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than he was last summer. He’s still the same hyper sugar
cube addict, but there’s something a little more solemn about him,
a bit more serious. It’s like he’s starved for something he isn’t
getting, malnourished in the realm of life experience.
    “One day it’ll be all about you,” I assure
him. “And every day after that will be about you, and I plan on
being there for every single day of it, okay?”
    He squeezes me and mumbles something about
‘not soon enough.’ I wish today could be his day instead of Logan’s
day. I wish that had been Topher’s name typed onto that contract.
We should be celebrating his sponsorship, not one of an outsider
who I haven’t even met.
    A rumbling engine interrupts my inner angst.
I pull myself away from Topher’s chest and look around for the
roaring vehicle. Colby’s black truck whips around and parks at an
angle in what I’m sure isn’t even a parking space. He slams the
door behind him and ignores us across the parking lot as he heads
toward Drenaline Surf.
    “You better go,” Topher says. “Colby’s going
to be as pissed as I am, but he’s not going to hide it. And since
he’s not home, that means no one is surfing behind his house, so
that’s where I’ll be if you need me. But don’t tell Vin where I
am.”
    I hate leaving Topher behind when he’s upset.
It’s rare to see him so down. But I nod and follow Colby’s
footsteps.

Chapter
Five
    Colby lingers outside of Drenaline Surf,
under the giant wave hovering over the entrance. He studies his
cell phone but looks up when I approach him.
    “I told you,” he says, jabbing a finger
toward me. “I told you they were here to ruin me. Why the hell did
you have to get in my head and try to convince me that this might
be a good thing?”
    Umm. Good morning to you too, Surf Star. I
glance into the store and catch a glimpse of Miles’s dreadlocks.
Letting Colby go inside isn’t an option right now. The Strip is
dead at this hour of the morning, so I grab his arm and drag him
down the sidewalk with me, past the closed vendor stands.
    “Look, I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know they
were here on a get-rich mission. When I found out last night, I
tried to call you, but I got voice-mailed every time. But don’t you
dare accuse me of getting in your head. You’re the only one in
there, so don’t try to redirect the blame.”
    He leans back against the wooden shack that
reads Fresh Fruit. The sign is decorated with painted watermelons
and lemons. He shakes his hair out of his eyes, still damp from his
early morning surf. Then he shields his eyes from the sun.
    “I tried,” he says. “I really tried. I sat
down with them, apologized for putting them through hell, and then
I tried to explain – calmly – why I ran away.”
    When we talked last summer about his great
escape, it sounded like one giant scheme to defy his parents, but
standing here now, listening to him speak about how they blocked
his trust funds with stipulations of a law degree and age limit, I
actually feel suffocated.
    “I had no choice, Haley,” he says. “I
would’ve been a thirty-year-old lawyer before I could even touch
that money. I didn’t want to go to law school. I wanted to live a
little, screw up a few times, you know?”
    I can’t help laughing. “Well, I think you’ve
got the screwing up part down,” I say.
    Fortunately he smiles. “Lucky me,” he says.
“They gave me an ultimatum.”
    I glance around The Strip before speaking,
but the morning breeze off of the ocean is our only company. I
definitely don’t want Vin or anyone in his corner to overhear
anything Colby tells me before I can strategize a game plan.
    “What’d they say?” I ask, keeping my voice
low. I step closer to Colby.
    “You ready for this?” he asks. “They said
they would put all of this behind them if I moved back to North
Carolina, changed my name back, and stopped living this ‘absurd
alternate life.’”
    I skim the area like a