Cult

Waves

Panic.

Panic runs through me as I pace around my small hotel room. I run my hands through my hair. I clap my hands together. I've clicked all my fingers and toes. I've brushed my teeth five times and have been in the shower thrice.

I don't know what to do.

I've picked out a bikini - that's the first step. It's a simple navy bikini with the Abercrombie and Fitch logo. That was pretty simple.

I've scattered numerous skirts on my bed and lots of tops on my floor. I haven't even thought about shoes, my hair, or how much make up i need to put on.

Ross is picking me up in 45 minutes. I need to be ready by then.

"Aargh!" I say to myself and continue to pace the room.

You told yourself you weren't gonna try with this guy! Al warns.

 I look at my tops. Should I try a simple vest? Maybe a boob tube... Or would a t-shirt do?

Should I wear a bandeau with a shirt over it?

You know you'll look fine no matter what you wear.

I'm panicing now. I look in the mirror at my wet blonde hair, from one too many showers. I grab a bobble and put it in a tight fish tail down my back. That will have to do.

You're only going surfing anyway. 

Oh my God.

I grab a navy skirt and a white bandeau and drape a checked shirt over me. I then grab my water proof mascara and flick it on. I kick all the other clothes into my suitcase and grab a bag and stuff a towel in it. 

I grab a drink from the mini fridge that I put in there last night and sit on the bed in a huff.

Wear your navy sandals.

I'll wear my navy sandals. 

What are you doing? You're trying to impress someone who is obviously going to play you.

But I'm just being nice.

And he's being extra nice - buying you coffee, taking you for a meal. You know what he wants.

Yes, but maybe I want it too.

You'll just get hurt. You always get hurt.

There's a knock on the door and my heart leaps into my mouth.

 "So you know the basics?" Ross asks me as he parks his ridiculously large jeep just outside the beach.

"Yeah," I say. "I've been a couple of times before,"

Holmes Beach is a gorgeous white sand extravaganza. The sea is beautifully blue and the houses that surround it are probably priced more than I earn in a lifetime. The beach stretches for ages. It must be a mile or so. It's beautiful, and without a doubt, pretty romantic.

Most girls are wearing bikini tops - thank god - but the odd few are bravely trying the topless sunbathing look. The people here are jolly, relaxed and all 'round attractive. People would say I fit in here. I wouldn't.

We walk down the beach - him carrying his long black and blue surfboard and me carrying one he borrowed from his cousin. People look at us, probably thinking we're together. I flush.

"What's up?" he asks whenever I go redder than a tomato, and everytime I shake my head. He places he surfboard down at the edge of the water and I copy him. 

He looks at me. "What did you have for breakfast?"

Crap. "Nothing," I mutter.

He sighs, and for a moment I think he's going to go Christian Grey on me, but he doesn't. "This is going to be harder than you think, then," he chuckles.