“Where do I belong on that list?” I murmur.
He pauses, a sigh warming my scalp. “You’re a survivor. You’re not going to run from this. I don’t think you can anymore.”
“Because of your brilliant work inside my head?”
I’m only half-joking. I honestly don’t know how I would have taken this news a month ago. Would I have shown up at the hospital? Maybe. For a few minutes at least. To comfort Jameson, to play the part of caring daughter—poorly, I might add.
And now? I just feel an amorphous sadness. For the past, for the fractured present, for words unsaid and efforts unmade. Despite my lack of relationship with my father, he’s still my dad. The only parent I have. And the thought of him suffering, not knowing if his daughter even cares… it hurts. I want to change it.
Leo finally answers my question. “Not me, Amelia,” he says gently. “It’s because of you.”
I breathe in and out, my exhales fanning the strong column of his throat. Despite everything, I feel safe. And that’s what finally brings tears to my eyes.
Because he’s not mine. Can’t be mine.
“It’s not fair,” I whisper.
His arms tighten around me. He thinks I’m talking about my father. He doesn’t know.
Against my hair he whispers back, “I agree.”
Silence cocoons us. Need and deep, penetrating loss rise in my veins. A thousand wishful memories pass through my mind.
Leo.
Sunday mornings in bed. Teaching him how to surf. Coffee and croissants at my favorite Venice Beach café. Private smiles and wordless glances full of meaning. Walking our dog. Because of course we’d have a dog. Fights and forgiveness and hunting for the perfect surprise birthday present for his son.
Loving him. Being loved.
These last thoughts are the ones to break the camel’s back. A sob tears free; long-suppressed emotion hurls forth. The hunter becomes prey as fear barrels through me. Fear for my father, Jameson, and myself. For Kinsey, Callum, Nix, Tiffany, Preston, Declan. For our futures, for our precarious, precious lives.
I feel it. All of it. I know it’s fear because of the metallic taste in my mouth. Because I remember tasting it when Jameson and I opened the door that rainy night to two police officers.
Leo holds me tighter, harder, his arms a wall of false hope. My heart breaks again. More. Differently. Because I gave Leo Chastain what I’ve given no man before him—the unmitigated truth of myself.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers softly, fiercely. “If I could have found you in another time, another place…”
Is he saying…?
Hope soars.
Then it plummets.
“I’ll miss you,” he finishes. “Please be happy. Your heart is too big and beautiful to be hidden away.”
The words are said with finality.
A farewell.
II
the flight
28
new world
“So, uh, you looked pretty cozy with your therapist in the car. You guys were all whispers and cuddles most of the drive.”
I ignore Jameson and focus on the electric buzz of a nearby vending machine. My head feels like it’s been through the blender, pounding out retribution for sobbing all over Leo. As much as I would have welcomed them, there were no cuddles or whispers. At least none in line with what Jameson’s probing for. Leo was Leo—professional, kind yet fierce, and brutally honest.
“No more accidents or stunts, Amelia. When you feel overwhelmed, remember that feelings aren’t facts. The storm will pass. Always. Find something that brings you happiness and give it all your passion.”
No suggestion of seeing me again, no asking for my phone number or slipping me his. No response other than platonic, doctorly affection. I almost hate him for his superhuman ability to ignore what happened between us.
Almost.
What’s really strange is I don’t feel the urge to jump off a cliff or out of an airplane right now. I don’t feel like maxing out a credit card or surfing big waves or skipping town for life as a beach bum in Puerto Vallarta. I actually did that once, and it wasn’t nearly as glamorous as I’d imagined.
“Are you going to talk to me or just stare at the wall?”
“Stare at the wall.”
“It speaks! Hallelujah!”
My lips twitch, too tired to smile. The fluorescents are starting to get to me, pulsing in my periphery, as is the long day of waiting around the hospital. We’ve been in our dad’s room off and on over the last hours. He’s on a lot of drugs and not really conscious, but he did open his eyes long enough to see us and smile.
“Thank you, Jaybird,” I whisper, dragging my eyes from the vending machine to his face. “For shipping me to that place. I’m sorry for everything I put you through. Especially the last couple of years.”
He nods, scanning my features. “You’re welcome. Dr. Chastain didn’t tell me much, but he did say you remembered everything.”
I know he’s talking about more than the accident.
My eyes sting. “Yeah, I remembered. Something inside me turned off when Mom and Phillip died, but whatever it is, it’s on again. I think Dr. Chastain might have saved my life.”
He nods, eyes soft with relief. “I think you might be right. Told you they had the best drugs.”
I manage a laugh. “If by drugs you mean therapy, then yes. The best drugs on the West Coast.”
One day later, when the surgery is over and my dad is resting comfortably in a recovery room, I call Kinsey and ask if she wants a temporary roommate. Her scream of acceptance almost blows my eardrum out.
I take a cab to a house nestled in the Hollywood Hills, where a newly brunette and natural-looking Kinsey greets me with tears and hugs. I meet the infamous Teacup. The tiny, yapping shithead pisses on my leg within five minutes. But I have to concede he’s pretty cute.
Five days later, Jameson and I take our dad home from the hospital. A sweet-faced and cheerful in-home nurse arrives after us. Her unlucky job for the next six weeks is to manage his medications and assist him in developing better physical and dietary health. He’s not a happy camper, but he’s alive.
One week later, I get a full-time job at a new restaurant in Venice. Then I borrow money from Jameson to put a deposit on an apartment within walking distance.
As much as I like her, a week living with Kinsey turned out to be six days too long.
One month later, I pick up my surfboard from Jameson’s house. I haven’t felt like surfing yet, but I want it just in case. I also make an appointment with a new therapist recommended by Kinsey. Thankfully, Dr. Wilson isn’t anything like Dr. Reynolds. She actually reminds me a bit of my mom.
When I see her every week, I tell the truth. Not because I don’t have anything else to lose, but because for the first time in a long time, I do.
Two months later, I still have a job, an apartment, a therapist, and I surf every morning before work. Dad’s doing better, thanks in part to a massive crush on his nurse, Jessica, who still comes by a few times a week to check in. We’ve also started a new tradition of family breakfast every Sunday at the Malibu house. Sometimes Jessica joins us.
And I’ve made friends. A few at work and a couple I met out in the water. All women. We do things like see movies and go to concerts and art museums. Activities that once upon a time would have bored me to tears. I kind of like them now.
My best friends, however, are Kinsey and Nix. The odd-yet-somehow-perfect couple drag me out on the town at least once a week. The three of us keep in touch with Callum, who’s back in New York, and Tiffany, who’s in Massachusetts—I was right about her father being a senator. I also recently saw a flyer for Amy Falls’ new tour, and a tabloid photo of a smiling, healthy-looking Declan.
Wherever Preston is, I hope he’s okay.
My therapist has me journaling a lot, automatic writing being her “thing.” My homework is to spend at least ten minutes a day scribbling down anything that
comes into my head. It was hard at first—more days than not, I forgot to do it—but now I look forward to journaling at the end of the day. I call it my daily exorcism.
During therapy, we often talk about topics that come up repeatedly in my writing. Fears and uncertainties about the future. Regrets and unresolved issues from the past. In yesterday’s session, I made the unwitting mistake of mentioning I was writing about Kevin a lot. Thinking about what kind of girlfriend I was and feeling conflicted about how things ended.
Thanks to my confession, I have new homework. Homework that makes my bones itch. For the first time since leaving Oasis, I want to jump out of an airplane.
I go surfing instead, for hours and hours until I can barely stand when I hit the sand. The itch is still there, but it doesn’t control me anymore.
29
cotton candy
Tomorrow is Halloween, but you wouldn’t know it from the weather. Santa Ana winds—aka the Devil’s winds—have been pummeling the city for days, simultaneously pushing temperatures into the mid-nineties and moods down the crapper. At least the surf has been epic.
I spend the early morning hours in the water, soaking in the salt and sun, then run home to shower and change for work. On the small patio outside my front door, I prop my board in the shade, then strip out of my wetsuit and toss it over the small railing to dry. By the time I pull my house key off the thong around my neck, I hear distinctive mewling and scratching from inside.
Smiling, I open the door and look down at Ferdi, our neighborhood stray. He rubs his gargantuan body against my leg then curls around my ankles, almost tripping me. Once I’ve passed inspection, he sits on his haunches, fixes bright green eyes on my face, and starts his rusty-engine purring.
No one actually knows his name, or if he’s ever had one, but he’s huge, black and white, and reminds me of Jameson’s favorite childhood book, The Story of Ferdinand. Like the titular character, Ferdi would rather lie around in the sunshine napping than hunt mice. Probably because he’s extremely well fed and therefore as lazy and entitled as any house cat.
Still, he’s had his share of trouble in life. One of his ears is missing the top portion, the healed border ragged with scar tissue. A thin scar also bisects his black nose and a corner of his mouth, giving his kitty-grin a lopsided effect.
“Hey, Ferdi,” I coo, closing the door and reaching down to scratch between his ears. “Found your way in again, did you?”
I’m on the second floor and the small complex has a coded gate for safety, so I usually leave a window or two open to catch the breeze off the ocean. For all his weight, Ferdi is deceptively agile. One night about a month after I moved in, he made his way onto the roof, sliced through the sagging screen of one of my bedroom windows, and jumped onto my bed.
The rest is history.
Ferdi follows me across the apartment, a sunny, cheerful haven I fell in love with at first sight. After Oasis and the grueling weeks spent between the hospital, Kinsey’s pad, and Jameson’s spare bedroom, the apartment felt like a gift from the heavens. It still does.
Checking the time on the kitchen microwave, I quickly fix Ferdi his daily serving of the specialty raw food I spend a small fortune on—I don’t want him getting any ideas about picking a new buddy. Then I head for the shower to rinse off the lingering salt and sand.
Twenty minutes later, I’m weaving through pedestrian traffic toward the restaurant and thinking about my homework from Dr. Wilson. Mostly, I wonder if it’s even possible. I mean, it’s not impossible. I just really, really don’t want to do it.
I have to make amends to Kevin, which includes coming clean about the baby I lost. Ugh. Dr. Wilson also said no phone call or letter. I need to do it face-to-face. For resolution. Healing.
Being mentally healthy is fucking hard.
Magnolia Café—housed in a prime location on the Venice Beach Boardwalk—is deceptively rustic in appearance. No tablecloths, cloth napkins, or fancy glassware. The menus boast basic black print, the single sheet protected in plastic with items like pancakes, cheeseburger, and salad listed at affordable prices. We’re open seven days a week from nine to ten, and only in off hours is there no line outside.
Despite its lack of extravagance, minimalistic white decor, and borderline-paltry menu options, Magnolia has been popular since before it even opened. The owner, a restauranteur famous for flower-themed restaurants, has the Midas touch when it comes to location, ambiance, and fare.
The owner and his family are frequent visitors and hands down some of the nicest people I’ve ever met. They pay amazingly well, offer great benefits, and rumor even has it they let their daughters create the menu.
Freaking swoon.
It’s Monday afternoon between the lunch and dinner rush, and I’m manning the hostess station while our part-timer, Gloria, takes a break. I don’t mind, as the people-watching is unparalleled. Within minutes, I see a man in a leotard on a unicycle, a group of bodybuilders in Speedos, and a hundred different expressions of style and near-nakedness. Skaters weave through the crowd. Punk kids with chains and tattoos smoke cigarettes despite the ban. Adolescent girls flounce around in too much makeup and clothes that would make their parents flip. Hippies float by in clouds of pot smoke.
A group of mystified out-of-towners meander past the café, all of them wearing long-sleeved tops, pants, hats, and sunglasses. Apparently they didn’t get the memo that Southern California weather is as fickle as a teen.
“Hi.”
I smile at the small figure in the doorway. “Well, hello there.”
He’s maybe seven or eight years old, gorgeous in an innocent way—the girls haven’t gotten ahold of him yet—with a mop of brown curls and dark, expressive eyes in a sun-flushed face. Dressed in swim trunks and a damp T-shirt over his narrow shoulders, I surmise he’s spent most of the morning in the ocean.
Expecting his mother or father any second, I glance at the open doorway. Though a steady stream of people pass by on the boardwalk, none seem to be heading our way.
“Are your parents around?” I ask gently.
He nods, grinning so hard two dimples appear in his cheeks. “My dad is. You have cool hair. It’s the same color as the cotton candy I got at the pier last week.”
I laugh, lifting the braid on my shoulder and feigning a bite of the pastel pink strands—my single remaining act of outward rebellion.
Making a face, I stick out my tongue. “Yuck. Doesn’t taste like cotton candy.”
Mystery Boy laughs at my expense, the sound sweet and bubbling in my ears.
“You’re silly! Of course it’s not cotton candy. It’s hair!” He looks over his shoulder and waves. “Dad! In here!”
A tall figure rounds the corner, face downturned to his cell phone. One hand effortlessly manages the device while the other absentmindedly brushes through the curls on his son’s head.
“Sorry, bud, I’m almost done answering this email. Did you finally decide where to eat?”
The beautiful boy smiles happily at me. “Yep. This is the place. This lady is nice and has pink hair. Hey—why do you look all pale?”
I can’t answer him.
30
implosion
Holy shit, holy shit.
Even as my brain turns to mush, my eyes greedily swallow every inch of the man before me. A man I never thought I’d see again outside my daydreams. But he’s here. Real. And even more handsome than I remember.
Leo’s dark hair is longer than it was months ago, messy and half-dry from a recent swim. Broad shoulders are encased in a faded black T-shirt, highlighting muscular arms. Swim trunks hug his lean hips, leaving his tanned calves bare.
I sway a little toward him, like I’m in free fall and he’s the ground. The following seconds stretch for an eternity. The longing I’d thought buried screams like gale-force wind in my ears.
“All good,” Leo says, tucking his phone in the pocket of his shorts and looking up.
“Hi,” I wheeze.
>
He blinks, eyes so blue it hurts to look into them. His lips part on a swiftly drawn breath. “Amelia,” he says softly.
The boy—Vincent—grabs his dad’s hand. “You know her?” he asks brightly. “That’s crazy. She looks way too cool for you, Dad! How did you meet a lady with pink hair?”
For the first time since dying it, I experience a moment’s regret. It passes, but not before a revelation sinks in. Even outside Oasis—perhaps even more so—I don’t belong in Leo’s world.
He’s still staring at me, though he’s regained his poise. The calm and collected doctor. The flush on his cheekbones is merely the sun’s doing. The rigidity in his shoulders must be because of how fucking uncomfortable this moment is. Our stolen night together hangs between us, stark in the light of day.
“How are you?” he finally asks. “It’s good to see you.”
I clear my throat too loudly. “Good! Great, actually. Working here, obviously, and just, you know, living life.”
I choke back more word-vomit and mentally slap myself. Good show, Mia. Really classy.
Leo, however, only smiles warmly, those infinitely charming crinkles appearing at the corners of his spectacle-free eyes. “How’s your father doing?”
“Really great, thanks. Healthy as a horse these days.” I make an effort to speak with a normal cadence, but overshoot the mark and end up sounding stoned.
Fuck my life.
Leo drags a hand over his unshaven jaw, brilliant eyes glinting with laughter. His gaze darts to my crimson cheeks then flickers up.
“I like the hair, by the way. It suits you.”
“Enough flirting already!” bleats Vince. “I’m hungry!”
The Fall Before Flight Page 14