PROLOGUE - Miles
*Three Totally Fine and Not at All Depressing Years Ago*
Summer can go fuck itself.
This is such a bullshit season. Like we need more sun in Los Angeles. Summer in LA just means more tourists, which means more traffic. Which means it could take an entire hour if I drive from Malibu to my office in Westwood now.
I should never take breakfast meetings more than a few miles from work, but this guy was one of the first clients I signed back in the day, and now five percent commission on his next project alone is half a million—and people say I’m not sentimental.
This means I can afford to pull into the Zuma Beach parking lot and wait until after ten before getting back on the PCH.
It means I can afford to pay seventy-five cents to park here for thirty minutes.
It means I’m definitely going to make it onto the Hollywood Thirty Under Thirty Power List in the lawyer category this year.
It means I can sit here in my car, with the A/C on, and catch up on emails on my phone. I can have my assistant roll calls.
It means I can do whatever I want.
I don’t have to check in with anybody if I don’t want to.
Which is really fucking sad.
But I’m not going to think about that.
I turn off the radio because the NPR show is over and this eclectic new music show can kiss my classic rock ass.
I’m gonna listen to Led Zeppelin here in my BMW.
“Going to California” and then I rock out to “Whole Lotta Love” and no one’s here to complain about it and that is what I will focus on.
That is a good thing. I don’t need to be told how ridiculous it is to keep the windows rolled up when I’m at the beach.
Fuck the ocean air. I don’t know what kind of algae or sea lions or crustaceans or decomposing fish are going to assault my olfactory system as soon as I open the window.
I know exactly what it smells like in here.
Clean. Leather. Versace Pour Homme. A hint of salsa from the breakfast burrito I devoured.
A little black coffee aroma. Money. This is the air I want to breathe.
I pop an Altoid into my mouth because salsa is not my vibe—and now the minty freshness makes everything in here perfect.
I remove my phone from its cradle and turn off Do Not Disturb mode.
As soon as I see the text notification from Clara, I regret not waiting until I got to the office to check my phone.
At the office I am always on my game. At the office there are always distractions.
At the office I’d have excuses to delay the emotional avalanche that’s coming to crush what’s left of my soul.
But there it is.
The text that I knew was coming.
CLARA: Hey, you. Happy one-year anniversary of the finalizing of our divorce. You okay?
Am I okay? Am I in the mood to celebrate the death of love?
To celebrate seeing my only child every other week?
To celebrate a few months of mindless, angry screwing of women I barely knew, followed by months of angry celibacy and the kind of workaholism that even workaholics look at and go, ‘Whoa. Dude. You need to take a break.’?
I’m not good. I’m not happy. I’m not brokenhearted anymore.
I don’t feel much of anything except when I’m with our daughter.
But I am okay. My ex-wife knows all this.
She may not want to live with me, but she still gets me like no one else.
And I still get her too, whether she wants to admit it or not. Because I knew that text was coming.
ME: Yeah. I’m okay. Happy divorce-iversary. How are you?
CLARA: Good, thanks. Was just thinking about you and wanted to check in. Macy’s still in bed, believe it or not.
ME: Yeah, it was impossible to get her to sleep those first couple of nights after summer break started, but then she crashed hard.
CLARA: Kindergarten took a lot out of her, poor thing.
ME: You think she’s okay?
CLARA: I do. She’s just…Macy. Being Macy.
ME: I guess.
CLARA: Listen, there’s something I need to talk to you about.
CLARA: Nothing bad. We should talk when you come to pick her up. Can you get here a few minutes early tomorrow evening?
My stomach clenches, and it’s not because of the breakfast burrito.
I know. I already know that when she answers the door to the house I used to live in with her and Macy, there will be an engagement ring on her finger.
She’s been claimed by the architect. And I know he makes her happy.
And I can’t even feel angry about that because I want her to be happy.
I always did. Even when I forgot to show her just how much.
ME: Sure. See you then. Have a great day.
CLARA: You too. xx
I don’t know why I never noticed how fucking sad this song is.
Fuck you, Zeppelin.
I turn off this depressing song about a girl with love in her eyes and flowers in her hair.
A woman who doesn’t exist. Or maybe it’s about Joni Mitchell, but it’s about the idea of Joni Mitchell, and the idea of a woman is not the same as a real woman whose eyes inevitably fill with disappointment and resentment, even though everything you do is for her and the tiny person you made together.
Fuck you, phone.
I’m going for a walk on the beach.
I open the door and tuck the hems of my Zegna pants into my socks.
I’m not going to take off my shoes and risk stepping on broken glass or a seashell.
It may not stink as bad as it could out here, but I do not trust sand.
Nobody should. My jacket’s in the trunk, and nobody better fucking break in while I’m gone.
I lock the car, feed the parking meter, and walk down to the long, wide stretch of beach.
I don’t care if anyone sees me with my pants tucked into my socks like an old Italian man.
I’m not going to know anyone here, and no one will notice my socks when they see me in my mirrored aviators.
It’s a beautiful morning, if you like an endless blue sky and a warm breeze. At least it isn’t crowded yet. There are a few other people walking or running, and a group of tanned adults playing volleyball, but most of the parked cars around here belong to the people in wetsuits out on the water.
Who has time to surf first thing in the morning on a weekday?
Trust fund kids, that’s who. Unemployed actors.
People who drive a convertible Mercedes from the mid ’80s and use duct tape to secure a broken bumper to the back of their car because they can’t afford to get it fixed.
Because they’re too busy catching the perfect wave.
Whatever. Clara always thought I was too judgmental, even when we first started dating back in the Dark Ages. Where’s the song about a girl who recognizes how astute you are and praises you for consistently being right about idiots and assholes?
I forgot how much I hate walking on sand, but I don’t want to sit down and I don’t want to go back to the car yet. I turn to face the ocean, and the first thing I see is a mirage. Surely I can’t trust my eyes or this sudden quickening of my pulse.
A girl—a young woman—a beautiful woman-child emerges from the sea.
A long, wavy mane of blonde hair that the sunlight plays upon.
Tight little dancer’s body in a black, blue, and pink wetsuit.
She probably isn’t actually moving in slow motion, but she’s so graceful it looks that way.
She can’t be much more than a hundred pounds, but she carries her board under her arm with ease, the way starlets carry tiny dogs around on the patios of overpriced cafés.
She looks calm but exhilarated. So, so happy and satisfied.
She stops next to a bag and a towel, jamming the board into the sand, upright.
She doesn’t seem to be with anyone else, and she appears to be totally at ease on her own as she surveys the beach.
She unzips and peels off her wetsuit, down to her waist, revealing a turquoise blue bikini top.
Angels sing. Or maybe it’s the ocean breeze ringing in my ears, but I’m witnessing the real-life California girl equivalent of Anita Ekberg dancing in the fountain in La Dolce Vita.
She isn’t strutting around, she isn’t beckoning me to join her, hasn’t even noticed me, but I can’t look away.
I’m staring and I don’t even care.
She wouldn’t be able to tell what I’m looking at behind my sunglasses anyway.
There is something so familiar about her and entirely foreign at the same time. Who am I kidding—she’s probably an actress. But I can’t place her.
She bends forward to pull the wetsuit down to her ankles.
She’s wearing bright orange bikini bottoms. Bright-colored clothes don’t usually catch my eye, but I really like what I’m seeing.
She steps out of the wetsuit, unselfconsciously adjusts her bikini, and then she turns around.
And I see God. That bikini bottom exposes most of her taut little bubble butt, and I want to drop to my knees and thank her for giving me this moment.
I don’t care about getting sand on my five hundred dollar pants.
I don’t care about structuring multimillion dollar deals for creative assholes.
I don’t care about anything but this magical amphibious creature before me.
I don’t even care if she thinks I’m judgmental or hates my music.
I just want to make her laugh and kiss her and come all over her perky tits and buy her a pretty dress.
I would buy her a house on the beach this afternoon if she let me squeeze that ass.
Jesus.
Whose thoughts are these? I don’t squeeze strangers’ asses. Not on a public beach, anyway. Not on a workday.
I’m about to turn and walk away when the surfer girl finally looks my way—right at me—and smiles.
Her smile is that first sip of freshly squeezed orange juice on a morning that I wasn’t ready to face.