Mo starts to correct him, but I shake her off and she lets it slide. Instead she turns to me and says, “I understand you’re going to be teaching Ben the fine art.” She always refers to surfing as “the fine art.”
“Yes, I am,” I say.
She gives us the once-over and nods her approval. “Good choice.”
I don’t know if she’s saying that I’m a good choice as a teacher for him or if he’s a good choice as a guy for me. Knowing Mo, it’s probably a combination of both.
“I’ll be happy to take any pointers that you may have too,” he tells her. “After all, you are a four-time King of the Beach. Or is it Queen?”
“King works,” she says with more than a little pride. She thinks about it and says, “My advice is that you should remember to fall in love with your heart and not with your brain. . . .”
I start to stammer something about it being way too early to use the L word, but catch myself when she continues.
“So pick a board that speaks to you right here.” She taps him in the center of the chest. “And always listen to what Izzy tells you. The girl has the gift.”
“I’ll do that,” he says.
Mo smiles and leaves us in the garage. For the first time since my dad interrupted us yesterday morning, we are alone. I look at him. He looks at me. And I realize I have no idea what to say. You’d think that since I’ve been obsessing over this moment for the last six hours, I might have come up with an opening line.
“Hi.” (Clever, huh?)
“Hi,” he says. “Is your shift over?”
“Yep,” I say. “Although I do have to be home for dinner in about an hour.”
He thinks this over for a moment. “An hour, huh? That doesn’t really leave us enough time to run the eight miles I was hoping to get in, so do you want to just go out on the pier and look at the ocean instead?”
“It’s one of my favorite things in the world.”
The Pearl Beach Fishing Pier is rare in that it’s equally popular with tourists and locals alike. It stretches out from the southern end of the boardwalk and is exactly one quarter mile long. When Ben and I get there, it’s low tide and the beach is at its widest. That means we have to walk nearly a third of the length of the pier before we’re actually over the water. There are people fishing from both sides for most of the way, but none at the far end. There’s also no railing at the end, which allows boats to tie off and lets us sit down on the edge and dangle our feet over the water.
“It’s pretty,” Ben says, looking out at endless ocean.
“It’s better than pretty,” I say as I close my eyes and feel the sea mist against my face. “It’s perfect.”
There’s that word again—“perfect.” It’s the same word I used to describe him yesterday morning, and I wonder if he makes the connection.
We’re both quiet for a little while, and I can tell he’s thinking of what to say. I decide to beat him to the punch.
“I’m pretty sure I know why you wanted to talk,” I offer. “And I’d just like to apologize for all the melodramatic baggage I laid on you yesterday. I also want to apologize for giving you the cold shoulder lately. You deserve better.”
“First of all, you don’t need to apologize for anything,” he says. “And secondly, that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”
I take a deep breath. This is it.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“You’ve told me great things about the beach and surfing. You’ve told me where to eat and how to dress.”
“But . . . ,” I say. “This sounds like it’s leading to a ‘but.’”
I open my eyes and turn to him. He’s looking right at me.
“But,” he says, “you’ve told me almost nothing about yourself. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk about you.”
This catches me off guard. Completely off guard.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you know all kinds of things about me. You know about my parents getting divorced. You know about me breaking up with my ex-girlfriend. You know about my school and my uncle and that I run cross-country. But the only thing I know about you is that your favorite ice cream flavor is mint chocolate chip.”
“That’s probably the most interesting thing about me.”
He shakes his head. “You should think more of yourself, Izzy. I’m sure there are an endless number of interesting things about you, and I’d like to know some of them.”
I rack my brain trying to think of any worth telling, but I come up blank.
“I’m sorry. It’s all just so . . . ordinary.”
“That cannot be,” he protests.
“Okay, I’ll prove it. You’ve met my parents and I’m an only child, so that means you know my entire family. I get good grades at school, but I’m pretty anonymous when I walk through the halls. That’s partly by choice and partly due to the high school version of Darwin’s natural selection. I haven’t told you about breaking up with my ex-boyfriend because I’ve never had a boyfriend. So, now you’re all caught up.”
“You’ve never had a boyfriend?”
I find this particular bit of information to be supremely embarrassing, so I turn away and look back at the water as I answer. “No.”
“Why not?” he asks. “What’s the problem?”
“I guess I’m just a loser,” I say sharply.
“No. I mean, what’s the problem with the boys in this town? How is it possible that you’ve never had a boyfriend? Does the salt water get in their brains? Does the sun make them stupid?”
“You’ve seen Kayla,” I say. “My school is loaded with girls who look like that.”
He thinks about this for a moment. “Okay, I’ll admit that Kayla is hot—”
“You think?” I say sarcastically.
“But she’s not in your league. You’re smarter, funnier, and way more interesting.”
“All things that a girl wants to hear. I’m sure she goes to bed every night cursing my really good personality.”
“You do have a really good personality,” he says. “But if you want me to be shallow, I’ll point out that you’re also better looking than her.”
I give him the look. “That’s completely untrue and you know it.”
“That’s funny, because I don’t know that,” he says. “I do know that she asked me to go to a party tonight. And I know that I turned her down so I could hang out with you.”
I’m not sure if I’ll ever have another such opportunity in the future, so I savor this for a moment before I respond.
“Really?”
“Really, and I’ll prove it,” he says, throwing my line right back at me. He covers his eyes with his left hand. “Ask me to describe Kayla.”
I’m skeptical of where this is going, but I don’t have much choice. “Describe Kayla.”
“Big boobs. Long legs. Great hair.”
I haven’t mentioned it yet, but he’s right—Kayla’s hair is spectacular. “Okay,” I reply. “You’re kind of proving my point.”
He shakes his head but still keeps his hand over his eyes. “Now ask me to describe you.”
I don’t really see how this can turn out well, so I don’t say anything. He doesn’t let that stop him.
“You have a wrinkle in your chin,” he says.
“Wow, a chin wrinkle sounds way better than big boobs.”
“You have this amazing wrinkle in your chin,” he says, ignoring my sarcasm, “that only appears when you smile. It’s so irresistible that I keep telling stupid jokes just so that you’ll laugh and I can see it again.”
I reflexively run my finger along my chin.
“And your eyes defy description,” he continues. “When I met you, I thought they were blue. Then, when we went to Luigi’s, I could have sworn they were brown. And yesterday morning . . . I’m certain they were green. Every time I see you, the first thing I look at are your eyes so I can see what color they are.”
Let me reiterate that this type of conversation is new to me, and it has me feeling a little breathless.