Between Us (The Amada Beach #2)

Prologue

Blake

T wo weeks ago…

Tilting my head, I stop in front of the new painting my therapist Catalina hung up in her office. Truthfully, I don’t really understand abstract art but this…

Quickly twirling around to face her, I blurt out, “This looks like a…” I trail off, suddenly embarrassed.

I’m partly horrified but mostly not surprised. I’ve only been seeing Catalina for about four months, and she’s different from the other three therapists my mom sent me to first. And from anything I would’ve expected a therapist to be like.

First, there was the one who seemed promising but started to insist that if I just dressed more ‘feminine’ and ‘wore my hair down more , ’ that would surely fix all my problems. Like trying to ‘fit in’ never occurred to me in the years I was bullied.

Next, there was the old man who was strict and boring, but his biggest flaw was being a goddamn Los Angeles Outlaws fan. It doesn’t matter if my brother won’t ever make it to the MLB after he tore his ACL and got his on-again-off-again girlfriend pregnant. I could never, and would never , be an Outlaws sympathizer to any degree—unless my brother had been drafted by them in another universe. But he wasn’t, and I know he agrees.

And lastly, there was the sexist man who not only insulted my mother by blaming her for the years of bullying I faced, but he forced me to sit on his couch as still as possible—sometimes even with my hands under my legs—because ‘fidgeting is an ugly habit.’

Obviously, none of those worked out. It’s taken us about eight months to find a therapist who I’m happy with. And really, I love Catalina. She’s about forty-five, if I had to guess. She’s beautiful in a comforting way rather than intimidating. Her warm brown skin compliments her dark chestnut hair, but it’s her bright, inquisitive green eyes that are the most noticeable. They have this way of looking past your skin and bones to see deep into your soul. Not in a judgmental way, but to better understand you, your life, your emotions.

The fact she’s fluent in Spanish is a plus. It wouldn’t be a dealbreaker, as I speak in English more often than not, but it just adds an extra layer of comfort, I guess.

More than anything, her warmth reminds me of my mom. And that’s probably the main reason I feel so safe in this small office with Catalina. Just like my mother, she’s quick to laugh and easy to joke with.

Her head tips back at my observation, letting a contradictory wicked laugh out. She sounds like a Disney villain even if it couldn’t be further from the truth.

“Like what, Blake?” She doesn’t comment on me wandering around her office. Catalina’s never minded my restlessness and fidgeting. I’m well aware it’s not appropriate in every situation—and we’re working on other coping mechanisms—but it’s nice to not feel judged by my habits here .

Making my way to the seat across from her leather armchair, I glance back at the large pink painting. There are about four different shades layered together with lines curving and overlapping at different points. “A vagina,” I finally say, turning back to look at her. “You bought a vagina painting. For your office.”

She breaks out into a cackle. “It’s not a vagina.” I just stare at her, waiting for her to go on. “It’s a… blooming flower.”

“You’re horrible.” I shake my head, both amused and embarrassed on her behalf. “Does your wife agree?”

The wedding ring was a dead giveaway from our first session, but it wasn’t until her wife was walking out after lunch, while I was walking into Catalina’s office, that we saw each other.

In their defense, I was a few minutes early. Catalina was clearly horrified that her personal and professional life were unintentionally mixing, but it got worse when she realized her wife, Lara Henderson, was my sophomore chemistry teacher. She’s about ten years younger than Catalina, and they both kept their maiden names for professional reasons. I never would’ve guessed otherwise.

Lucky for all of us, I happened to love Ms. Henderson. It could’ve resulted in me needing to find another therapist, but I already really liked Catalina. So, I stayed, and I’m glad I did.

She points her finger at me. “We don’t talk about her.”

I roll my eyes. “Well then, what would you like to talk about?”

“Oh, I don’t know ,” she sarcastically draws out the words. “How about you? The reason insurance is paying my bills?”

Laughing, I can’t help but shake my head as I plop down in the large egg chair. She has the typical couch you’d expect in a therapist’s office, but there’s also this option and a variety of anxiety blankets she keeps stored for clients.

“I made one shitty comment—very early into our sessions, I’d like to add—and you’ll never let it go.” It’s true. During what was probably my second time seeing Catalina, I made a comment about how she doesn’t really care. She’s only here for the check my insurance sends her every month.

Rationally, I know that’s not true—I even knew it back then. But I have a very small circle of people who are close to me. My parents, my mom’s best friend, my brother, and my only two friends from high school. It’s kind of a pathetic list, if I’m honest with myself. So, it’s hard for me to believe someone would want to be here.

“It’s good to keep you, and that mouth, in line sometimes,” she teases.

She’s not wrong. After years of feeling helpless and, some days terrified to go to school, I started to act out more in situations where I felt safe. Lately, I have more of a handle on my emotions, thanks to Catalina and the Lexapro prescription I got a couple weeks ago.

I’m sure it wasn’t the only mean thing I’ve said to Catalina in our short time together, but it’s the only one she chooses to pick on me for. Probably because it was a pretty mild snub.

“I’m spending the weekend with Margo and Meera. It’s probably the last time I’ll see them before they both leave in a week.”

The three of us look like an unlikely group to say the least. Margo is tall, a perfect blonde, a total goth babe, and hopelessly in love with our best friend’s oldest brother.

Said best friend, Meera, is petite with a deep golden complexion and dark brown hair, a musical genius, and the heart of a romantic, but the attention span of a rubber band.

I’m the athlete between us, with an average height and, according to Margo, ‘the one with the best tits between the three of us, even if I refuse to show them off.’ And as far as their viewpoints on love go, I fall somewhere in the middle.

They’ve been a surprising duo since elementary school, and despite growing up in the private school system, were almost as big social pariahs as I was.

The only reason I made it as long as I did at Serenity Prep Academy was because they took me under their wings and have loved me fiercely ever since. Even if I sometimes still feel like the odd man out.

“How are you feeling about them leaving?” Catalina probes.

Thinking it over, I pull one of the pillows onto my lap and pick at a loose thread. “I mean, I’m happy for them… of course, I’m so happy for them.” Margo’s wanted to join a fashion program for as long as I’ve known her, and every time she mentions Parsons School of Design, there are stars in her eyes. Then there is Meera, who has worked her ass off her entire life, being accepted to fucking Juilliard on a full scholarship . In a few years, Margo and I’ll be watching her perform in one of New York’s top orchestras at this rate.

“You can be happy for them and miss them, Blake.”

“I know.” I nod, trying to convince myself. “They’re my safety blanket, you know?”

“They are, and they’ve been a very loyal, supportive one at that. But you need to live your own life too.”

Blinking back tears, I quietly admit, “I don’t know how… They’re doing such amazing things—together no less—and it’s hard not to feel like I’m being left behind. Again.”

Before I started at SPA, I already struggled with things like fitting in and feeling misunderstood. More so from being younger than my brother and our family friends. But sometimes the festering wound opens again.

She leans forward, waiting until I finally make eye contact with her. “You’re so young, Blake. You’re eighteen . You have no idea the amount of life you still have ahead of you. There’s a passion out there for you, and it’ll be just as fulfilling as Margo’s and Meera’s.”

I take a deep breath, trying to let her words seep into my bones and soul, so maybe I’ll believe it one day too.

The rest of our session goes by quickly. We talk more about how I can prepare myself to say bye to my friends soon, and Catalina reminds me it’s only until fall break.

By the time I’m walking back to my car, I do feel better. Even if that never-ending hold on my heart is still present, I’ve learned to live with that little figurative storm cloud always hanging over me.

As I’m settling into my old black Jetta, I roll the windows down and pull my phone out of my small bag. There are a few texts waiting for me in our group chat, island of misfit toys. Margo named it, of course.

Wed, July 23 at 2:02 PM

Margo

Blakeee babe

Are you done yet? I need every second of your time possible

Meera

You know she has therapy today

Take your time. We’ll meet you as soon as you’re ready

Margo

It’s been an hour. She has to be done soon

Meera

Omg go fix your eyeliner or something

I can’t help but snort at Meera’s response. We’ve had to wait on Margo’s make-up more than a few times, especially when we were younger, and she was first learning how to apply it properly.

Margo

It’s already dark, sharp and perfect. Thx for your concern though!

Before they really start bickering, I type out my reply.

I just finished

Are we meeting at my house or the store?

Margo

Your house

Meera

K I’m grabbing my bag and keys now!

Closing out of my messages and pulling up my music app, a small flash of color catches my attention. When I look up, a smile immediately tugs at my lips.

I’m not surprised when I find a monarch butterfly on my dashboard. Maybe most people would be, but for as long as I can remember, butterflies—especially monarchs—have kind of been my thing.

My mom told me once that my late abuelo saw monarchs as a sign of better days when he immigrated to the US in his late teens. I never had a chance to meet him, but I like to believe they’re his way of reaching out to me from wherever he is now.

And at this moment? It feels like he’s smiling down on me, like maybe he’s trying to help convince me there’s some truth to Catalina’s words.

There’s so much life to live .

Adrian

Later that evening…

“Can you stop, crazy lady?” I playfully swat my mom’s hand away. Most adults would have a little more decorum in a grocery store but not her.

If anything, it motivates her further. She pretends to lick her thumb then reaches up toward me to rub off a smudge that’s definitely not there. When she still doesn’t stop, I place a hand on her forehead and push her away. She’s only five-foot-two, and I take after my dad meeting his height of six-foot-two, plus a couple extra inches. So, this is my go-to move when she’s being a little maternal pest.

She’s become a helicopter parent for the first time in my life over the last two months. It’s all in good fun, and I know she was soaking in the time we had together before I moved out again.

But this ? Her only goal is to embarrass me because she’s bored of waiting on my father. It’s not an easy feat though.

We’re both laughing—her almost hysterically. Even though I call her a crazy lady, we both probably look pretty maniacal right now. Especially considering my dad is stoically standing next to us, focused on his phone as he goes through another list of ‘Food All Young Adults Should Have in Their First Apartment.’ It doesn’t even matter that this isn’t technically my first apartment. But since it isn’t on a university campus like my last one, and I don’t have any roommates now, they’re treating it like a bigger deal than it feels.

We got to Amada Beach yesterday so they could help me move into my studio apartment before my classes start in a few weeks. It’s a small space so we’re almost done, but my dad insisted on getting groceries for me before they leave tomorrow afternoon. I insisted I could shop for myself, so they could relax for a little bit, but he wasn’t having it.

I’m not going to rain on their parade, especially when they’re gracious enough to help me pay rent while I’m in my Doctor of Veterinary Medicine program. It’s another thing they insist on.

Truthfully, my mom can use her spit to wipe off any smudge, and my dad can scour the internet for every list ever made about the matter. I’m more grateful to them than they may ever know.

As successful nurses, they have a better understanding than most how important these next four years are for me.

The San Diego area never would’ve been my first choice. I don’t care much for the beach, and I had enough of that while going to college in Florida. When I hypothetically think about my future, I’ve never been sure of where exactly I’d like to end up, but I imagined more of an urban city vibe—like Chicago, or even San Francisco.

Growing up, we moved around a lot for my parents’ jobs as travel nurses. So, I’ve been to more than half the states and never would’ve guessed landing in Southern California.

There’s nothing that’s keeping me in Amada Beach forever, but for the next few years, I’m stuck here.

At least the University of California, Aurora Hills has one of the best D.V.M. programs in the country.

As my mom and I settle down to listen to my dad while he turns down an aisle, a body slams into me from the side.

“Oof,” I grunt at the same time a soft, raspy voice lets out a low, “Oh fuck ,” as her phone drops between my feet.

Grabbing onto her slender arm, I help to balance her as she almost tips over when she tries to take a step back. It takes her a second to gather her bearings again.

I watch her look at her own feet.

I watch the way some of her black hair falls into her face despite the bun it’s tied up into—even noticing the bright pink scrunchie holding it up.

I watch as she looks over her shoulder, searching for whoever she must have come to the store with.

And finally , I watch as her head tips back toward me and her striking gray eyes meet my dark brown ones.

Her mouth slightly pops open when she finally processes her surroundings. “I’m sorry,” she quickly apologizes and gently shakes my hand off her arm.

I let it fall to my side, but I’m almost in a trance, blatantly staring at one of the prettiest women I’ve ever seen.

My smile slowly slides across my face as I quickly bend down to grab her phone. “No reason to be sorry. I wasn’t paying attention either.”

She nods her head, opening her mouth but quickly closing it. Instead of saying anything, she takes her phone back and eyes me with open curiosity. As I’m about to offer my hand and introduce myself, my dad’s deep voice calls from down the aisle.

“Adrian, hurry up, now. We need to find the cornmeal.”

What the fuck?

I quickly turn around to find my mom watching me with a small, curious smile. My dad is looking down at his phone, engrossed in whatever reason I’d ever need fucking cornmeal, and is oblivious to the girl I almost body slammed in the aisle.

But as I move to face the beautiful stranger, she’s already slipping away.

Slowly, she walks backwards, watching the interaction with my parents. She doesn’t say anything, nor does she stop when my attention is back on her. The tug to her lips is small and shy, but it’s also kind of teasing—like she knows I’ll be thinking about this moment for days.

It’s then I notice the two girls waiting for her by the entrance. The petite one with long dark hair looks like the cat that caught the canary, and the tall blonde is watching with apt attention.

When the stranger is about halfway between me and her friends, she turns on her heels and jogs toward them. I wait, hoping she’ll look back and give me one more glance at her silver eyes.

But she doesn’t. When she gets to her friends, she loops her arm through the blonde’s and pulls her out of the building, with their other friend bouncing on her heels behind them.

A few seconds later, my mom walks up to me and bumps me with her hip. “Cute girl.” She tips her chin toward the exit with a knowing smirk.

“You could say that,” I mutter and turn toward her.

She watches me for a second, in that assessing way only your own mother can pull off. “That smile is going to get you in trouble one day.”

I scoff and drop my arm around her shoulder. “You couldn’t even see my face.”

“I’m your mom—I don’t need to be able to see your face to know when you pull out that no good grin of yours.”

A laugh tips my head back. “Eyes in the back of your head and x-ray vision? Do all moms have that, or are you extra special?”

“Both,” she quickly retorts. With a pat to my upper back, she adds, “It’s a small community, you know.”

Yeah, I know … hopefully small enough I—literally or figuratively—run into the girl with lightning eyes again soon.