Free Cinderella in the Surf by Carly Syms Page B

complaining that he's not the most punctual dude I've ever met.
    "You're gonna have to work on that," I tell him.
    He nods. "Sorry. I think Petey and Brock are already here. Wanna go in?" A look of horror flashes across his face. "Wait, wait." He reaches out and grabs my shoulder since I've already turned and started walking toward the door to the bar. "You're not 21. How are you going to get in here?"
    I raise an eyebrow. "You're just now thinking of that? I've been here before. The Sand Dune never cards at the door until at least nine."  
    "Glad you're on top of things."  
    I shake my head and walk into the bar with Walker a step behind me. He scans the room before I watch him nod and lift his hand in greeting to two guys seated at a circular booth in the dimly light corner.  
    When we approach, I realize one of them is staring intently at me.
    Great.
    "Sup, man," Walker says, slapping them both on the hands before gesturing over to me. "This is Rachel. She's local." He looks at me. "Petey and Brock. Brock lives here, too, but Petey's from New York."  
    Brock is the one I'd first noticed staring at me, and even with the introduction, he still isn't looking away.
    "Don't I know you?" Brock asks me as he and Petey scoot closer toward the middle of the booth, allowing room for Walker and me to squeeze in.
    "I don't think so," I say as the waiter comes over. Walker orders a lite beer I've never heard of, and Petey and Brock both ask for another round of whatever it is they're drinking.
    And I ask for a diet coke. When I look up, I decide not to bother answering their quizzical stares at my drink choice with the obvious explanation.  
    "Are you sure?" Brock presses when he realizes I'm not going to follow up on my response.  
    "Pretty sure," I say, picking up the tan paper napkin and twisting it between my fingers. "But I've been known to be wrong sometimes."  
    "Not often, though," Walker pipes up with a cheeky grin, and I feel the corners of my mouth twitch up.  
    "I don't know why you look so familiar then," Brock goes on like we haven't already changed the subject. "I know I recognize you and your name but can't figure out why."  
    It's then that a cold, sweeping sense of dread washes over me. There are only two reasons someone in this part of town would recognize me without me knowing them: they've heard my name because I'm (or I was, anyway) a big-time surfer, or because they followed the news reports about Alex's death.  
    And quite honestly, neither option is particularly appealing.
    But I'm pretty sure I know which one Brock is thinking about.  
    I shrug like I'm not silently sending up prayers that he'll get bored with his line of questioning. "No idea," I chirp. "So, you guys paint with Walker?"
    It's Petey's turn to jump in. "Yep," he says. "It's kinda funny. I came out here to live with my grandpa for the summer after Nana died, and he hooked me up with Walker's uncle."  
    I'm not sure what to say, so I opt for polite. "Sorry about your grandma."
    Petey just shrugs. "That's the way it is. You live, then you die, and that's it."
    I blink twice, and don't respond, because what do you say to that? I mean, I know technically he's right, but it just sounds so...so...cavalier about death when   all it ever does is leave behind a trail of sadness, and people who'd give anything to change what remains in its wake.
    "Why are y'all sitting inside?" Walker slips his phone into his pocket as he steps into the conversation just as things are starting to feel really awkward and I'm starting to regret giving up my bed and book. "It's nice out. Let's grab a table on the patio."  
    We walk outside in the unlikeliest of conga lines and Walker chooses a round table that seats six, not a booth, in the middle of the patio. Colored string lights hang from the outdoor bar, a fire burns in one corner even though it's still in the eighties with tiki torches lining the whole place, and a live band sets up off to the side of the