36. Dex

Chapter thirty-six

Dex

W hen we get to West Coast Roast —it's going to take a minute to get used to calling it that—Britta seems anxious but settles down when Diva, Mitzi, and a few other baristas show up to help us put the store back together. Most of what we have to do is cleaning, arranging tables, and putting up pictures and other decorations.

Most of us are in the dining room scrubbing build-up from tables and chairs while Diva and Sergio are at the prep stations getting all the ingredients stocked and in place.

"I finally settled on a name," Britta says to her crew over Teddy Simms singing Funeral over the speaker. "West Coast Roast. What do you think?"

The silence that follows is worse than when you ask a girl "what's wrong?" and she says "nothing."

"It's nice," Mitzi answers, finally.

"Nice?" Britta stops in the middle of wiping down a table and peers at Mitzi who's on her knees cleaning the chair on the other side.

"Yeah. Nice," Mitzi says nervously. "A little formal, but I like it." She scrubs double time, like she's making up for Britta slacking.

"Formal?" Britta's eyes stay glued to Mitzi.

"She means it sucks," Diva yells from across the counter.

Britta's mouth drops open, and I'm searching for some way to change the conversation when I spy the old, framed Surf City High photo Annie had hanging up leaning against the wall. I've always loved that picture.

I run—not walk—to pick it up. "Hey Britt, you're not putting this back up, are you? Can I have it?"

My ploy works, and Britta turns from Diva to me. "Why wouldn't I put that back up? It belongs here."

"It's old and embarrassing." I shift the large frame to rest on my hips and scrutinize it. I hated being on the show, but I loved the time I spent with my friends.

"Aren't you two married? It'd be weird not to put it back up." Diva has no problem expressing her opinion, which I respect, but I don't want to look at my face every time I come in here. I didn't have a say when this shop was Annie's, but I ought to now that my wife owns it.

But Diva's not done. "You gotta play that up, girl. Fill this whole place with pictures of your famous man. That'll bring in the surfers and the tourists. Wife of Liam Dexter making their coffee."

Britta looks from me to Diva, then back again, like she's actually considering what Diva's said.

"Don't make it about me, Britt," I say, but her lip is already curling into a smile.

"I won't make it about you, but I could make it about surfing," she says.

Mitzi stands, shifting side to side until Britta looks at her. "You could call it Frothed."

"Frothed?" Britta's brow wrinkles, and I realize she doesn't get why it's actually the perfect name.

"Frothing is a surf term," I tell her. "It means excited or stoked, but froth is also the foam left after a wave breaks."

"I like the idea of a word that's used for coffee and surfing." Britta's eyes scan the room, bouncing over everyone here but not seeing us. "We could fill the walls with surfing pictures, make it a whole theme." Then she really gets stoked. "Dex, do you have an old board you could sign, and I could hang up?"

Spoiler Alert. I don't say no. I couldn't say no to Britta if I tried.

Over the next five days, after getting a logo made and ordering signage and product, I help Britta hang one million pictures, not just of me, but of every local surfer I can get a signed picture from. Both of us know it's a bad idea to make this place about me when we're not planning on staying married.

But she still puts up that old Surf City High picture and my signed surfboard. And who knows? Maybe this partnership will turn into something more if the timing is ever right.

By the end of October, Frothed is ready to open. The only person not frothing about Britta's shop is Archie. Not because he doesn't like Britta or coffee, but because I've missed a lot of training. I'm off my schedule, which is the opposite of what was supposed to happen when I married Britta.

"We've got ten weeks until Pipe," he says as we sip flat whites the morning of the official November First grand opening of Frothed. "Good swell is supposed to be coming in there the next few weeks, and you need the practice. I think we should make a trip."

I start to tell him I can't leave Britta alone when Frothed has just opened, but his look stops me.

"You stay on the Tour and make it to the Olympics; business could be even better for Britta. Her star rises with yours." Archie grips my shoulder. "You're so close. Don't lose focus now. Britta's got what she wanted out of your deal. Now let's go get what you want."

"And what if INS shows up while I'm gone?" I glance at Britta. I don't want her to deal with them by herself.

"Then it looks like you're out-of-town working, and Britta gets to answer questions without worrying whether yours will match hers. She can brief you before you get back." Archie flips up his palms and pulls his shoulders to his ears, waiting for a rebuttal.

I haven't got one.

Archie's right. I've got to get back on my game. He's said it before. If I don't make the Olympic team, Britta's made an enormous sacrifice for nothing. She took a leap of faith, leaving Paradise and opening this place. I'm also responsible for some of its success. As long as I stay on the Tour, I'm a draw to this place.

The popularity of surfing is growing heaps. By the 2028 Olympics, people are going to be watching. If I'm there, it can only be good for Britta's business.

All morning I've watched her smile at customers, taking orders, while also making time to compliment and encourage her crew. I'm chock-full of pride watching her. I want this place to work. Not just for her, but because this community needs her the same way they needed Annie.

"You're right, mate. Make the travel plans, and let's go catch some waves," I say to Archie, then wave goodbye to Britta.

By the time she gets home that night, Archie's got us booked to Oahu, and I have to break the news to her. This is the first time I've ever wanted to stay home instead of surfing a wave like Pipe.

We eat a dinner of fish, quinoa, and veggies on the patio where we can watch the sunset, but the sky is dark before I tell her.

"When do you leave?" Is her first question.

"The fifteenth."

"How long will you be gone?" Follows quickly after.

"Two weeks, at least. Depends on the swell." I try to get a read on her reaction. She attempts a smile, but I can't tell if it's forced because she's tired after her long day or if she's sad I'm leaving.

"You'll be gone over Thanksgiving? I thought I'd invite my family, if Archie's okay with them staying here. I won't be able to get away from Frothed. " There's no mistaking the disappointment in her voice.

"Yeah. I forgot about Thanksgiving." Now I feel like a real dimwit, even though it's not a holiday I've ever celebrated—not even since living in America. I'm usually traveling in November.

"I believe it's in our contract," she teases, and I breathe out a laugh.

"I'm sorry, Britt. I promise not to miss Anzac Day."

Now it's her turn to laugh. "What's that? And are there gifts involved?"

"Only flowers for veterans, similar to your Memorial Day."

"I'll add it to my calendar." Her smile morphs into a yawn. "We probably need to make a schedule of when we'll be together if we want INS to think we're really married, but I'm too tired to do it tonight." She squeezes my hand. "I'm going to shower and climb into bed. Are you coming up soon?"

The first few nights sleeping in the same bed were awkward, but now it feels completely normal. Nothing's happened beyond talking until we both fall asleep. Staying in her warm bed, though, makes it harder to get out in the ocean with the mornings being as cold as they are. And knowing I'll be leaving for a few weeks has already got me thinking about the kiss she gave me the last time I left.

"In a minute." I tell her. It's probably best if she's asleep before I get there. I don't think cuddling will be enough to tide me over while I'm gone.

"Okay." She turns toward the stairs, and I watch her climb them, but halfway up, she stops and leans over the railing. "Dex?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for all your help with Frothed. Not just with the money part, but everything. Your support and confidence have kept me going." She sends me a soft smile.

"It's nothing, really. I haven't done much. Your brothers did most of the heavy lifting." I try to lower my gaze, but her eyes won't let me go.

"I can always count on my family to support me, because we're family. They believe in me because I'm part of them." She narrows her eyes, examining me. "But it's different with you. You just believe in me because I'm me. That means everything, Dex."

My chest swells. "I'm glad I could help."

She pushes herself from the railing and takes a step, but stops again and looks at me. "That's a talent, Dex, believing in people. Remember that when you think the only thing you're good at is surfing. That's what you do, and you do it better than just about anybody. But it's not who you are. You're so much more than just a surfer."

Britta continues her climb up the stairs, leaving me speechless.

Over the next week, while I get back on my training schedule, Britta is consumed with everything there is to do with running her own business. We hardly have a time to talk, let alone sync our schedules. She's often asleep before I get in bed, and she gets up even earlier than I do.

We've got exactly what we wanted. No distractions. Complete focus on our careers.

Except, my surfing doesn't get better. It doesn't suck, but I'm not in the kind of form I'll need to be come January.

Even when I come off a wave pleased with my ride, I don't get the same confidence boost I've always gotten before. I still love surfing, but it doesn't consume my every thought like it has for my entire life.

Now there's a Britta-sized hole that only she can fill.

The afternoon before I leave, I come home from my surf sesh to find a giant dry-erase calendar taking up half the wall in the laundry room. I always come in from the outside door here so I can drop my towel and boardies in the wash without tracking sand through the house. Britta's hung this calendar in the one place I won't miss.

I peer at the squares for the last two weeks of November. Britta's already filled them in with her own commitments. It's the same thing every day: Frothed 5:00 am—2. She schedules herself for the morning shift, then usually ends up staying until closing at six.

I'm relieved to see Family Here written across the week of Thanksgiving, but seeing the same daily schedule written day after day reminds me I'm leaving Britta here alone when she needs me. I might not be actual help when it comes to handy stuff like her brothers, but I'm good—make that excellent—at moral support. Especially when it's for Britta.

Frothed is a huge undertaking. Aside from running her own business, Britta is also training people to make a sustainable living—some of them for the first time. There are criteria she has to meet in order to keep her funding and standards that her employees have to reach in order to qualify for the program that's designed to lead them to housing and future education opportunities. Britta's not just making coffee or running a business. She's keeping single moms and kids off the streets and in secure employment.

I uncap the whiteboard marker hanging from twine next to the calendar and write in everything on my schedule that I can remember. It's Archie's job to keep track of my events and everything else, but it's not his job to communicate with my wife, so I fill in as much as I can.

I draw a question mark after writing back from Oahu on November 29 th since we don't have return tickets yet. But I'll make sure we're home as close to that date as possible. Then I circle the Saturday that follows it a half dozen times. In that square, I write DATE NIGHT.

That will give me something to look forward to while I'm away. Because, the thing I've figured out this week is that pretending I'm not in love with Britta is as much a distraction as being in love with her, but not even half the fun.

In fact, it sucks.