“Beau and Izzy, hey!”
How did she remember their names?
Beau smiled at her. “Hi, Dottie. Can we get that same surfboard and wet suit, or similar, for Isabelle again today?”
She nodded. “Sure thing.”
She turned to go through the wet suits, and Izzy nudged Beau.
“It’s okay for you to call me Izzy,” she said.
He turned and looked down at her. “Thank you. I will.” He smiled. “But I like Isabelle, you know. I like the sound of it.”
He was so close to her they were almost touching.
“I do, too,” she said.
“Okay, great!” Izzy jumped at the sound of Dottie’s voice. “Here’s your wetsuit, Iz.” Sure, okay, that seemed like a very beach town surf shop kind of nickname. She could live with it. “You know where the changing room is.”
They went down to the water, Beau carrying the surfboard again. He dropped it down onto the sand.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s have you lie down on it, like before, and then practice sliding yourself up into that same stance I taught you last time. Do you remember how to do that?”
Oh no. Why had she suggested surfing?
“Yes, I remember. My body hurts just at the memory.”
Beau made Izzy practice lying down on the surfboard and then sliding into a standing position over and over again on the sand. Finally, he said she was ready to go into the water. At first, he had her pull herself up so she was kneeling on the board. Once she’d done that successfully a few times—which took a while—he told her to try to stand.
As soon as she tried, she fell off.
And then again.
And again.
The fourth time, though, she finally got herself into a standing position for a few seconds, before a wave came and she lost her balance and fell off again. When she surfaced, though, they were both grinning.
“That was great!” Beau said. “Now let’s do it again.”
They stayed in the water for a long time. After she managed to stand up two more times, they walked together onto the beach. Izzy collapsed onto the sand, and Beau sat down next to her. The sky and the water were still just as gray as they’d been the day before, but now Izzy could see all the gradations of color: the paler, brighter gray where the sun was trying to poke out, the darker gray where there was more cloud cover, the bright white of the surf, the soft beige of the sand. It no longer looked sad and depressing, but peaceful.
“I came here yesterday,” she said. Beau turned to look at her, but she kept looking forward. “I sat here for a while. It helped.”
“I’m glad,” he said.
She was glad he didn’t apologize again—they’d already had that conversation, that wasn’t why she’d said it. She just wanted him to know.
He nudged her. She could feel the warmth of his body through her wet suit. She wanted to lean into it but resisted.
“Thanks,” he said. “For making me send that text today.”
She smiled at him. “You’re welcome.”
They were silent for a while. It felt nice. To be there with him, to be comfortable with him, to be at peace with him again.
“Can I ask you a question?” he said.
She looked at him. He had a tiny triangle of freckles on his right cheek that she’d never noticed before. She usually wasn’t this close to him.
“Okay,” she said.
He hesitated a moment. “I’ve been wondering this for a while. Why aren’t you a writer? You read so much, you have such good instincts about writing, you’re such a good editor. Haven’t you ever wanted to write, too?”
She looked down at the sand. Maybe he knew her better than she’d thought. “I have. I did. I used to be a writer.”
Now he turned his whole body to face her. “What do you mean, you used to be? Do you write? Then you’re a writer. Aren’t you the one who told me that?”
She looked at him sideways. “I hate you so much, do you know that?”
He laughed out loud. “I know. But…”
She sighed. “You’re right. I wanted to be a writer since I was little. I was a writer for a long time. For years. I wrote a novel.”
She closed her eyes for a second. She’d never told anyone—really told anyone—about this. She’d been too ashamed. But after the past few days, it felt like all the barriers had come down between her and Beau. She felt like she could say anything to him.
“I was really hopeful about it. And then a while ago, someone I work with, one of the assistant editors, read it. He was very kind about it, said it was a very sweet first effort and he didn’t want to discourage me at all, but that it felt very juvenile. He didn’t want me to embarrass myself by passing it along to anyone else.” She looked out at the water. “I felt like all my dreams died, right in that moment.”
“Let me guess,” Beau said. “That guy Gavin.”
She turned to look at him. He looked furious, more angry than she’d ever seen him.
“Yeah,” she said. “It was Gavin.”
Beau shook his head. “You can’t listen to that guy! I told you, he’s trying to sabotage you. He’s scared of you and how good you are. He wanted to make you feel like you’re not talented, not accomplished, not good enough. He probably didn’t even read the whole thing—just pulled out enough from it to say things that he knew would sting, so you wouldn’t talk to anyone else about this.”
She was scared to believe that. Scared to hope.
“If that was his goal, it worked. It was a real hit to my confidence. There were a lot of those over the past year, actually. I was on the point of giving up on all this. Writing, publishing, the whole thing.”
He rested his hand next to hers on the sand. “You said was. Have you changed your mind?”
She nodded slowly. “I think so.” Then she let herself smile. “I want to say that a different way. Yes, I’ve changed my mind. I’m still scared about it, but all the pep talks I gave you…I guess they got to me, too. Since I’ve been here, I’ve started writing again. Just a little. I had this idea that wouldn’t get out of my head, so I started writing little bits of it, and…it’s making me really happy.”
He smiled at her. “That’s great, Izzy. I’m glad.”
She smiled back at him. “Me too. And even my job has felt different. Don’t get me wrong, the problems are all still there. Maybe it’s partly the distance—I have a better perspective on work, now that I’m not in that building every day. But it’s also been my work with you. I’ve felt excited about my work, hopeful about what this job could be. It’s made me want to bring my old dreams back to life. So thank you, for that.”
“You’re welcome, but I didn’t do any of that. You did it all.” A grin slowly spread across his face. “I have an idea. What if there’s a new rule for the writing time in the library: We both have to write, not just me?”
She pulled her knees up to her chest. “You’re not going to take no for an answer on this one, are you?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Absolutely not. But then, you wouldn’t have told me about this if you wanted that from me.”
He was probably right about that.
He put his hand on her back. She wanted to lean into it, reach out for him, but she didn’t.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go home. We have lots of snacks waiting for us.”
She jumped up. “You’re right. I bet the snack cabinet misses us. It’s probably making up little songs, just to be ready for us to come back.”
When they got back to the car, Beau tossed her a hoodie from the backseat. “Here. You look cold.”
She was cold—she should have worn something other than a sleeveless dress to the beach in this weather. As she slipped it on, he cleared his throat.
“I know you said not to apologize again. But I just need to say this. I can be a real asshole, but if I’d known that, about you and writing, I never would have said what I said yesterday. I really hate that I hurt you like that.”
She touched his arm. “I know.”
They were mostly quiet on the way home. Izzy was glad she’d suggested surfing. Things felt better between them. Not back to how it had been before—that was impossible. Good in a different way, though.
Izzy checked her phone when she got back to the house.
Met a hot medical student last night, friend of my cousin. Keep your fingers crossed he asks me out!
Izzy laughed. Priya always managed to find hot guys wherever she went.
Fingers and toes are crossed!
When Izzy got back downstairs after a shower, she wandered to the kitchen. When she got there, she stopped and stared.
Beau stood at the kitchen island, his hands—and part of his T-shirt—dusted in flour, rolling out dough.
“What…What are you doing?”
He looked up from the dough to her. “Making croissants. I started them last night, after you went to bed. They take forever, but now it’s time to laminate the dough.”