Beach Glass Read online

  I sit up in the bed, take off my glasses, and rub my tear-filled eyes. All these bad memories rising to the surface and I have no idea why or what to make of them. My father wanted me to be honest. I told the truth, and I hurt him terribly. After years of my mother warning me to play life safe, I take a risk, and I almost die.

  But before that, there was something good. Being brave enough to try and that feeling of freedom. When I was in the water, I was swimming so hard toward something. Me.

  My thoughts stop with a knock on the tree outside my tent. Probably Brigitte or the resort doctor checking on me before she goes home. I put my glasses on and pull myself together, trying to keep from looking like I need another trip to the infirmary. But when I open the door flap, it’s not the doctor with her medical bag.

  Carson is standing outside my tent, wearing a blue hoodie and his faded jeans, his surf shoes almost obscured by the lush grass in the field. It takes me a second to realize he seems different because it’s the first time I’ve seen him without a smile. “Hey,” he says, looking concerned. “How are you feeling?”

  I shrug. “Fine, I guess, considering I was in the spin cycle with no fabric softener.” I smirk, expecting he’ll reward my joke with that deep chuckle, but he just bites his lower lip and keeps looking at me with uncharacteristic seriousness. “I got worried when you didn’t show up for dinner,” he says. “I brought it for you.” He holds up a cloth shopping bag.

  “You brought me dinner? Wow, that’s so sweet.”

  He shrugs. “It’s lasagna,” he murmurs. He seems upset, a side of Carson I wouldn’t have imagined.

  “Do you, um, want to come in or something?” I ask. He nods, and I back up into my tent to let him inside.

  The tentalow is small to begin with, meant for one person or two people who are really into close proximity. It feels especially tight with me standing lamely by the foot of my bed and Carson with nowhere else to go but right next to me. I realize I’m in my baggy pajamas and my nerdy glasses, and just as I’m getting self-conscious about that, Carson says “Oh Kate,” and pulls me into his arms. I’m startled until I hear him whisper, “God, I was so scared.”

  He holds me, his arms wrapped around me, warm and secure. I sigh and inhale his scent of soap and warmth and ocean air. I put my arms around him and feel how solid he is under the softness of his sweatshirt. “You were scared?” I ask. “But you hang out with sharks and jump out of planes.”

  “I don’t care what happens to me,” he says. “I thought something really bad happened to you because of me. I didn’t see that rogue wave coming at you until it was too late. I should’ve gotten to you faster, Kate. I’m sorry.”

  It feels so good to be in someone’s arms again. Daniel always gave the best hugs, and this is so close to that comforting feeling. Almost immediately I feel guilty for comparing the two. “Don’t worry,” I tell him. “Emerald Cove’s reputation won’t be tarnished by the loss of a surf camper.”

  Carson pulls away from me, stung. “That wasn’t exactly my first concern.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, feeling bad about how hurt he looks. “I know it wasn’t. I was just kidding to break the tension. Honest.”

  He softens a little. Then he shows me the bag he brought. “So, dinner,” he says. “And I was wondering if maybe you’d like to have a drink with me.”

  “Oh, that sounds great. But I’m not really ready to go out.” I gesture feebly at my peppermint-striped jammies.

  “That’s okay,” Carson says. “I came prepared.” He holds the bag open to show me a bottle of red wine, two glasses, and a small blue box. “That’s some really excellent organic Costa Rican chocolate, in case you were more in the mood for dessert,” he explains. “You can never tell what a near-drowning victim is going to want.”

  “Both,” I say, pleased to see him smile again. “Near-drowning victims want to have their cake and drink it, too.”

  He peers at me again in a vulnerable way. “Kate, are we okay?”

  “We’re good, Carson. You saved me.”

  “I still feel awful about it all,” he says, looking away.

  “Maybe you’ll feel better after some wine and chocolate. I know I will,” I say, pulling the blanket off my bed. “Come on.”

  WE HEAD FOR the beach with our picnic, spreading the blanket over the cool sand and setting out the lasagna, bread, wine, and chocolate. A half moon makes the black sea glitter white on top, and the evening air is soft around us. The waves are calm, gently touching the shore before they pull back, only to reach out again. They still make me shudder a little.

  “I hope you like riojas,” Carson says, pouring me a glass of ruby red wine. “They don’t have much of a selection here, but I figured between this and a merlot, you might prefer something light.”

  “I’m impressed,” I say, taking the glass he hands me. “I didn’t know surf dudes were oenophiles. Then again, the only thing I know about wine is that it shouldn’t burn going down.”

  “Here’s to not getting burned, then,” Carson says, clinking my glass.

  With my throat sore from the salt water, the first taste does burn slightly. But when Carson suggests the decadent combination of a bite of chocolate followed by a sip of wine, the result is sublime. “Ohhh,” I sigh, “Now I really feel alive.”

  “To living,” Carson says, and we clink again.

  “Yes, and to staying that way. No more risks for me,” I say, taking another sip. “I’m back on the yoga mat and hanging up my surfboard.”

  “No, no, don’t drink to that,” Carson objects, touching my arm. “Kate, that was a rogue wave. They come out of nowhere, just flukes. You were doing great before that.”

  “Maybe so, but look what happened. I almost drowned. That water was like a monster trying to rip me apart. I couldn’t tell up from down. It was a nightmare.”

  Carson’s beautifully shaped lips shift to the side, like he’s trying to figure out how to say something. “Kate, I know that was scary for you. And I know what it was like. It’s happened to me a bunch of times.”

  I put down my glass. “It has?”

  “Sure. I’ve been mauled by waves that won’t let go, been hit on the head by my own board, gotten the beach dermabrasion facial. Repeatedly.” He rolls his eyes and laughs. “My first couple of times teaching groups here, I got more banged up than my students, and they were looking at me like, ‘What the hell?’ Don’t laugh, it was totally embarrassing,” he says, laughing himself.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, still giggling. “But if you got hurt so much, why did you want to keep doing it?”

  He shrugs as though he’s never had to think about that before. “I love it,” he says simply.

  I pull my sweatshirt around my body tighter. “Yeah, well, you love skydiving and scary things like that.”

  “Not when I get hurt,” he says. “But nothing worthwhile comes without a scrape or a bump. And if I let one or even a few bad things keep me down, then I’m not really living, am I? I’m just, I don’t know,” he says, “hiding from life or something.” He looks at me pointedly. “Haven’t you ever tried some tricky yoga pose, like a handstand, and fallen?”

  “I guess so. I mean, yeah, I did. Went splat right in the middle of a class full of people,” I say, chuckling at the memory of the group groan that went up on my behalf.

  “But you got back up and did yoga again, didn’t you?”

  I nod, his emotional logic making sense to me. I didn’t let that one fall stop me from doing something I came to love and that helped keep me healthy and calmed me in stressful times. Carson said nothing worthwhile came without a scrape or a bump. It’s possible I would never have known how fiercely I’d fight for myself if I hadn’t taken a risk in the first place.

  “See?” he continues. “How sad would it have been if that one fall had stopped you from doing yoga?”

  “That would’ve been awful,” I say, warming to his line of thinking.

  He nods. “You wouldn
’t even have a job as a yoga teacher or gone to all the cool places you’ve been on your yoga retreats.”

  The wine sours in my mouth. Carson still thinks I’m Kate, yoga teacher, world traveler, woman who takes chances and smiles in the face of uncertainty, who makes out with life. Everything he’s saying applies to her, not me.

  “Don’t let what happened today stop you from trying again tomorrow,” he says. “If you didn’t like surfing, that would be one thing. But I could tell you did, Kate.” His smile brightens his face, all the handsome angles coming together, orchestrated by his joy. “I saw you out there, smiling when you stood up and rode that wave, your hair blowing in the wind.” He puts down his wine glass and shifts closer to me. “I watched you use all those graceful yoga moves on the board, and you looked so beautiful. You were magic, Kate.”

  I feel his hand on top of mine, and there’s that electrical hum again. He’s gazing into my eyes, and his are so bright, intense with passion for living to the fullest he can. There’s a fire in them that comes from some incandescence inside him, probably fueled by thinking he’s with someone who feels the same way he does. Someone who embraces life.

  Not me.

  “I should go,” I hear myself saying, and it’s my voice, not the strong voice of Kate. Not even the strong voice I heard inside myself. “I’m still not feeling a hundred percent.”

  A second of confusion flickers over him. “Of course,” Carson says. “I should let you get some rest.” He stands and helps me to my feet, and then he puts our picnic back in the bag while I wonder if I’ve just saved myself from another risk or turned away from a shooting star.

  14.

  Emerald Cove Surf Camp Schedule

  Day 5: Water Practice

  6:30 a.m.—8:30 a.m.

  Sunrise Surfing (optional)

  7:30 a.m.—9:00 a.m.

  Breakfast on the veranda at the Main House

  9:30 a.m.—11:30 a.m.

  Surfing lessons continue!

  12:00 noon—1:30 p.m.

  Lunch

  2 p.m.—5:00 p.m.

  More surfing or free time, your choice

  7:00 p.m.—?

  Group graduation dinner at Surf Taco

  “OH, SHUT UP,” I growl, pulling my pillow over my head against the morning shouts of the howler monkeys. “This is the last time you wake me up like this. And I’m not getting up, I’m not doing yoga, and I’m not going to sunrise freakin’ surfing!”

  My rant, muffled under my pillow, only goes on for so long. I’d be a fool to miss my last Costa Rican sunrise or doing yoga on the beach, just to hide in bed because I’m grouchy and confused. I throw the pillow on the floor and drag myself up. I pull on my lavender yoga pants and mint-green tank top and throw on the ivory sweatshirt I got when I was inventing Carefree Kate, who would never have gotten mugged by a rogue wave and nearly drowned. I stomp over to the bath pavilion and pop in my spare pair of contact lenses. “Last day you freak me out, mega-spider,” I mutter as I wash my face. Then I grab my yoga mat and pout my way to the beach.

  When I get to the cove, I look around, watchful for surf instructors. I don’t want to see anyone today. Actually, to be more specific, I don’t want to see Carson. But they’re all at sunrise surfing on the main beach; I have the cove to myself. I go to my favorite spot, right in line with the rising sun, and roll out my mat. And then I stare at the mat. And kick it.

  A big sigh leaves me as I sit down heavily. I don’t need to meditate to know why I’m so bummed. I’m still freaked out by nearly drowning yesterday, and I feel emotionally hung over from all the memories and confusing life lessons that the event stirred up. And Carson. Carson, looking at me with that green fire in his eyes. That passionate fire for life and people and food and everything, and for me. But not me. Kate.

  “Uggghhhhh,” I moan, lying face down on my yoga mat and kicking my feet. If this were an actual yoga pose, it would be called Meltdown-asana.

  I MANAGE TO avoid the rest of the group coming back from the sunrise surf session, and I hide in my tentalow during breakfast, not wanting to talk to anyone. I wait until the break between breakfast and surfing to sneak off to the veranda, when I think they’ll all be gone. I’m just snagging some coffee and the last muffin when Brigitte comes up behind me. “Katy, where have you been? I was just about to go see how you were doing, but Carson said you were okay when he checked on you last night.”

  “I’m fine. I just don’t want to play today, that’s all.”

  Brigitte frowns with confusion, but then she says, “Come to my bungalow. William and Nicholas are at the beach. I have some things I want to show you.”

  Brigitte’s bungalow is the opposite of my neat little tent, spacious and sweetly messy, with kids’ toys and a bed that has definitely been slept in by two people and jumped on by a happy toddler. “You have to see some of the photos I got for the story,” Brigitte says, firing up her laptop. I roll my eyes. In my current, defeated mood, this travel story feels like yet another big thing I can’t handle. But I don’t want to be rude, so I stand behind Brigitte as she begins clicking open folders.

  The first photo is full of breathtaking color. Sapphire sky, emerald water, and that dark sand, shaded by volcanic ash to a powdery iron. “Wow,” I say, genuinely impressed. “That looks amazing. I was there yesterday, and that picture makes me want to be there again right now.”

  “That’s not even what I wanted to show you,” she says. “Wait, let me find it.” She clicks through photos of William and me on the beach, learning how to jump up on our boards on the first day. The bridal party girls paddling out into the water. The honeymooners heading into their first waves. There are great action shots of the crashing surf and glorious sunsets of pure, dramatic purples, oranges, and scarlets.

  Then Brigitte clicks open another file of more personal shots, loving close-ups of William and Nicholas and some where she made me look like a movie star. And then, Carson. He’s so handsome in real life, but the way Brigitte has captured him in certain types of sunlight make him look like a work of art, something that should be immortalized in marble. “Ah, here it comes,” she says.

  The next photo is of me walking toward the surf, my pink surfboard under my arm. I lean in close to the laptop, not recognizing myself. My smile is pure happiness and confidence. I’m looking out at something good, open to whatever is coming my way. This is exactly the way I imagined Kate would look. But I remember the moment this picture was taken, and I wasn’t trying to be Kate. I was just me.

  Also in the photo, right by my side, is Carson. Just as arresting as the look on my face is his expression. His face is full of joy and longing and other things I can’t name but want to know. And he’s looking at me.

  “Sweet, isn’t it?” says Brigitte.

  “I want to look like that, always,” I say, my throat dry. “And I want someone to look at me that way, always.”

  Brigitte smiles up at me. “I think our model surf dude’s got it bad for you.”

  Groaning loudly, I turn away from the photo and let myself fall across her bed. “No, he’s got it bad for Kate.” I say the name with disgust. “The person I’ve been pretending to be all week. Kate the Great, the amazing, fearless, fabulous world-traveling yoga teacher. Carson likes her. And I hate her.”

  When Brigitte doesn’t answer, I roll over and see her frowning thoughtfully. “Carson doesn’t seem that superficial,” she says. “If Allegra were a traveling yoga instructor, I don’t think he’d like her as much.”

  “That’s because Allegra’s practically been humping his leg since she got here. Kate hasn’t been looking at him like he’s the beginning and end of her world. She acts like she’s got a full life, and if someone comes along for the ride, that’s great. But she’s not waiting around for anyone else to make her life happen.”

  Brigitte nods slowly. “And you don’t feel that way.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Hi, remember me? The woman who waited five years for her boy
friend to propose and got dumped on her thirtieth birthday?”

  “But you’ve been acting like this Kate person all week,” Brigitte says, still working something out that I’m not following.

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So,” Brigitte says, “maybe you could be more like Kate.”

  I sit up on her bed. “I can’t be Kate. I’m not that cool and confident around people. I don’t like taking chances. And I can’t pretend not to care if someone wants to be with me. I want a solid relationship with a future too much.”

  “Maybe you just need practice. And I know a willing guinea pig,” she says, pointing at Carson in the photo. “Katy, listen to me. He’s perfect to try this out on. If it fails, what difference does it make? He lives here. You’re going home tomorrow, and you’ll never see him again. But if acting like Kate does make a man like this float after you like a big, handsome honeybee, well, then you’ll know what to do when you’re ready to start dating again. I’m not saying pretend to be someone you’re not,” Brigitte asserts, “but you could incorporate some of the things you admire about your alter ego, which are all things you came up with for her.”

  I lean a little closer. “But how would I do it? It’s our last day. We leave first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Graduation party tonight,” Brigitte offers. “Apparently we’re going to a cute bar on the beach for dinner and mojitos, and there’s dancing. A full moon, maybe a little walk along the shore, a little kissing,” she says, grinning widely, wiggling her eyebrows. “Just, you know, be careful. Get some condoms in case this really works.”

  I feel myself blushing. “Oh, I’d never do that.”