Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Sure, my own attempts were hilariously pathetic. But Atlas had been a patient, albeit sometimes teasing, teacher, who declared that surfing was simply not going to be my forte.
“Come on, noodle arms, let’s find something else for you to try,” he’d said in the end.
“What’s got you so captivated?” I asked, his eyes glued to the screen as I kicked out of my shoes, dropped my keys, and made my way toward him.
“Remember how you said I could edit and upload the footage of you trying new things on my channel?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
I’d been the cameraman a lot of the time on our vacation, getting as much “B-roll” as possible while Atlas was occupied.
His channel hadn’t gone dead because he’d been down for the count. Luckily, he had lots of old footage that he’d uploaded like it was new, keeping things going while he’d been recovering.
But we’d both been conscious of using the opportunity to get more filming done as we left for our trip.
“Well, sweetheart, it seems like people like you a fuckuva lot more than they like me,” he said, shooting me a smile as he turned the laptop to face me.
He clicked a button, refreshing the video, then stabbed a finger at the screen, showing me the views.
“Two million?” I asked, eyes going round. “That can’t be right.” Not that quickly.
“Oh, it is. And the comments are all people saying they’re in love with you and that they need to see more of you trying new things.”
“No way. I sucked at, like, everything,” I said, shaking my head at the thumbnail of the video he’d uploaded. Me lying on the bright yellow surfboard in the sand in my green one-piece, trying—and failing epically—to try to push myself up to stand like I’d seen Atlas do a hundred effortless times.
“I think that’s what they like. You’re relatable,” he said, scrolling down, and showing me all the gushing comments about me.
My confidence had been climbing since moving to Navesink Bank. It definitely got a boost since getting with Atlas.
But I could feel it notching up even more as I read all the lovely comments that complete strangers had to say about me.
She’s the sweetest thing ever. Marry her.
Omg, she’s like so pretty.
I know she doesn’t mean to be hilarious, but I’m cryingggg.
Look at her dimples when she smiles at you (heart eye emoji)
“So, what I’m saying is… it seems like we have some travel plans to make,” Atlas said, clicking open a new window, and bringing up a search engine. “What do you want to learn next? Skiing? Bungee jumping? Zip lining?”
I never imagined there would be a time in my life where I could not only live as freely as I wanted, but that I could do it out in the open for others to see. Without fear.
Sure, I’d done a lot of the work myself to get to this point.
But Atlas had been right there with me, pushing me, building me up, reassuring me that I was safe and free to do whatever my heart desired.
And my heart desired one thing above all else.
Him.
“Anything,” I said, leaning my head into his shoulder. “So long as you’re there with me.”
Atlas - 12 years
“I’m jealous of an eight-year-old,” AJ said, shaking her head as we watched our son on his surfboard.
AJ was tanned and glowing with a belly as round as the beach ball our four-year-old was chasing down the beach.
“Because he can actually lay on his stomach?” I teased, standing beside her. “Or because he didn’t inherit his mother’s noodle arms?”
“Both,” she admitted as we both watched our son pop up in one smooth, graceful motion, standing on his board, and leaning his body back and forth like he was actually catching a wave.
He looked like, well, both of us.
He was tall and lean with more muscles than you’d expect on a child, thanks to the very active lifestyle he’d been raised in. He had dark hair and eyes, but a set of dimples just like his mother.
Those fucking things let the kid get away with a lot more than he should.
And, I imagined, in fifteen years or so, they would get him all the girls his heart desired.
He was a lot like I’d been at his age. Daring, reckless, never afraid of a challenge. But he had more roots than I had, thanks to his mother, who had been very dedicated to creating a home base for all of us, so that no matter how much we traveled and explored, we had a place to come back to, to settle in to.
Turning, I saw our four-year-old grab the beach ball and start running back toward us.
He was still round-faced and muscle-free. But with how much he liked to follow around his big brother, I had no doubt that he would be learning to surf and skate and bike like nobody’s business once his limbs lengthened out a bit.