30. Dex

Chapter thirty

Dex

I nstead of walking out the back door and surfing a perfect, curling wave, we drive fifteen minutes south to a beach with a nice, fluffy wave, just right for a beginner. Archie's not happy about it, but he'll get over it. I'm also not the one who has to go with Stella to rent a longboard, since there was only one at the house, and she wants to learn too. That's Archie's job.

My job is to teach my wife how to surf; a job I plan to enjoy.

Britta and I head to the beach while Archie and Stella find a board. We drop our stuff, and Britta peels off her T-shirt and shorts to reveal a colorful bikini with enough blue to highlight her eyes and little enough fabric to show off her shape. She's tall and thin with the right amount of feminine curves, but not so many that she'll have trouble popping up on her board. Lotta fellas prefer more up top, but I like a girl with a more athletic build.

Far as I'm concerned, Britta's got the perfect body. But I might be biased because she's got a cracker personality, too.

Either way, I hate to cover up the view, but I hand her a wetsuit—one a girl I dated left behind. "You'll want this. It's cold out there, and it'll protect you from board rash. Wax makes the deck rough as sandpaper."

While Britta sticks her feet into the tight legs and shimmies the neoprene suit over her thighs, I try to keep my focus on her board, pointing out the curved nose, flat deck, the sides we call rails, and finally the fins. At last, she's done shaking her hips side-to-side in a motion that makes me too hot to even think about putting on my wetsuit. Climate change has nothing on me. Ocean temps are about to rise another degree or two once I get in the water.

I help Britta zip up, then carry her board into the water. When we're waist deep, I strap the leash onto her ankle before holding the board so she can get on. "First thing is to teach you how to balance on your board and how to paddle."

Foamy waves roll around us, bobbing Britta's board up and down and making her wobble.

"Scoot up a bit more," I tell her, steadying her board. When she doesn't move, I shift from the front of her board to the side where I can hold the board's rails, one arm stretched across her back to the opposite rail from me.

"You don't want to be too high up toward the nose," I continue, ignoring the way my arm brushes her neoprene-covered butt with each gentle roll of the wave. "You gotta find the sweet spot where you feel steady. Don't fight the wave. Roll with it."

After a couple minutes, her breathing levels out, and I feel her sink into the board a bit, trusting it, herself, and the ocean. "I think I've got it."

"Feels alright, yeah?" I loosen my grip on the other side and slide my hand to her lower back. "Next is lifting your chest. Ever done yoga?"

Britta nods.

"Hands on your board, next to your heart, then peel your chest up, like in an upward dog or cobra."

She nods, and in one fluid motion, moves her hands and lifts her chest, following her breath like she's on a yoga mat, not bobbing in the ocean, and it's so beautiful— she's so beautiful—that I want to applaud.

"Good on ya', Britt. Beaut move."

She glances over her shoulder at me, her wet hair falling across her opposite shoulder. "Really?"

I nod, feeling like I've had the wind knocked from me, but in the best way.

Suddenly a rogue wave, no more than a foot, rolls under us, and I lose my hold on her board. Britta panics and slips off into the water. She goes under before she can find her feet, and the retreating wave pulls her into deeper water.

The board strapped to her leg doesn't help because she can't get her legs under her. I dive under the board and swim around her kicking legs to pop up behind her.

"Hold still so I can undo the leash," I say quickly before going back under to unstrap her from the board.

Without the board, her toes scrape the sand, and I hold her hand, helping her forward until we're both in waist-level water again. Whitewash carries the board to the beach, but I keep hold of Britta, until she's steady again. I move in front of her, so I can see incoming waves and she can see the beach isn't far away.

"You alright?" With one hand on her hip, I use my other to push back the hair from her face, fighting every urge to kiss her.

Her head moves up and down in quick jerks and she grips my biceps so tight her nails dig into my skin. "Just scared me."

Another wave threatens to pick her up, and she gasps.

"I've got you. Just hold on to me." I circle my hands around her waist and lace my fingers together. "Slide your hands around my neck."

Her eyes go wide with fear.

"Trust me. We're going to work on getting comfortable with the movement of the ocean—it's always moving, not like a lake."

Britta's breath slows, and one at a time, she slides her hands from my arms, over my shoulders, to the back of my neck. We lock eyes. I smile and take a deep breath. Her fingers go soft, and I pull her tighter to me.

"Close your eyes," I whisper, brushing my nose across her cheek.

She takes a slow, deep breath, then lowers her lids. I slide my hand higher on her back, between her shoulder blades, and drag my thumb along the side of the zipper that would be so easy to undo.

"Dance with me, Britta." My voice scrapes with the memory of her glowing in her green dress on our wedding day, my hand on her bare skin.

"I haven't learned these steps." Her words skip with a nervous excitement that sends my pulse racing.

"I'll teach you. Put your feet on mine."

She steps onto the tops of my feet, and with the next gentle wave, I push up from the bottom so we roll with it. On its return, I let it carry us backwards. Then I do the same thing again and again.

"Feel how the salt makes you more buoyant?"

Britta dips her head up and down. "The water feels heavier, somehow. Denser."

"Just flow with it, and you'll float."

With each wave, Britta relaxes a little more, letting the ocean carry her instead of fighting it. Trusting me to keep us steady as we move to deeper water. Not so far that I can't touch, but deep enough that we have to duck under a few stronger waves. The more comfortable she gets, the more she loosens her hold on me, slowly trusting her own ability to read the wave and flow with it.

Until, finally, she floats to my side, keeping her fingers twined through mine but otherwise standing on her own, and we move up and down, dancing together. Letting the waves carry us where they will without losing our hold on each other.

And I know, as well as I know the ocean, that I never want this moment to end. I want Britta by my side through every up and down. Through every rogue wave that may pummel us. Through the next three years and beyond.

I want Britta forever, but I promised her I wouldn't fall in love.

I'm in so much trouble.