Authors: Erica Cope
CHAPTER ONE
Landon
It was early in the morning. The sun had barely crested the horizon. The fiery tips sent thin shots of neon pink and yellow through the eastern sky like the hazy trails from a firecracker.
I was headed north on the Five. My board was strapped to the top of the car, the windows were open and the music was cranked up to full-blast.
On days like this, when it was just me-myself-and-I, the warm kick of the Santa Ana winds in my face and the road stretching on for days, I liked to think about it. I’ll admit that I did. I liked to think about dropkicking everything out the door and yelling, “Go fuck yourself!” until my throat was raw and scratchy from the effort.
In my mind, I forget about class in the afternoon and work after that, and I turn the steering wheel south and just go and go and go until I’m standing ankle-deep in the frothy swash of the Pacific where jagged sandstone cliffs kissed the sky. The swells are peaking and I swim out, belly-down on my squash tail Driver, past the gnarly waves breaking over the point toward open water. There, I settle myself into the lineup.
The water would rise and fall—a familiar rhythm spreading out beneath me. I float for a bit, letting myself feel the sun come up and soak into my exposed skin while I wait for that wave—the one with the perfect shape that will suck me right into the slot of the barrel and charge me toward shore.
Right there.
I squint and give myself a count.
One. Two. Three. Each number hits with a heavy thump behind my ribs.
Four. Five.
Wait for it, Landon. Wait for it.
My stomach is roiling with untethered nerves as my arms start to move fast, propelling my body forward through the water into the takeoff. My heart kicks up to high gear as I flatten my palms to the deck and clench my leg muscles in anticipation.
That’s when it happens.
The catch.
All at once, I snap up, anchor my feet and center my body. Beneath me, the lip of the wave curls, forcing me to dig in with my toes, whip my head around and drop my weight to one side. With my right hand, I grip the rail of the board and let the fingers of my left hand graze the silky green surface of the water, kicking up a foamy spray into my face.
This is it. The moment I crave. It’s magic. It’s me—coming apart, coming alive, my body breaking into thousands of droplets of salty water.
I am air.
I am the ocean.
I am motion.
I hit the lip of the wave and my gaze slides up to the sky. There she is. Her eyes—two bright stars suspended on her round face.
Watching me. Trusting me.
I
am
the ocean.
And she—she is the pull of the moon, guiding me in to the shore
.
Gwen
There are all kinds of ways to start this story. I could describe the birthday party from hell or what it felt like the first time I watched the video of my boyfriend and my best friend having sex—their heaving bodies smashed up against the tiled bathroom wall as they panted greedily and moaned into each other’s mouths.
I could go into detail about Leanne’s sorry excuses, the fight with Matt and our subsequent breakup... about the shock and the numbness of it all. About living in a skeezy motel room for three days. About skipping my classes, shutting down my phone, staying off the computer, and surviving on Diet Coke, Nutella and the small pack of stale crackers I got out of a vending machine in the motel lobby. I could tell you about lying on top of that smelly, scratchy floral-printed bedspread while I stared up at a masking tape colored sky and attempted to hypnotize myself with the dusty blades of the ceiling fan.
But, really, that’s in the past, isn’t it? Sylvia Plath wrote
Remember, remember, this is now, and now, and now. Live it, feel it, cling to it.
I think that’s pretty good advice, even coming from someone who killed herself by sticking her head into an oven.
I know that in the past I said that people let you down—they hurt you and sew secrets into the linings of their pockets, taking whatever they want and never looking back. Maybe that’s partly true. But now I know that’s not all there is.
There is light and truth in this world. Even if I can’t hold it in my hands, I can close my eyes and imagine it—amber sunlight catching on blades of water, fingertips sliding up my arm and circling my skull, the thrash of a fierce heartbeat against the flat of my palm, my mother’s soft voice.
This is the right story to tell. And it begins with a single word.
“Declined.”
Distracted, I glanced up from my phone. “Hmm?”
“
Declined,” the girl on the other side of the deli counter repeated. I remember that she was wearing a burgundy apron and a bored expression. The overhead fluorescents highlighted a small mole on her face and wispy dark hairs coating the fleshy skin above her upper lip.
“
Excuse me?” I asked. I was in between classes and at a small deli on South Catalina Street waiting for a turkey sandwich on rye. Toasted. Extra sprouts. No mayonnaise.
“
Your card,” the girl said, wagging my debit card in the air. “It’s been declined.”
I frowned. “What?”
“
It, like, didn’t go through the machine thingy,” she clarified.
“
Oh…”
Oh.
Things began snapping into place. See, up until that moment, I’d been clinging to the syrupy hope that the previous five days would somehow be rewound and my life could be
normal
again. School, books, movies on the couch, Matt Parkhurst, safe and cozy…
normal.
“
I…” I leaned into the counter. Colors swam across my vision and everything inside of me sort of tumbled like my stomach had decided to take a dive out a seventh story window. “I…uhh…”
“
Do you have another?”
I continued to stare at her stupidly. My heart was banging jaggedly in my chest, pumping a rush of hot blood to my face. “Another what?”
A torrent of whispers erupted from behind me. I did a full body cringe as I risked a peek over my shoulder at the line twisting away from the register. Sure enough, at least a dozen sets of impatient eyes were trained on me.
“
Another card,” the girl said, dragging my attention back to the counter. This time there was an edge to her voice.
“
Uh, yeah… hold on a sec,” I squeaked, digging through the huge leather purse clamped against my side.
I knew everyone in that deli was watching me. Waiting. Judging. I could feel the hard edges of their stares scraping up and down my spine like the prongs of a plastic fork. I wondered if anyone had recognized me yet—if they followed the USC baseball games, had seen the video of Matt and Leanne in the bathroom of the Spring Street Bar, and had connected the dots from point A to point B.
I was probably being a little paranoid.
The girl asked, “Do you want me to get the manager so that you can speak with her?”
“
No, um, I’ve got my other card here,” I said, handing over my American Express. If she noticed my arm shaking or the way my voice cracked and the words spilled out of my mouth all at once, she didn’t acknowledge it.
She took the new card, swiped it and exaggeratedly tapped the corner of the hard plastic rectangle against the register while she waited for it to process.
One second. Two.
She lifted her head, touched that mole on the side of her face with the pad of her thumb and gave me this you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look.
“
Declined.” The word lingered there—heavy, sticky, unmoving.
“
I… I just…” Shame ripped through me like an explosion.
Oh God
.
Is this seriously my life?
My bones felt heavy, sodden, like the air itself was weighing me down. Choking on an intake of breath, I stepped back from the counter and fumbled with my phone as it dropped to the floor. “I don’t...”
“
It’s on me actually,” a voice said. Gravelly. Deep.
I whipped my head around. “What?”
The guy directly behind me reached forward and handed a twenty-dollar bill over the counter. As he closed in, his front brushed my back and his left hand whispered underneath my bare elbow to steady me. “Just put our sandwiches together, and add a large drink for me.”
“
No, I…” I couldn’t seem to work out a complete thought. All I had were sentences that dangled from my tongue—vapid and thin as passing smoke.
“
Don’t worry. It’s not a problem,” the guy said as he smoothly bent to pick up my phone from the terra cotta tiled floor. When he pressed it into my open palm, his blunt nails scratched lightly against my skin.
He was tall and tanned. Brown wavy hair fell into his face. Black flip flops cradled his feet. He had skinny toes. Elbows. A nose. That’s about all I could process through the haze of wetness clouding my vision.
“
You can’t do that,” I muttered. My nostrils were stinging and a harsh acrid heat clawed up the back of my throat.
“
I can. I did,” he said evenly, picking up his empty drink cup and tucking his wallet back into his pocket.
I should have responded. I should have looked him in the eye and thanked him. But I didn’t, did I?
I grabbed the clear plastic container holding my sandwich and shoved my way past the throng of staring people. I bolted through the door of the deli and burst into the glaring California sunshine like a spooked animal, almost knocking over an innocent bystander. She yelled. I cowered. Tears scalded my cheeks and a tangle of sour apologies got caught on my tongue.
I was a mess.
I bent my head low, rounded the corner and ducked into an empty alley between two buildings until I was obscured by the slanting bluish shadows. Gasping, I flattened my shoulders against the damp stucco wall and looked down at my phone. It slipped in my sweaty palm as I tapped out a text.
Coffee? We need to talk.
***
I pulled the door opened and breathed in the heavy scent of brewing coffee.
I was feeling okay. On the bus ride over I’d convinced myself that over the past three days, I’d burned through the entire gamut of emotions—betrayal, embarrassment, hurt—until I was emptied out and there was nothing left inside of me.
Matt was sitting at a table near the front window. He was wearing his favorite red baseball hat and a tight-fitting nylon workout shirt that showed off the lines of his chest muscles. There was no denying that he was an athlete and the kind of guy that girls drooled over. Everything about him screamed in your face—the way he held his shoulders, the Cheshire grin that ate up his face, the piercing green eyes and black hair.
He had an iced coffee in one hand and a pastry in the other. He saw me walking toward him and flashed the signature Matt Parkhurst charm-your-pants-off smile like things were fine. Like this wasn’t the first time we were seeing each other since our breakup. That’s when I realized that I did have something left inside of me.
Anger
.
My purse hit the table with a thud.
Here we go.
“Hey babe. I hope it’s okay that I went ahead and got food. I haven’t eaten anything since before morning practice,” he said easily, wiping his hands on a paper napkin. “You have to try the guava pastries here. The lady that makes them speaks no English and is about two hundred, but she knows how to bake.”
Grimacing, I pushed my sunglasses to the top of my head and wedged myself into the seat closest to the wall. “Hey
babe
? Is that supposed to be a joke?”
The corners of his mouth fell and his thick eyebrows headed north. He set down the iced coffee down and rubbed the backside of his fingers along the skin under his ear. “I was trying to make this as pleasant as possible. Would you prefer it if I started acting like a dick?”