Page 132 of Tell Me I'm Enough

I peel one eye open and see Mason standing at the foot of my bed, shirtless, wearing sunglasses inside, and dancing with two coffee cups and a brown bag in his hands.

I slowly sit up. “What the hell is wrong with you, Sinclair?”

“Morning, pretty girl,” he says way too cheerfully. “Rise and shine.”

I grab a pillow and throw it at him, but he dodges it easily.

“You’re evil.”

“I’m motivational,” he counters.

“You’re gonnamotivateme to commit a felony at 6 AM.”

He turns the music down slightly. “Youagreed for me to take you surfing this morning.”

“Nighttime Simone was excited by the idea…morning Simone is not too happy with that decision. It’swaytoo early.”

“It’s literally surf o’clock.”

I groan but swing my legs out of bed anyway.

Thirty minutes later, I’m riding shotgun in the truck he rented with my hoodie pulled tight around me, and the ocean stretching endlessly beside us as the sun creeps up over the horizon.

It’s beautiful, I have to admit.

We have to stop for gas on the way there, and I sink into the seat, imagining still being in bed right now under the covers.

“Don’t move,” he says, hopping out.

I scroll my phone, and when he comes back, he dumps an armful of snacks into my lap—Hot Cheetos, sour gummy worms, and peanut M&Ms.

I stare at it. Then up at him. “How did you know what to get me?”

“You’re always eating this shit. You separate the gummies by color, and you always complain if there aren’t enough red and blue ones.”

“That’s…a concerning observation.”

He shrugs. “I pay attention to everything.”

My cheeks warm at his attention to detail, but I hide it by stealing a sip of his slushie.

“Oh, this isgood. What flavor is it?”

He smiles over at me. “Half cherry, half Coke, of course.”

My eyes almost roll in the back of my head. “This plus the coffee this morning…I’m gonna be bouncing every which way off that surfboard with a sugar rush.”

He laughs. “Should be pretty entertaining for me then.”

The beach is nearly empty when we get there. It’s just us and the water and the sound of waves breaking.

Mason wades in first, board tucked under his arm like it’s an extension of him. He looks so natural out here, like this is where he belongs, like the chaos that normally follows him everywhere else doesn’t reach him this far out.

Am I noticing how good he looks in his skin-tight surf suit? Absolutely not.

Is the fabric clinging to every curve of muscle he has? I wouldn’t know; I’m not looking.

I hesitate at the edge of the water, toes curling into the wet sand.