Easton Moore is back...and I'm his fake girlfriend.
After leaving for the professional surfing tour the morning after we slept together, my childhood best friend became the person I never wanted to see again. Now he strolls back into Sandy Cove when...
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LEANING OVER THE railing on the upper deck of the surfing house where Easton, his opponent and the other surfers who have come to watch stand around, I look over the edge to see the crowd that has swarmed the beach ready for the final of the Portugal competition.
The past four days, in which the competition spreads over, have been a whirlwind. Even I am tired just watching them all. I can't imagine doing this so often with the amount of heats there are over the five days.
Although I grew up around Easton and Atlas surfing, I was never familiar with how the professional scene operates. The way Easton explained it to me on the first day of the heats was that over five days there are 3 elimination rounds before we move onto the quarter finals, semi-finals, the finals.
Easton easily surpassed them all and made it into the final, where he is competing against the other finalist in a forty-minute heat to determine who will win the Portugal trophy.
People are standing around on the beach, eager for the final to start, and the media are set up on the stairs that lead down to the beach from where we are standing and on the beach itself, ready to get shots of the surfers.
One thing I had noticed in the past four days was that the media could not get enough of this story Easton and I are selling them. While of course there are the media who record the surfing itself, there were also gossip media outlets as well. They had bombarded us that first day as soon as we made our way onto the beach, so much so Easton had to reach to grab my hand and let me walk in front of him.
They had gotten wind of our "relationship" the morning after we arrived, as there on the front page of a gossip surf magazine was a picture of Easton and me walking into the restaurant the night before to meet his friends. With a tempting article about how the playboy of surfing had settled down with his "childhood sweetheart".
I wanted to barf.
Turning my head slightly, I watch as Easton bounces on the balls of his feet, his headphones covering his ears as he listens to music, tuning out the surrounding scene. One new thing I had learned about Easton was that his pre-surfing ritual was to be left alone and not be disturbed, which explained why he did not bring anyone on tour with him.
But I know better than to interrupt him.
His shorts and rash guard cover his body, his muscles and toned body standing out against the tight material. Clearing my throat, I turn away and focus back on the scene in front of me. It is easy to see how you can get caught up in this life.
The excitement pours through everyone on the beach. The energy is electric and is even more so when you are the winner of that heat.
Aside from that night at dinner, Easton's and my encounters had been pretty minimal since the heats started. After all, he was focused, but also exhausted. He would turn in early and I would focus on my schoolwork, then we would leave early for the competition day ahead. We would eat together, but even then, our conversations remained surface level.
