close the door. Damien takes the board.
And then I deflate. “Crap.”
“What?”
“I forgot to fill the jugs with hot water,” I say, tucking my hands in and out of my sleeves. Damien and I have been rinsing off with fresh warm water after our surf sessions. It’s a little thing, but it feels so good.
“Chillax, girl. I’ll get your board strapped in, no rush.”
This is so not the day to go back inside and risk another run-in. But what am I supposed to say to Damien? We don’t have hot water? I’m extra-scared of Dad this morning? Yeah, right. I bite my lip and trudge back to the house. As I step through the front door, I hear cursing come from my bedroom. Shit.
Forget it. Just go, go, go. I rush to the pantry to grab some empty water jugs and fill them up as quickly as possible. Thank God we have an instant hot water tap. I’m working on jug number two when I hear heavy footsteps closing in on me. I’ll play dumb.
“Oh hey, Daddy. I forgot the hot water jugs. I’ll be out of your way in just a minute.” I glance backward to see dirty laundry in his hands.
“‘Almost finished,’ huh? I’d sure as hell hate to see what ‘haven’t even started’ looks like.”
“It’s really not that much. It looks worse than it is.” My pulse quickens and I consider bailing—leaving the jugs on the counter, running and never coming back. Instead I pop the lid onto the jug. Damien will think I’m crazy if I walk out without these things full, and I don’t want to explain any more than I want to face Dad right now.
He slams the laundry on the table. “Then you’ll have no problem showing me what spotless looks like tomorrow morning.”
I cringe. “Yes sir.”
He flings his arm in the air and shoos me toward the door. “Well, what’s wrong with you? You’re making him wait.”
“Yes sir.” I grab the jugs and scramble for the door, but not before getting a hard backhand on my rear on the way out. I guess that’s the only place he can be sure Damien won’t see, if it leaves a mark.
Tears smart my eyes. I won’t cry; he won’t win.
I jerk the Jeep door open and shove the water jugs onto the floorboard, then slam the door, blinking back tears and hoping Damien isn’t looking at me.
“Easy there. I waxed her yesterday. Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine.” My voice comes out raspy, but if
I try to clear my throat it will just make it more obvious. “I guess I’m in a rush.”
Silence lingers for a minute. “The waves’ll be there. What’s with the hurry?”
I swallow hard, trying to clear my throat. “Too much.”
Damien turns to me. “Want to talk about it?”
Please God, start the engine already. We need to go. I need to get out of here.
“Not really,” I say, kicking off my turquoise flip-flops and drawing my knees to my chest.
He eyes Dad’s car in the driveway and nods like he understands. “It’s cool. If you change your mind … I’m here.”
If only he knew. I don’t answer. I stare out the window. I screwed things up with Ford. Our relationship is ruined. He’s got new peeps. I don’t want to do the same with Damien. I mumble, “It’s just the fact that my parents kind of have unrealistic expectations. You know? And sometimes my dad gets fired up when he’s pissed.”
He drives down the street away from our house, and with every foot between me and my dad, I feel a nervous energy pulsing through me. I’m unsure as to whether I’m going to laugh or cry or scream.
Damien stays quiet as we exit the neighborhood and I feel dumb for saying anything. I know better than that. Nobody ever wants the truth, not even close to it. It was a moment of weakness. I lost control of my emotions.
Once Damien gets on the highway he says, “Does that mean what I think it means? Like, he’s physical toward you?”
I squirm like an ant under a magnifying glass in the hot sun, my pulse quickening as a lump the size of a brick fills up my throat. I’m miserable; scraping Grimace Rock was a picnic compared to the humiliation weighing on me like a two-ton elephant.
He runs his right hand back over his dreads and then places it back on the wheel. He sucks in a big breath of air, starts to say something, and