Well, shit. She’s got me there. Now the question is how do I play this? I contemplate bullshitting her for about point-two seconds before dismissing the notion. Telling the truth has worked well so far, plus, Dots would call me on my shit faster than I can pop up on my board—which is pretty damn fast.
“I’m gonna be real with you Dots. You’re not gonna like what’s about to come out of my mouth.”
“Because I’ve loved everything else you’ve said?” Is it wrong that her sass gets me hard?
“I was fourteen. I was noticing girls and they were noticing me. I wanted to…” I trail off, trying to think of the best way to phrase what I want to say. “…I’m just gonna say it. I wanted to round the bases, Dot, and I couldn’t very well do that with you tagging along. Sounds harsh, but I was a shit then and I’m sorry.”
She laughs, but I can’t tell if it’s in humor or spite. “You’re a shit now, Dane Foster.”
I shuffle a step closer. “But I’m a sorry shit.”
“You’ll hear no arguments from me there. Lord knows, only a sorry shit would ditch a lifelong friend to get his dick rubbed.”
“Wait, that’s not what I meant.”
She shrugs. “Your words, I’m just choosing to interpret them differently.”
“You’re impossible,” I tell her, all the other times I’ve said those exact words to her playing through my mind like a highlight reel. Like the time she wanted to scale the side of my house and jump from the roof onto the trampoline so that she could bounce into my pool. I tried like hell to talk her out of it, but she insisted. Spoiler alert: she broke her ankle and spent the entire summer in a cast.
Or the time she begged the neighbor on the other side to pull her behind his car on her rollerblades—thankfully he refused and told her parents. She was grounded for a week.
Oh, and I can’t forget the time she talked me into marrying her. We couldn’t have been older than seven. I came over like I did every weekend and instead of wearing her play clothes, she was dressed up in a white church dress with flowers plucked directly from her front yard, roots and all, clutched in her small hands. I asked her what the heck she was up to and she proudly announced to me that she was a woman now since she’d lost both her front teeth and that we were getting married. I told her guys usually did the asking. Dots shoved me down and told me that was stupid. I told her she was impossible. We exchanged vows and dandelion stem rings all the same.
“You mean amazing,” she retorts.
“I definitely meant impossible.”
She grins and my heart thumps a little harder in my chest. “I’ve heard it both ways.”
I groan. “You did not just quote Psych.”
“Shawn Spencer is a God.”
“Whatever.” I move another step closer. “So, we good?”
She doesn’t immediately reply, and the sweat dotting my brow is more from nerves than the heat. Finally, she says, “As long as you can rein in Douchey Dane, yeah, we’re good.”
“I think I can manage.”
“Then you’ve got yourself a deal.” She holds out her hand for me to shake. I clasp her hand in mine, pumping my arm once before yanking her toward me. The move is unexpected and her unchecked momentum sends her plowing into my chest.
She moves to push away from me, but I band my arms around her and hold her to me, secretly loving the way her small, soft body feels against mine.
Before I can think better of it, I’m mumbling into her hair how much I’ve missed her and how I’m glad she’s here. “For real, you were my ride or die and I left you. I’ve missed you like hell.”
“You could have called. Texted. Facebooked, anything Dane.” Her warm breath fans against my chest, but she still makes no move to pull out of my embrace.
“I know, Dots. I know.” After a few more quiet moments, we break apart. “You ready to surf?” I ask, knowing damn well she doesn’t need the lessons.
“Yup.” We grab our boards and head toward the water. The breaking waves rock us gently as we wade out. “Hey Dane,” Dots says once we’re knee deep.
I turn and look at her, only to find her belly down on her board, staring straight ahead. “Yeah?”