The-Lucky-List-Rachael-Lippincott

I’d needed someone more than anything.
So, I finally did.
But the blip never went away. After my mom died, it just became impossible to face.
e sobering thought of Matt and my mom brings me crashing back to reality, to the course set for
me all those years ago. Which is probably why I pull away from Blake so hard that the entire suroard
tips and I go splashing into the water.
I get caught in the surf and washing-machine my way to the shore, head over heels, suroard flying
from my grip as my nose fills with enough salt water to make my brain hurt. Just when I think I’ve
regained my footing, another wave takes me out, launching me out of the water like a Fourth of July
firework. I lie on the sand, gasping for air while Blake rescues the board, then comes over to see how I’m
doing.
Nice to know she’s got her priorities in check.
“You good?” she asks, trying not to laugh at my dramatically shipwrecked self.
I grimace and sit up, sand plastered to my back, seaweed stuck to the side of my head. “Blake, I
swear… if you laugh, I will…”
My voice trails o as she ducks her head, her shoulders silently shaking with laughter. I peel the
seaweed o my face, not in the mood to joke just yet, and grab the suroard, heading back up the
beach to the truck.
“Em! Come on. I’m sorry,” she calls, chasing after me.
I don’t say anything as we drop off the surfboards and grab our stuff to get changed.
When I’m locked tightly in the bathroom changing stall, I turn around, leaning my head against the
back of the door.
Come on, Em.
I’m not going to ruin my night of freedom over a capsized suroard. And some… pretty enormous
butterflies.
When I duck outside, Blake is standing there holding two oversize cones of pink cotton candy, the
white cone invisible underneath all the poof. She holds one out to me, a sheepish grin on her face.
“Sorry I laughed at you.”
I take it, nudging her lightly. “It’s okay.”
We walk along the worn wood of the boardwalk, dodging in and out of people, the air filled with
voices and laughter, the sweet, sugary cotton-candy cloud melting on my tongue. A bell rings noisily
next to us, announcing a victory in the water-gun-race game, the reward an oversize bear, roughly the
same size as Blake’s dog, Winston.
Blake pauses, her eyes following the bear through the crowd. “Do you want to—”
e money is already out of my wallet and in the vendor’s hands, her sentence le unfinished. I slide
onto one of the open wobbly stools, ready to go.
Blake sits down next to me, two kids and an old man taking up the remaining three spots.
The vendor goes over the rules while I close one of my eyes and line up my water gun.
Shoot water at target. Raise platform with creepy bear on it. Win prize.
Easy.
“Ready to lose, Clark?” Blake whispers as the vendor starts counting down from three.