Chasing Waves

Chapter Eleven: smile and wave

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11: The parties will not meet each other's families.

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Victoria was freezing.

Bells Beach was colder.

Honey unfastened the belt on her white coat and reknotted it tighter, stepping out of the shadow of the dark blue WSL flag and into a patch of sun. Once, she hadn't minded brisker weather. She loved winter fashion, and she'd always preferred being too cold over being sweltering hot. Her family's move from the Victorian coast to Brisbane when she started high school was a hard adjustment; the tropical climate didn't agree with her at first. The humid air stuck to her skin and made her hair so frizzy that she could have been mistaken for a bird's nest. Worst of all, she hadn't known how on earth to dress for thirty-four-degree heat.

She'd adjusted soon enough. Had a feeling it had something to do with the three students who'd befriended her during her first week at her new school: the onyx-haired goddess who recommended new hair products; the softly spoken brunette who smuggled Honey refrigerated bottles of water from the teacher's lounge; the miniature Anna Wintour with vibrant copper hair who had quickly taken Honey under her wing, helping her put her impressive allowance to good use.

And so for them—and them only—Honey obliged Daisy's request in the group chat, plucking her hands out of her coat pockets to snap a quick photo of the crowded beach. It was a stretch of sand tucked into the coast of a quaint seaside town a few miles down from Torquey. One solitary cliff stood sentry over some rocks, topped with high grasses that hissed at the wind's will like snakes. The lapping water was a mixture of bright blues and rich greens, the mighty waves unfurling on the shore as a ghost of what they'd been out at sea. That morning, the swell was dotted with surfers wearing bright lycra that made them look like exotic birds of paradise as they barreled through watery tunnels and slashed through rolling waves.

Honey sent the picture, then took another of the horizon, as if she could encourage the sun to shine just a bit brighter. Gosh. It had barely been a day, and she already missed the Brisbane heat. She vaguely recalled visiting Bells for family picnics as a child, but the location had only graced the Valentine's social calendar once or twice; Honey's family was less beachy keen, more country-club chic. She had a suspicion that her dad still held a grudge against the sand for daring to venture into his Louboutin loafers.

Not a photo of the beach, you dag, came Daisy's response. Of Adam! The cameraman's angle is shocking!

She must have been watching the livestream. The reminder that the event was being broadcasted had Honey stepping into the shadow of her beach umbrella, even if it left her ten times colder. She popped on her sunglasses and brought her white scarf over her head.

Which practically screamed heiress-in-hiding.

Oh well. She supposed the whole point of being there in the first place was to be seen. Resigned to her fate, Honey aimed her phone toward the ocean and searched for—

There.

Adam took off with the next wave, instantly finding his footing on his bright red board. He was dressed in yellow lycra—a terrible choice for his jersey. He looked much better in blues and blacks and whites. Objectively speaking, of course. Honey would have to speak to someone about changing his jersey colour, though she had read online that the colours had something to do with rankings—