Dawn by McKayla Box

Chapter 17

Ibarely sleep, tossing and turning overnight. I purposely shut off my phone so I don’t have to listen to it go off and because I don’t want to talk to Trevor and I don’t want to talk to anyone about Trevor.

Maybe a break is good.

I get up and eat a bowl of cereal. I have a momentary pause about going down to the beach to surf because I’m immediately worried that I’ll run into Trevor. But I’m not going to let him take away the one thing I know is always good for me. So I change into my swimsuit, load up my car with my board, wetsuit, and towel, and head down to the water.

It's overcast again and the clouds hang low over the surface of the ocean when I get to the parking lot. I get out and the wind is strong. I shiver against the cold air and quickly get into my wetsuit. I grab my board and my stuff and head down to the sand.

I lay my stuff down, strap my leash onto my ankle, and walk down to the water. Because the air’s cold, the water doesn’t feel nearly as cold as it did yesterday. The lineup near the pier looks crowded, though, so I walk a little ways up the beach before I start wading out to an empty stretch of water. By the time I get to the break, I feel good and I know I won’t have to fight anyone for waves. The break isn’t as consistent where I’ve landed, but I’d rather deal with the unevenness of the water than a bunch of guys jockeying to get into position.

After an hour, I’ve caught enough waves so that my shoulders ache and my lips are numb from the cold temperature of the ocean. I take my time paddling in, letting the waves push me toward the shore, my head resting on my board. When I feel the board drag against the sand, I sigh and roll off into the shallow water. I lean back, dropping my hair into the water one more time to slick it back, then roll over and stand up.

And I see Trevor waiting for me on the sand.

He’s in jeans and a black, long-sleeve T-shirt. His hands are jammed into the pockets of his jeans and he doesn’t have shoes on. His hair is dry, so I know he hasn’t been surfing.

I disregard the knot forming in my stomach, take the leash off of my ankle, and tuck the board under my arm. I look away from him and stride out of the water and turn right, heading back up the shore, away from him.

“Really?” he says. “You’re not even going to talk to me.”

I don’t say anything.

“We need to talk, Pres.”

“I tried that,” I say over my shoulder. “You didn’t want any part of it.”

He falls into step behind me. “You wouldn’t pick up the phone yesterday.”

“Because you were gaslighting me before that. Acting like you had no idea what I was talking about. You didn’t wanna talk then. And I don’t wanna talk now.”

“So, what?” he says. “We’re just done then?”

Hearing the words hurts my heart. There’s an actual pain inside of me that I can’t name or explain, but it’s there as soon as he says it. Even though I’ve been wrestling with that idea for the last 24 hours or so, it still tears at me.

“I guess,” I say, still walking.

“Presley, would you fucking stop?” he says, his voice sharp. “Would you just talk to me?”

I whirl around and chuck my board to the sand. “You want me to talk? Me?” I stab my finger into my chest. “You’ve barely talked to me the last few months. You didn’t come to see me. You were gone at Thanksgiving. You weren’t here when I got home.”

“I told you. I was—”

I cut him off. “You were late to the bonfire. You’re meeting some chick in the parking lot. You’ve got some chick in your bedroom at home. I’ve asked you about a million times if everything was alright and you give me some vague, bullshit answer that tells me nothing. I’ve been begging you to talk. Begging. But now you want me to talk to you?” I shake my head. “Fuck you for thinking you can just jerk me around like that.” I pick up my board and head toward the lot.

He catches up to me so that he’s walking behind me again. “Okay. You’re right. It’s me that needs to do the talking. But you’d have to be willing to listen.”

“But on your terms, right?” I say. “When you’re ready? Not when I knew something was off and asked and you just blew me off and told me I was wrong?”

“Presley, come on.”

I keep walking toward the lot and stop when I get to my car. His truck is parked right next to me. I immediately notice that he doesn’t have any of his surf gear in it.

I lay the board on top of my car.

Trevor steps up next to it and takes it off.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask.

“Making you talk to me,” he says. “Or listen to me.”

“Give me the fucking board back.”

“No.”

“Give me the goddamn board.”

“No.”

I reach for it and he pulls it back out of my reach.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Come to my house with me,” he says.

I glare at him. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

“So we can talk.”

“No,” I snap. “Give me the board and get out of my face.”

He stares at me, then walks around me and puts my board in the bed of his truck.

“So you’re just going to steal it?” I ask.

He shrugs.

“I can call the cops,” I tell him.

“You won’t,” he says. “I know you won’t.”

He’s right. I won’t.

“Fine. Keep the board,” I tell him. “I’ll get it back another time.” I walk around the back of my car and pop the trunk. I unzip the back of my wet suit and start to wiggle out of it, the neoprene sticking to my skin.

Trevor walks around to where I’m standing and picks me up, lifting me completely off my feet.

My arms are caught in the suit and I can’t get them free. “The hell? Put me down!”

He doesn’t say anything and carries me around to the passenger side of his truck.

“Trevor! Put me the fuck down!” I try to twist in his arms but he’s too strong.

He somehow manages to open the passenger door and sets me on the seat. I’m flopping around like a wet fish because I can’t get loose from the wetsuit. He closes the door behind me and reappears on the driver’s side, climbing in behind the wheel.

“Get me out of here!” I yell, my arms still flailing as I try to work free from the suit.

“I’ll bring you back after we talk.” He jams the key into the ignition and the truck rumbles to life beneath me. “And I’ll go slow until you can get upright and get your seat belt on.”

We start moving and I finally get my right arm out of the suit. I make a fist and drive it into his thigh. If it hurts, he doesn’t show it.

I finally get myself up into a sitting position and get my other arm free. “Stop the truck. Now.”

“Nope.”

I reach over and pull on the door handle.

But nothing happens.

Fucking door locks.

“Trevor, I’m not kidding,” I tell him. “Let me out.”

“Nope,” he says. “We’re going to talk. Or I’ll talk and you can listen. Then I’ll take you wherever you want to go. Back to your car, home, wherever.”

“You realize this is not making things better, right?” I tell him. “You get that, right?”

“It is what it is,” he says. “I’m not denying that I’ve been…whatever. But you need to hear me out.”

“I don’t need to do anything except get out of this fucking truck.”

He glances at me as he drives. “So you’re just willing to chuck the entire last year because I’ve been out of sorts and you’re pissed off about it? You wanna break up right now? Just end it right here?” He slams on the brakes and we skid to a stop. He hits the door locks. “Fine. Get out and we’re done.”

I look at the raised door lock. I can pull on the handle and get out now. And I know he means it. If I get out, we’re done. No matter what. I can hear it in his voice, and I know he’s stubborn enough to follow through on that promise, no matter what he’s feeling.

“Get out if you’re getting out,” he says.

I look at the door again.

I reach for it.

And I push down the door lock.

I turn and look at him. “Drive.”