. “We should do this again.”

I glance up at him and his mouth lifts, one dimple blinking to life. It’s a perfect moment at the end of a very imperfect year. I’m not sure my father would approve of Hayes, but if he’s watching, he’s probably smiling despite himself.