Furious - By Jill Wolfson Page 0,67
of his eye, weighing whether he wants to tell me. “You know … stuff.”
“That’s descriptive.”
“Sorry. It’s hard to say it out loud. I think about … well … you, for one thing.”
“Me?”
“How I treated you when you were gutsy enough to ask me to go golfing. And how I treat other people. I haven’t always been the nicest guy in the world. I think about the person I want to be. And whether I can ever be that person. Do you think people can change?”
“Of course!” I’m not saying this just to be flirty. I think of what I discovered about myself recently, how so much is possible. I can’t give him the details, but I want to say something encouraging. “Yes, definitely. From personal experience, I know that people change. You can, too.”
I peek around the opening of the cave and get a glimpse of the famous surfing spot. There’s a lineup of surfers, probably his friends, waiting for the next set of waves to roll in. “Cool angle on the surfer statue! This is how the seals, otters, and whales must see it.”
I’m surprised at his reaction. He stares at the statue like he’s scared of it, or hates it, or both. His voice goes flat. “Yeah, Prince of the Waves gazing out into eternity.”
“That statue. It reminds me of you.”
His body shifts uncomfortably. I feel it as a tug on the flannel in my hand. “What? Did I say something wrong?”
“You don’t know? You really don’t know?”
“Know what?”
His jaw tightens and the resemblance to the statue is even stronger. “My grandfather was the model. Big-wave surfer from way back. My father looks just like him, and I look like my dad did at this age. My family’s been in this town for a long time.”
“That must be something,” I say. “To know where you came from. To feel connected to a place and to people. I wish I…”
I let the sentence run out. I don’t know how much Brendon knows about me, and I don’t want to turn this into a pity party about the poor foster kid who doesn’t know her own parents or belong anywhere.
“There are some good things about it,” he says. I wonder if he’s going to say something else. He seems to want to, but he pauses. I want to know more about him. Anything. Everything. I ask: “That must mean that there are some not-so-good things, too.”
“Expectations.” The word comes out harsh, blunt. He motions toward the Prince, a gray silhouette against a gray sky. “I’m supposed to be just like him, and just like my father, carry on the oh-so-important family legacy. Never question it. Ride the biggest waves and tackle the hardest surf, win all the contests, be the biggest badass dude in the water. Have the coolest friends, the sickest board, the newest wet suit, the hottest girlfriend. What if I don’t want the hottest girlfriend?”
“Every guy wants the hottest girlfriend.”
Fierce. “Not this guy.”
“You always date the hottest girls in the school.”
“Because that’s what everyone expects me to do. What if I want a girlfriend I want and she’s not so hot?”
Now I’m the one who’s fidgeting. He rotates on our rock and gives me a funny look. “Uh-oh. Did I just blow it? Yeah, I blew it. I’m not saying you’re not hot. Because you are.”
“Yeah, right.” I lick my index finger, touch it to my bottom and make a sizzling sound.
He laughs. “See, that’s what I mean! What if I want a girlfriend who makes me laugh and thinks about things in interesting ways? Maybe I want a girlfriend who’s not in the popular crowd and who prefers the boardwalk in the winter and doesn’t complain about hanging out in a cave and takes risks and…”
“And,” I add, hopefully, “is hot, too?”
“Definitely. Smoking hot.” Another laugh, but he quickly turns pensive. “I’m talking about more than just my choice of girlfriends.”
“I know that.”
“It’s about my whole life. What if I don’t want to carry on some stupid surfing family legacy? What if I want something else? What if I want to figure things out for myself?”
“Surfing? You want to give that up?”
“No way! I love surfing. Without it, I feel disconnected from everything—the air, the water, from myself. Coming down the face of a wave, the power, the explosion of colors, being eye to eye with an otter, being part of all that. It’s the best. But for him”—he juts his chin toward the statue—“for my