I push away the thought and the heavy feeling that comes along with it. Take another deep breath and remind myself how careful I need to be with this. I’ve broken too many rules already, written and unwritten, protocols meant to protect both the donor families and the recipients from knowing too much. Or expecting too much.
But when I’d found Colton, and his whole story out there for anyone to see, I replaced those rules in my mind with a new set. Rules and promises that I’ve repeated over and over, that have gotten me this far today and that bolster me enough to pull back onto the road as I repeat them: I will respect Colton Thomas’s wish for no contact, though I don’t think I’ll ever understand it. I just want to see him. See who he is in reality. Maybe then I can understand. Or at least make peace with it.
I won’t interfere with his life. I won’t talk to him, not even to hear the sound of his voice. He won’t even know I exist.
I park across the street from Good Clean Fun and shut off my car, but I don’t get out. Instead I take a moment to absorb the details of the shop, like maybe I’ll see something that can tell me more about Colton than all his sister’s posts have. It looks just like it did in the pictures I’ve seen: perfectly stacked paddleboards and kayaks fill the racks on either side of the door, bright splashes of yellow and red against the otherwise gray morning. Behind them I can see through the front window, where an assortment of wet suits and life jackets hang in neat rows, ready for the day’s adventure-seeking customers. Nothing beyond what I was expecting. Even so, it’s strange to see it now, a shop I must’ve walked by more than once and never paid any attention to. Today it’s a place I feel like I know, with a history made up of so much more than the equipment on the racks.
The shop’s not open yet, and the street is mostly empty; but up ahead, where the pier juts out into the choppy gray ocean, the locals are out, beginning their days. Surfers dot the water on either side of the mussel-covered supports. A fisherman baits his line before he casts over the railing. Two older ladies in tracksuits walk at a brisk pace along the water, chatting and pumping their arms enthusiastically as they go. And in the parking lot next to the pier, three guys in board shorts and flip-flops lean against the railing, watching the waves as steam drifts lazily from the coffee cups in their hands.
I decide coffee might be a good idea. If nothing else I could use a cup to hold in my own hands. Maybe that would be enough to steady them. And finding some would give me something to do besides sit across the street from the shop waiting, and becoming less and less sure of myself by the second.
A few doors down on my side of the street I can see a sign that looks promising: THE SECRET SPOT. I give the closed rental shop one more quick glance, then get out of the car and head down the sidewalk, trying to look comfortable and relaxed, like I belong here.
The air is thick with morning fog and the salt-smell of the water, and though the day will heat up, it’s still cool enough that goose bumps rise on my arms as I walk. When I push through the door of the café, the smell of coffee wraps around me, along with the mellow notes of acoustic guitar that come from the small speaker over the door. My shoulders relax the tiniest bit. I almost feel like if I wanted to, I could just get a coffee, maybe take a walk on the beach, and leave without crossing any more lines. But I know it’s not true. There’s too much wrapped up in this, and in him, for me to be able to do that.
I startle at the voice that comes from behind the counter.
“Morning! Be right with you.” The voice is warm. Easy, like a smile.
“Okay,” I answer, aware of how stiff I sound in contrast. Like I’m out of practice interacting with people. I try briefly to think of something else to add but come up blank. I step back and look around the café instead. It’s a cozy place, with deep-turquoise walls that make the black-and-white surf photos on them stand out. Above me, colorful old surfboards hang side by side, suspended from the ceiling by loops of weathered rope. Next to the counter another surfboard—this one with a jagged bite taken out of it—leans against the wall, serving as the hand-painted menu board.
I’m not hungry at all, but I scan it anyway, looking for a breakfast burrito out of habit. Trent’s favorite, especially after morning swim practice. If he got out early, and we had time before school, we’d go downtown and grab one to share at our own little secret spot: a bench hidden away behind the restaurant, overlooking the creek. Sometimes we’d talk—about his next meet or mine, or our plans for the weekend. But my favorite times were the ones when we’d just sit there with the soft sound of water flowing over rocks and the comfortable quiet that comes with knowing each other by heart.
A guy with wild blond hair and bright-blue eyes steps through the doorway from the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel. “Sorry about the wait,” he says, flashing me a smile that shines white against his tan. “Help hasn’t showed up yet. No idea why.” He nods at the chalkboard reporting the day’s surf conditions: 6 ft South Swell, offshore breeze . . . get out there!
When he glances out the window toward the beach and shrugs, I get the idea he’s okay with it.
I don’t say anything. Pretend to examine the menu. The silence is a little awkward.
“Anyway,” he says, clapping his hands together, “what can I get you this mornin’?”
I don’t really want anything, but I’m here, and it feels too late to duck out now. Plus he seems nice. “I’ll have a mocha,” I say, not sounding entirely sure.