t w o w e e k s l a t e r

Walt's food is in the cupboard under the sink. 1 scoop in the morning and 1 at night - though he's moody and eats when he wants. Don't leave your socks out unless you want to find them with teeth marks and holes later. The balcony door sticks so you really need to pull it shut, otherwise Walt will find his way out there. Good luck this weekend.

xo Gem

PS; I'll say hi to your Welsh lad for you

I chuckled at the note Gemma left hanging from a big gold G magnet on her fridge, running my finger over the curls in her picture perfect handwriting. I rested my surfboard beside the door in the front hallway and put my duffle bags in her immaculately tidy bedroom.

Gemma had jetted off to Italy to see Callahan in Ferrari's home race, which said more than enough to me about the status of their relationship. Before I knew it I'd be seeing Daily Mail headlines about a "mysterious blonde cozying up to Ferrari's ace driver." I scoffed at the thought, unwilling to feel the residual bitterness that knotted itself in my stomach.

Conveniently enough, Gemma needed a cat-sitter during the weekend that I had a small event in Cornwall on the Southwestern shore in Sennen Cove. It left me in her flat alone for a few days, with a grey furball lurking with big golden eyes every time I opened the fridge or made too loud of a noise.

And yet, Walt was better company than I anticipated as I tried to get myself into my semi-regular nightly wind down routine, settling onto Gemma's navy suede couch and drinking a warm cup of honey lavender tea while watching Avatar the Last Airbender for the 100th time. I'd scratch between his ears as he dug himself into the throw blanket, and he'd nudge my shoulder with his fluffy head every time I stopped. I made a mental note to ask Gemma what kind of mattress she had, because it felt like I was sleeping in the clouds that night.

It was a four hour train ride out to Cornwall that Friday morning, and as I thumbed through my music, I couldn't help but click one of the playlists I made for Atlas. For all my shortcomings, I could say without question I had impeccable music taste for every occasion, and I jammed to Goth Babe as the English countryside whizzed by me in a blurry mess of colors. Greens faded into crisp yellows and oranges - a stark reminder of how quickly summer was slipping away. I hated the feeling, like you were saying goodbye to a friend you wouldn't see for a very long time.

I let out a sigh as I scrolled through social media, passing by Atlas's post in preparation for the race weekend. A wolf doesn't need to tell you it's a wolf. You already know what he's capable of as soon as you hear the howl.

I took a philosophy class at the UCSD (before I dropped out, anyway), and we learned that autumn was a sign of ripeness and maturity. Accepting change, and understanding that our bodies, minds, and surroundings were always developing. And most importantly, to embrace that and everything that came with it. My heart fluttered in my chest, and before I could second guess myself, I opened my messages and typed up a quick text. I sucked in a deep breath and hit send.

It only took a moment for me to realize that I hadn't told Atlas about my event this weekend, and I could only chuckle at the thought of Gemma offhandedly informing him about it as they casually crossed paths in the paddock. At least I was sure that was how she'd spin it.

"God damn it Gemma," I muttered to myself. "You sneaky minx."

Even as a cool breeze came in from the ocean when I arrived in Sennen Cove, I felt warm and whole, and I embraced that shit, just like those philosophers told me to.

Through some combination of confidence, preparation, and no small degree of divine surfing intervention, I had propelled myself into the finals, going head to head once again with Carissa Keli'i.

I found myself at the beach earlier than usual on Sunday, sitting on a blanket in the sand with Malia and trying to soak in the stillness of the morning. Dolphins poked their fins above the surface of the water, and the white peaks of the swelling waves glinted in the early sunlight.

"It's so quiet." Her voice was soft and distant, even though she was right next to me.

"It's the deep breath before the plunge." A small grin pulled at my lips. "At least, according to Gandalf."

"I've learned by now to ignore your nerd references," Malia said with a casual flick of her wrist. "Conditions are ideal for you today. At the risk of sounding overconfident, I think you've got this locked up. Just do what you've been doing all weekend. Go for the extra rail curve off the top immediately - the judges have been high scoring that opening maneuver all weekend. And-"

"And don't forget to wash behind your ears and bring a jacket in case it gets cold." I threw a grin her way. "You sound like a mom."

"I know, I know," she put her hands up in defense. "I just want you to kick some ass - mostly because I know you can. Plus, I'd give anything to smack that shit-eating, smug-ass grin off Carissa's face." Malia nudged me in the arm with a smirk.

The beach crowd began to filter in as the air grew warmer, and waves swelled and crashed against the shore. I waxed my board down and stretched myself out, taking care to be more gentle with my knee, despite the fact that I felt stronger than I had in a long time. After going over my general game plan with Malia, I decided the best course of action was to fucking wing it. Fly by the seat of her pants Savannah has not let me down yet. Carissa had priority positioning anyway, which meant I had to wait and watch what she was going to whip out first.

"Hey shortcake."

I wasn't short by any means, but standing shoulder to shoulder with all 5'11" of Carissa Keli'i made it look like she was kidnapping me.

"Good morning to you too, Carissa." I gave her a pinched smile.

"Ready to come play with the sharks?" she smirked down at me before trudging up to where the water met the sand. "You should be careful though, they've got big teeth."

"A real shark doesn't need to tell you it's a shark," I retorted with a shrug. "You already know what she is, and what she's capable of."

I knew that wasn't the real saying, but something in me swelled like the waves. I felt sturdy and strong. A wolf doesn't need to tell you it's a wolf, either.

Carissa stalked away with a huff and jumped into the water.

I clutched my board under my arm and stood there for a moment, peeling away the noise of the beach until nothing was left but the waves crashing on the shoreline. Water lapped at my ankles and beckoned me forward, but I didn't.

I wasn't sure what held me back. All I knew was that it was the end of the summer, and something about the salt in the air made me feel like my life was changing. Slowly. Intimately. Almost like drowning.

I took another deep breath and dove into the water, ready to show the so-called sharks my own teeth.

Competitive surfing required an unparalleled amount of patience. In a 30 minute heat, you spent most of that time waiting - waiting for the right break, waiting for your rival to bail out, waiting for the sun to heat the peaks of the wave so perfectly, it'll propel you forward without hesitation.

Carissa caught the first wave and immediately carved out a big forehand hack before powering down the wave and falling back into the wall. She popped back above the surface and paddled back towards me in the lineup.

I waited. And waited. And waited. A stillness was heavy in the air, and every wave that passed that I didn't take meant time was ticking away, feeling the pressure pushing down on me.

I glanced over at Carissa, squinting in the light of the late morning sun. She gave me a smug grin and put her hands to her throat, mouthing the words don't choke.

I worked my jaw and turned away, determined to take the next wave that was swelling. I paddled out and dropped into the wave, immediately carving out a slingshot into the open face beyond the tube, whitewater splashing up in every direction as I tried to pick up speed and power myself down the wave. I carved out another turn, trying to double back just as Malia instructed me to. I tasted salt, and I tasted power. I had to play my ace before the opportunity was gone. I wanted to hit my aerial. I needed to hit it.

As I went to propel myself off the peak of the wave, the tube began to collapse, and before I knew it, my board had slipped out from underneath me, and I went plunging into the ocean.

When you're being tumbled and tossed around by a wave careening towards the shore, there is no up, down, left, or right. There's just underwater. I struggled to make it to the surface, but I was beaten down by the ocean. I was put in my place. The ocean spit me out on the beach, coated in sand and saltwater and shame.

Still dizzy with little stars flashing in my eyes, I felt someone lifting me to my feet, my chest heaving and burning as I coughed and sputtered out ocean water. The moment my left foot touched the beach, pain ricocheted up my body, like I was being electrocuted. I let out a pained yelp, and out of the corner of my eye, Malia hurried whoever was carrying me forward and into a medical tent.

I blacked out in the hour that followed. Whether it was from the pain, the embarrassment, the reality of my forced withdrawal from the final, or some combination of all that, I wasn't sure. I had my ankle iced and wrapped up tight, and the words sprain and contusion were being thrown around in conversations that I only halfway tuned into.

"You're lucky," Malia said to me when we were finally alone, the heat and the crowds subsiding as the day stretched into the afternoon.

I scoffed. "Lucky? Like in the well at least your foot wasn't amputated sense? Because yeah, no shit. That doesn't change the fact that I am, once again, incapacitated. But thanks for the perspective."

Malia met my attitude with a groan. "It's a low grade ankle sprain, Savannah. So yes, you are lucky. You're lucky it wasn't any worse. You're lucky you didn't reaggravate your bad knee. And you're lucky that your next event isn't for another three weeks, so you have time to heal."

It felt like only yesterday I was healing. I hadn't been moving forward, I'd just done a lap, and now I was back at the starting line. The thought made me sick.

"Is this just going to be my life now?" I had to bite back the sobs at the back of my throat. "Constantly teetering on the edge? The fear of yet another injury holding me back? Asking myself if I'm ever going to be 100% ever again?"

"No Savannah, it's not." Malia put her hands down on my shoulders. "Just as long as you don't let it be your life."

After I'd been escorted back up to my hotel room to gather my things, I checked my phone for the first time all day. Just as I was telling myself things couldn't get any worse, the universe found ways to prove me wrong. Because yes, it could always get worse.

I tried to keep my focus on the words he's fine to slow my wild heartbeat, despite the blistering pain in my ankle making my head throb and my vision blurry. I felt the frantic beat of my heart thumping against my throat.

He's fine. You're not fine.

They say when it rains it pours, but in my case, it was a category 5 typhoon. The kind of thing that uprooted trees and knocked down walls. The kind of thing that signaled the end of the world, even if it wasn't. It sure as hell felt like it.

I was forced to ship my surfboard back to California with Malia while I trekked back to London, the train ride infinitely longer in the dark and the rain. I tried to shut my eyes and listen to music, and I tried to stay off of social media to avoid seeing the inevitable. One disaster at a time.

It was after 9 when I got back into London. I had to ride the elevator back up to Gemma's flat, which despite the irrelevance of such a normal task, felt like the end of the world since I was forced into it because my ankle couldn't handle stairs. I collapsed onto Gemma's warm cushy comforter, and Walt nuzzled up beside me. I tried to cry, but I was too tired for even that.

I texted Gemma to let her know I was back, and when she asked me how I did, I lied and said fine. Telling someone else, even her, made it too real. Before closing out my messages, my thumb hovered over Atlas's name. I typed and deleted and retyped a message over and over again, but even something as simple as asking him how he was felt gargantuan.

At this point, I'd rather feel anything other than the biting, crushing failure of my ankle - even if that meant feeling the intangible.

I hit the FaceTime button next to his contact, fully expecting him to not answer. It rang and rang, and I didn't realize until then how badly I wanted - maybe even needed - to hear his voice, until I was faced with the idea that I wouldn't.

That is, until the soft cadence of his accent punctuated the silence, and I felt the very air around me warm.

"Please tell me you had a better weekend than I did."

I let out a sigh of relief as his face lit up my phone screen, his hair messy and his eyes tired, but not the regular kind of tired. The kind of tired that a year of sleep wouldn't fix.

I bit down on my lip and glanced at my wrapped up ankle. "That's a negative, Alpha Atlas."

He forced out a chuckle, and I could tell it was the first time all day his discontent had been cracked. I sure as hell knew how that felt.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" I asked, running my finger along the stitching in Gemma's comforter.

"Nope," came his clipped response. "You?"

I winced. "No. Not really."

We shared another soft laugh, letting it dissipate into a comfortable silence. I propped my phone up on a pillow beside me, and we seemed to study each other through fuzzy phone cameras in the dimness of the night. Almost like we were laying right next to each other, even though we were 500 miles away. All I wanted was to reach out and be able to actually touch him, to feel the warmth of his skin on mine as if it could stitch all my wounds and soothe my aching muscles.

"You're okay though?" I asked him.

"I'm fine," he sighed. "The car is not, but I guess I picked a good weekend to crash since there's two weeks until the next race."

I swallowed hard and turned the phone to my ankle. "I guess the universe has cut us a break. So is my three week stretch without an event so I can pretend this didn't happen."

"Oh," his voice dropped. "Ouch. Are you okay?"

"Remember when we said we weren't going to talk about it?" I gave him a faint smile.

He shrugged. "Apparently I'm indelicate."

"It is one of your more redeeming qualities."

I paused and let out another breath, watching him watch me as if he was waiting for something. For what, I wasn't sure. "You're actually the only person I've told so far. About my ankle, I mean."

He frowned. "Why?"

"Because I feel like you just get it." I hoped the cracking in my voice was lost over the airwaves.

"I do," he nodded. "And misery loves company."

Another silence fell over us, but goodbye wasn't even a thought.

"Wait a minute," he sat up in bed and knocked his phone face down into the sheets. "You said you're off next weekend?"

"Thankfully, yes."

He repositioned his phone and came back into view, trying to tame a chunk of his hair that was sticking straight up from where he had been laying down. "Well, me too."

I arched an eyebrow at him, and I knew this conversation was wading into dangerous waters. "You want to commiserate together?"

"That sounds dirty, let's do it," he said with a grin as he laid back down. My face warmed under the gravity of his words. "Come to Monaco next weekend."

A tired sigh escaped my lips. "I can't just jet off to Monaco at a moment's notice, Atlas."

"Why the hell not?" he blurted out.

Because I didn't know what would happen if we were in the same room again together for an hour, let alone a whole weekend. Because the weeks of talking and drunk flirting had to hit its apex, and the spark there would be when we touched after all that time would most likely lead to spontaneous combustion.

I glanced down at my ankle again, realizing that maybe I was just ready to burn.

"Well...I could really go for a change of scenery," I admitted.

"Great, I have scenery."

He wasn't trying to be funny, but I barked out a laugh. "I'm holding you to that."

Maybe emotion was driving my decisions, but maybe it was time I let them. After all, Atlas Vaughn was a professional behind the wheel.

my head needs some love and some care
i thought i'd let you know that i'm still scared

injured summer / goth babe

i'm not sorry. we're going back to monaco bitches