Storms. Chris Vick

smiled, waking slowly, softly, still feeling the warmth of the boy and the night.

      She sat up gently, but wished she hadn’t. Her brain sang with pain. Her mouth was sandpaper.

      Happy or not, she had a monumental hangover.

      She was alone, covered by a damp, open sleeping bag and blankets, lying at the foot of a dune.

      Some twenty metres off, was the carnage of the night: Still-smoking fires. Bodies in sleeping bags, like landed seals. A dog licking grease off a grill.

      ‘Oh God,’ she said in a thick voice.

      A vague memory of Bess and Phoebe begging her to leave. Her telling them she’d be fine. Sneaking to the dunes, away from fires and drunks. Making their camp of sleeping bags and blankets. His firm body, and those hands. On her. How they had explored her body. (Had they had sex? No, she’d remember that.) They’d done a lot, though. A lot. She hadn’t been able to help herself. Because he was gorgeous. And kind. And fun. And good with those hands. Really good.

      What a night.

      So, where was the boy now. Run away?

      No, he wasn’t that kind of guy. She was sure of it.

      Still. Where was he?

      Hannah looked around. A bottle of water was wedged in the sand next to the bedding. She grabbed it and drank. No water had ever tasted so good.

      There was a white enamel cup too and, in it, a toothbrush and toothpaste.

      And next to the cup: her flip-flops and clothes, folded. Jeans. Hoody. She was wearing her T-shirt, but … Her hand reached down and found only her bare bum … Where the hell were her knickers?

      She scrambled about under the sleeping bag and blankets with hands and feet. She found her pants, hooked them with her big toe, put her hands down and slipped them on.

      ‘Jesus.’ She cursed herself for the tequila, and maybe also for not leaving when she could have. For going too far.

      What would Dad say if he found out she wasn’t at Phoebe’s?

      Oh God.

      But then … She smiled. After all that studying, all that stress, she’d gone off like a firework. She’d had a good time.

      There seemed to be two Hannahs now. One normal, and another who was – apparently – a tequila-necking hussy.

      Not-so-perfect Hannah Lancaster now.

      She giggled, and realised she might still be drunk.

      Knickers safely on, she got dressed. As she stood, brushing, gargling, spitting, she saw, lower down the dune, scrawled in the firm sand:

      I AM HERE.

      An arrow pointed to the edge of the dunes, to the sea.

      Hannah picked up a blanket, wrapped it round her shoulders and walked slowly down, following the direction of the arrow. She came round the dune and saw the sea. It was high tide.

      And there he was, in the shore break, surfing the waves of a silky milk-coloured sea.

      He was on a wave now, spinning all over it, graceful and strong. Even at this distance, she could see his body, lithe with muscle. Like some animal.

      He came off the wave and paddled out again, but not before he’d checked the shore. He waved. She waved back. Then she walked down, nearer to the sea, and sat on the sand with the blanket round her.

      Her face tingled from the gentle breeze. She shivered on the cold sand. But a warm glow, a soft fire, was growing inside her. Her throbbing head didn’t matter now.

      Beyond the shadow of the land, a sheet of blue approached, reaching to where Jake was surfing. The summer sun rose, slow, in the sky.

      The boy carved the waves. Was he showing off? Probably. From what she remembered, he didn’t do much other than surf. Lucky he was good, then.

      A surfer. She’d fallen for a surf dude. What a cliché.

      As she watched, she wondered about Hawaii and the weeks between now and then. About the boy, Jake. Which was crazy. She didn’t know if they’d have breakfast, let alone a relationship.

      But somehow … she did know. They would have breakfast. They would see each other again. She wasn’t kidding herself. This was quick, but real.

      She wondered what Dad would make of him.

       Jake

      HE LIKED THIS. The girl sitting on the beach, him surfing the high-tide breakers.

      The waves were big enough for him to chuck the board about. But not so big he’d get punished for it.

      He pulled tricks: sharp bottom turns, up the wave, smack the board off the lip, drop back down into the power pocket. Up: float over the white crest, run back on the green. Pump the board for speed. Tuck in a tiny barrel as the wave closed on shore.

      He took a bigger one, got some speed till the wave was almost closing, launched off the top and spun in the air, then tried to stick the board back into the wave. It was crazy to try a 360. He needed onshore wind that wasn’t there. He nose-dived the board in a foot of water, somersaulted and head-butted the sand.

      He stood, spinning.

      The girl – Hannah – laughed. Jake spat sand. He regretted making a tit of himself. Hannah stopped laughing and gave a sympathetic ‘argh’, then clapped and whistled. Her eyes were smiling. She wasn’t taking the piss.

      ‘I don’t know much about surfing,’ she said, ‘but that looked great.’

      ‘Even the wipe-out?’ he said, and winked. He walked up, leant over – careful not to drip on her – and kissed her.

      She stood up.

      ‘My dad says you’ve got to fail and fall. And then get up again. In order to learn.’

      ‘A surfer is he?’ said Jake.

      ‘More of a yachtee.’

      He put the board down. She opened the blanket and closed it round them both.

      ‘I’m soaking wet,’ he said.

      She pushed against him and the warmth of her was like an unmade bed. Her hair was messed, her eyes raw and sleepy.

      God. She was beautiful.

      Her lips met his. Her tongue too. She tasted of toothpaste.

      He wanted her. She writhed a little under the blanket, feeling him there. She unlocked her lips from his and leant back, meaning: Enough. For now.

      He picked up his board.

      ‘So. What happens next?’ she said.

      Did she mean right this second, or something else?

      ‘Um, breakfast?’ he said.

      Hannah looked up at the blue-filling sky.

      ‘What time is it?’

      ‘Early. Won’t be anywhere open yet. Goof might have brekky stuff. Coffee leastways.’

      She frowned. Her perma-smile dissolved.

      ‘I need to get a signal. Send some texts. I wasn’t exactly meant to be out all night.’

      ‘Where you supposed to be?’

      ‘Phoebe’s. In her spare room. It’s no biggy. Just parents, you know. They’ll want to know I’m okay.’

      ‘What will you tell them?’

      ‘That I’m at Phoebe’s. They’d freak if they thought I was out all night. With some boy. Who they don’t know. That’s