Beachwood Bay 04 - Untamed Hearts

in my chest.
    My dad chortles again, like I’ve made a joke. “I’ll never understand the appeal of that ranch,” he says, talking about my Grandpa’s pride and joy like it’s some broken down shack and not one of the best training ranches in the county. “Camille and I tell him to sell, that land’s got to be worth a fortune, but pops won’t hear about it.”
    I don’t say a word. The world may revolve around balance sheets and shiny new toys to people like my dad, but Grandpa knows there are some things more important than money. Like passion, freedom. Making your own rules. He’s been teaching me to train the horses every summer here for years, and it’s my secret dream to take over from him one day. But if I’m going to stand a chance of running my own ranch, I need to make it through college, at least—and another few years of gritting my teeth through nights like this one.
    Dad starts up talking about business gossip, so I look around for some distraction. My mom comes back in from the kitchen looking distressed. “Everything OK?” I ask.
    “It’s a disaster,” she tells me in a hushed tone. “Maria’s making her pastries for dessert, but we’re out of butter. I can’t believe we don’t have spare!” She looks so upset, you think we were talking about world famine instead of profiteroles, but I leap on the chance to escape.
    “I can run out and get some.” I offer quickly.
    “But you’re enjoying the party...” Mom is reluctant.
    “I’ll be back in no time.” Before she can disagree, I kiss her on the cheek and slip out of the room, leaving the small-talk and stifling laughter behind.
    Freedom.
    I pile in my car and back out of the driveway so fast I send gravel flying, turning at the end of the leafy street and heading into town. It’s a gorgeous evening as I cruise along the winding coastal road that leads to Beachwood Bay, the ocean glittering blue under the clear skies. I pass the harbor, boats bobbing on the tide, and find a spot to park on Main Street. The town feels emptier now, but there are still some tourists browsing the quaint stores, kids buying ice-cream, their legs sandy from the beach.
    I feel a pang in my chest, the same one I always do when summer comes to an end. Beachwood Bay is my escape: a chance to leave Charleston and my parents’ stuffy social scene behind. No obligations, no rules, just two months to work with grandpa on the ranch; go sailing with Jace, hang out and feel free. Time has slipped by so fast I can’t believe it, and now summer is over for another year. The house is already packed up, and tomorrow we’ll be heading back home—back to reality. To the life I can’t wait to leave behind.
    I grab butter from the grocery store, and then take my time on the way back, strolling the long route around that takes me past Mrs. Olson’s diner. It’s empty, and the sign outside reads ‘closed’, but I can’t help pausing to glance through the window, searching for a familiar figure.
    There she is.
    Wiping down the countertop at the back of the diner, her dark head bent away from me. She’s wearing her usual uniform of an apron over cut-off shorts and chunky black boots, her hair tipped with blue this week. Even cleaning up, there’s a grace to her movements that mesmerizes me. I watch her, my errand and the party suddenly fading right away.
    Brittany Ray.
    We’ve never spoken, not so much as a word, but I know who she is. Everyone in this town knows. She’s only sixteen, and the things they say about her... but I don’t believe them, not for a second. Brit doesn’t even seem to care. She just strides around town with her tough-girl outfits and that dark, piercing stare, like nothing can touch her.
    She doesn’t realize how beautiful she is.
    Brit looks up from the counter, and I leap back, embarrassed, but she doesn’t see me out here in the fading dusk light. She says something to the person at the back of the diner, and then pulls of her apron, grabbing a scuffed satchel and heading for the front door.
    I quickly take a few steps up the street, and pull out my phone, like I’m looking at a message.
    The door rings, and Brit steps out onto the street.
    “Hey Brit!” A voice calls, and she turns. It’s a couple of local guys, toting six-packs and snacks. “You coming to the party?”
    Brit shrugs. “Maybe.”
    “You gotta,” the other guy urges. “Last blowout of the year. It’ll be crazy. Down at the beach, past the