I cannot believe what I’m hearing. This is like Santa Claus coming down your chimney and telling you that there’s no such thing as Christmas. Mo cannot be telling me to join up with Surf City.

“There’s no way I would ever do that. Not with them. The only reason I’m even competing in the first place is because I want to beat them.”

“Well, that’s too bad,” she says. “You shouldn’t be surfing because of them. And you shouldn’t be surfing because of us. You should be doing it for you. I’ve been watching you and I’ve noticed a complete evolution in your style. You’ve found a spark and you should see where it takes you. You know what I think about their store. But there’s no denying that their team is outstanding . . . just like you.”

“You’re right,” I say, more confused than anything. “I don’t want to hear this.”

I don’t wait for a response. I just walk past her and head back down the stairs.

It was completely out of left field,” I say as I tell Ben about my conversation with Mo. “In a weird way it felt like she was dumping me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ben says as he tries to scrape the wax off an old surfboard. “Mo loves you. The last thing she’d do is dump you.”

Despite my mood regarding Mo and our conversation, this brings us to the best part of my new daily routine. If I’m not training or working at the shop, then the odds are pretty good that I’m with Ben. We’ve done something together every night this week. We’ve gone bowling (I was pathetic), played putt putt (I beat him on the last hole and was surprisingly obnoxious about it), and just hung out and watched TV. (He’s already got me hooked on British mystery shows.)

We’ve also started basic surfing lessons. For the first few he borrowed Black Beauty, which is what my dad calls his favorite shortboard, and now Ben’s purchased one of his own. It’s an old quad fish that he dubbed Blue Boy in keeping with my dad’s naming tradition. It’s been a while since Blue Boy has been in the water, so I’m teaching him how to strip off the old wax and start anew. He’s got it lying across two sawhorses and is bent over, hard at work.

“How’s this?” he asks as he scrapes the last bit.

“Good,” I say, inspecting it. “Very good.”

I hand him a bar of Mr. Zog’s that I picked up at the shop.

“Now start to apply the base coat. Make straight lines from one rail to the other directly perpendicular to the stringer.” The rails are the side edges, and the stringer is a thin strip of wood that runs down the center of the board and makes it stronger.

“Like this?” he asks as he carefully rubs the bar of wax across the board.

“Exactly,” I say.

I like watching him work. He does this little thing where he bites the left side of his lower lip when he concentrates, and it’s beyond cute. It’s also a sure sign that he is trying to do it perfectly. It’s a total contrast to the goofy way he is around the kids during camp.

“You know Mo was just looking out for you,” he says. “She doesn’t want you in denial. She wants to make sure you can move on after the summer.”

When he says this I realize why the conversation with Mo is bothering me so much. It’s not just the fact that she thinks I would represent Surf City. It’s the fact that she is already encouraging me to find something new after the summer. She’s trying to make it all right for me to replace Surf Sisters. And the problem is, if she can persuade me, then so can Ben.

“Is that something you can relate to?” I ask pointedly.

He starts to answer but stops when he realizes that I’ve set a trap.

“They’re two very different things,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “But, yes, I can relate to worrying about you in September.”

I put my hand on his hand to stop him for a moment, and he looks up at me.

“When the time comes for you to go back home, do not be like Mo. Don’t encourage me to meet another boy and replace you. I knew what I was getting into when I kissed you on the pier. I’m a big girl and I know that September will come. But we said this was going to be like the perfect wave. We’re going to ride it until the very end and not worry about the next one.”

He stands upright and carefully looks at me. I can tell he’s debating what he should say next. In my brain I know that he will go home and find someone new. And, theoretically, I know that I will also find someone. But, in my heart, I can’t bear the thought right now.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “I promise I won’t.”

Then, completely out of nowhere, I start to cry. Not big sobs, but steady tears that slide down my cheeks one by one. The fact that I’m embarrassed about this emotional display only makes me cry that much more.

We’re on opposite sides of the surfboard, so he reaches across and holds my hand as he navigates his way around the sawhorse and wraps me in his arms. I cry a little harder as I bury my face in his chest, and he gently strokes my back. I start to apologize for being such a drama queen, but he just shushes me and holds me tighter.

“It’s okay, baby.”

Just hearing him say that fills me with this warmth. In a weird way I’ve never felt worse and better at the same time. I close my eyes and listen to the sound of his heart beating.

Okay, I’d like to officially apologize for whatever that was earlier,” I say as we walk along the beach a few hours later. There’s only a sliver of a moon hanging over the water, but stars fill the night sky and it’s stunning.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he says. “You’re allowed to show emotion. That’s part of the package.”

“Well, it was both unexpected and unprecedented,” I explain. “Although I will say that there was a sort of emotional cleansing quality to the whole thing.”

“Is that your way of saying you feel better now?” he asks.

“Well, if you want the SparkNotes version, yes.”

“I am perfectly happy with the SparkNotes version,” he says. “But also more than willing to go into greater detail if that makes you happier.”

I stop and put my hands on my hips in mock protest. “Are you saying that it doesn’t matter or just that you don’t care?”

“Neither,” he answers as he skillfully snakes a hand through my arm and pulls me closer to him. “I’m saying that I’m here for you however you need me to be.”

I give him a playful nod and counter, “You’re a slick talker, Ben Taylor. You always seem to say just the right thing.”

“And is that a problem?”

“It kind of is.”

“Let me get this straight,” he replies, looking down at me. “Are you now criticizing me for not saying the wrong thing?”

“The female mind is quite the riddle,” I joke. “Besides, I’m not criticizing you. I’m just keeping you on your toes.”

“How about I keep you on your toes instead?”

He wraps his arms around my waist and lifts me ever so slightly, so that now I’m on my tiptoes—the perfect kissing height. At first I think it’s going to be a peck, but our lips linger and I close my eyes. The instant it’s over, I pick up the conversation where I left off.

“See what I mean? You always say the right thing. That’s suspicious, don’t you think?”

I break free from his arms and sprint ahead of him.

“Where are you going?”

“I thought you were a runner,” I call back. “Yet I’m the one winning the race to the lifeguard stand!”

Up ahead of us is a lifeguard stand. It looks like a giant high chair that’s twelve feet tall and made out of bright orange two-by-fours. I’ve got a good head start, but he quickly closes the gap and we both get there at the same time.

“I won,” I say, catching my breath.

“Hardly,” he laughs. “It was a tie and you cheated more than a little bit.”

“That’s not what I meant. I won because I got you right where I want you,” I say as I climb up into the seat. It is big and roomy enough for a lifeguard to sit with all of his gear. Or, in other words, it’s the perfect size for two people to squeeze into.