Dare to Love the Guy Next Door by Ellie Hall
Griffin
Texts you don’t want to receive from the woman you spent the last two years with and the one you’d been getting pressure to ask to marry—from her, not my parents, friends, or anyone else. In fact, my buddy Ian once said, “She’s toxic.”
I’m a surfer. We use a lot of slang. I thought maybe Ian meant it in a good way like how we say waves are gnarly when really we mean they’re awesome:
Brianna: Late night on this shoot. I won’t be able to meet for dinner. Kiss.
Brianna: Late night again. Sorry. Let’s resched for tomorrow. Kiss.
Brianna: Still busy. Miss you. I’ll make it up to you soon. Kiss.
These texts came to me three nights in a row and many more before that. I knew something was definitely up, so I came down to Miami to talk to Brianna in person because I’m a man and have manners.
My phone beeps with a text.
Ian: How’s the surf in Miami?
Me: The surf left for Venezuela and didn’t mention it.
Instead of beeping with a reply tone, my phone rings. It’s Ian.
“What are you talking about, bro?”
“Brianna Anna has been cheating on me. Turns out she’s been in the arms of some big-shot photographer. Saw it splashed across the gossip pages online after I found out she’s on a set with him—Tobin, Tobler, Toaster, or something. It all makes sense now.”
“No man, you said the surf left for Venezuela. To me, that meant one of two things. That you were no longer in Miami and went to catch some monster swell or you were equating surfing to that monster you used to call a girlfriend. As your best friend, I cannot abide the latter.”
I almost chuckle at the way he combines surf lingo with more sophisticated language.
“I came here to talk to Brianna, not surf. I won’t make that mistake again.” My voice lacks its usual enthusiasm.
“I’m sorry she cheated, but—”
“Save it. I learned my lesson.” I won’t be dating again anytime soon. Nope. Time to focus on my career...or something.
“Good. Moving on. I hear waves are ripping at Rincon,” Ian says.
I weigh my options. There’s no arguing that the obvious solution, to any problem really, is to surf. But something is calling me home—granted, I can surf there too.
“I’d say yes, but I think I need a minute to regroup,” I say.
“Sixty seconds, starting now.” I can practically see Ian clicking the stopwatch feature on his watch.
“No, really. I’ve been touring and traveling for, well, over two years.”
“You were home for Christmas.”
“That was several years ago and if you remember correctly, the next day I was on a plane to Morocco.”
“Oh, right. Taghazout. Did I tell you about the barrel I caught there?” he asks.
“Yes, and how the paddle out was a muscle burner.”
“Made it so worth it though.”
The depth of my sigh must prompt Ian to understand my need to pause and rest because he’s quiet for a long moment.
“I get it. But if you even see the hint of a wave, I want you in that water. You understand? Also, daily text check-ins in lieu of our spot checks, got it?”
“Of course.”
“I got your back, brother from another mother.”
“I know you do.” I may no longer have much in the way of family, or a girlfriend now, but I do have my bros.
“Brianna Anna can eat sand. Also, and I can say this now, what is with her name? Brianna Anna? Redundant, no? That would be like if you were named Griffin In.” He chuckles.
I crack a smile as we get off the phone. Then Brianna’s deception tumbles back. I’m upset about what she did, but even more so that I let it happen. Suffice it to say, my ego isn’t small—it can’t be. I’m a guy who can go out there and ride down the face of a thirty-plus foot wave.
My knuckles blanch from gripping the phone so tightly. I quell the urge to chuck it across the room. The only thing stopping me is that if it breaks, it’ll make the third replacement in as many months. I dropped the others in the ocean.
When I met Brianna, I was a rising star in the competitive surfing circuit. We hit it off and she provided a perfect distraction from the endless touring, media spots, and endorsements. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. I’ve worked hard for years. It was one epic day at Pipeline on the North Short that I came out of that barrel still standing and clinched my career as a high-performance athlete in the surfing world. I met Brianna that week. Up until dating her, I’d never really been serious with anyone. Of course, I’d had plenty of girlfriends over the years, but Brianna and I had been together through flat spells and pumping waves. That’s to say, highs and lows. There was a concussion that kept me out of the water for a couple of miserable months and when a company that sponsored me dropped me because I’d gone to a few too many parties that summer.
Looking back though, she wasn’t actually by my side—she flew to Bali for a photo shoot when I was laid up with the concussion. She’s a swimsuit and fitness gear model and is often on the go. I also remember she worked on the women’s line from that same company that ditched me not too long after that. She’d been partying alongside me the whole time. Double standard much?
Should’ve seen the writing in the sand...or of her footsteps walking away.
In addition to having a huge ego, I also have to be very humble to actually be able to ride down the face of a thirty-plus foot wave. It sounds like a contradiction to have a big ego and a boat load of humility, but it’s not.
My ego gets me off dry land and into the water when the sets roll in bigger than two-story buildings. I tap into humility when I sync up with the ocean on the paddle or ride out on the back of the jet ski—I’m in the ocean’s hands. Mother nature can do whatever she wants with me at that point. See? It’s not an oxymoron. It’s both ego and humility.
I can’t say I’m too bent up about the breakup though. Deep down, I knew she wasn’t the one. No, the one got away a long time ago. The one...
I rocket to sitting.
The oneis in this hotel. I scramble to my feet and my phone goes flying, landing on the floor with a thunk. Picking it up, I scroll back to the gossip site. No, I’m not going to torture myself and look up more pictures of my ex with that pasty photographer with the wispy mustache—no offense to photographers or mustachioed men. That one, in particular, is pretentious and only famous because of the scandalous photos he’s credited with taking of his former wife.
Yes, Brianna Anna not only cheated on me, but the dude is also a cheater.
Moving on.
The point is another piece of gossip I’d skimmed by earlier. I frantically search for it then blam. I land on a picture of Jason Cobb, the famous actor, and his fiancé, Paisley Jones.
THE PAISLEY. MY PAISLEY.
It’s been years, but a sense of excitement replaces the dull feeling inside me at realizing that I was just another notch in Brianna’s skinny belt. I’m not happy that the article reports that Jason cheated on Paisley with actress Devona Carl. I’m not a jerk. I'm happy because I saw Paisley earlier. Downstairs...naked.
Don’t wag your finger at me. She was holding a trashcan in front of herself for privacy. I gave her my shirt. I knew there was something familiar...how did I not recognize her? Oh, because she’s all grown up, and the last time I laid eyes on her was when we were both sixteen.
She was my first crush.
And my first kiss.
I lower onto the bed. Resting my elbow on my knee and supporting my head in my hand, I scroll through the article accompanying the photo of the brown-haired beauty dressed up in a slim, cream-colored dress beside Jason, wearing a custom suit. The guy looks uncomfortable. To my surprise and chagrin, I learn that they were engaged. Are engaged? Just today, guests at the surprise party she threw him to celebrate his birthday allegedly witnessed him kissing Devona as Paisley jumped out of a cake.
Was that before I gave her my shirt?
If that squid lips took her clothing, locked her out of her room, or was the cause of her being naked in the hall, I’ll be happy to see how far he can swim—starting a few miles away from shore.
I could inquire at the front desk, find out if she’s here. She does have my favorite T-shirt. Or I could call my brother and see if he has the Jones’ family contact info. Considering Paisley didn’t recognize me and what she said twelve summers ago, maybe she’d prefer I leave her alone.
Or I could just go home as originally planned. Sulk for a day or two then get back in the water and put this entire day behind me.
I call my actual brother, not Ian.
“Holden Sanders here.” He answers like I’ve dialed a landline in 1965.
“Yes, I know. I called you.”
“Who is this?”
There are a few things you should know about my brother. We couldn’t be more different, yet we’re alike in one precise way.
As soon as we were able, we hightailed it as far away as possible from the little town on the shore of New Hampshire where we grew up. Not far in the physical sense. Holden, with his wife Lydia and their children, lives in southern Connecticut and I bounce around the world, not really having a place to call home. However, we distanced ourselves emotionally, each erecting a fortification of civilization, education, and a kind of order that our parents never offered.
I’m a surfer, but I also got a degree in engineering. I credit that with my ability to read the waves and measure velocity, angles, and position.
Holden is in finance. Oh, and he does not have a sense of humor so his question about who’s calling isn’t a joke. It’s doubtful that we’ll both be laughing and catching up in a moment.
“It’s your brother,” I say.
“Griffin?”
“Yes, it’s Griff. I’m wondering if you mind if I use the house.”
“I’ll have to ask Lydia. We’ve only just settled in and she has the pantry, medicine cabinets, drawers, and chests organized alphabetically, chronologically, and categorically. Can’t have you running amok.”
“No, you have your kids to do that.”
“They do not run amok,” he says, affronted.
I sigh. “Holden, I’m not talking about visiting you, although I’d appreciate an invitation now and then.”
The last time I was there was during my party phase, which I’m not too proud of. My thoughts ripple with the realization that things between Brianna and I started to sour when I stopped drinking, going to ragers, and generally waking up with regret. But were they ever actually sweet?
Holden makes a sound of relief, drawing me back to the moment.
“I’d like to go to the beach house,” I clarify.
“Oh, that. I’ve told you, I want to sell it. No sense in hanging on to that shack and paying taxes. Lydia, the kids, and I won’t ever use it.”
Sure, there were some hard times, but that place is our family’s legacy and as tough as things sometimes got, there are good memories too—birthdays, Mom and Dad before she got sick, summer when the beach filled with visitors, Paisley Jones... I’m not willing to let all that goodness go.
“Sell it to me,” I blurt.
“What?”
“How much do you want?” I ask.
“Why would you want to hang onto it?”
I shrug, even though he can’t see me. “I’ll have it appraised and figure out your half. Expect a check in the mail.” I hang up.
Why would I want to hang onto it?
“Because I’d like a place to call home,” I say, even though no one can hear me.
