Chapter 26 Dove
DOVE
The bridge rose ahead of us, long and sun-bleached after years of exposure, stretching across the Colorado River like a fine line.
Once we crossed, we’d be in California, the final state of this road trip.
My hands tightened on the wheel at the thought that the journey was nearly over.
I glanced up at the endless blue sky, the light seeming to go on forever, the hum of the tires mixing with the rush of air from the open top of the car.
“We are officially four hours out from Santa Monica,” Ellis announced, her voice slipping into something low and theatrical, treating her words like a train station announcement. “End of the line, people. Please gather your belongings and mind the gap.”
A smirk tugged at my mouth as I glanced at her. “You’re such a dork.”
Ellis poked her tongue out in response.
Liv shifted in the backseat, her face pale, even for a ghost. “I wish we’d gone to Jedd’s last night,” she groaned. “Now I’ve had too much time to think about it. I feel like I’ve talked myself out of it.”
“Well, don’t,” I told her. “I need him to sort Margaret’s remaining ashes for me. We’ve got four hours for you to panic before we get to Santa Monica. We need our final photo at the pier, and we need to feed Ellis. Then we go to Jedd’s. Then your mom.”
“No,” Liv cut in sharply. “Jedd’s first, so we can get the fireworks. And the boat. I’m not missing Margaret.”
I nodded once. “Okay.”
Liv huffed and folded her arms, staring out the window as the last stretch of bridge blurred past. River water filled my senses as we drove, and I sighed. The air had been so clean on this trip—so different from back home, congested with city smells.
Ellis shifted beside me, propping her feet up on the dash, sunglasses over her eyes as “The Subway” by Chappell Roan blasted through the speakers.
Her hair caught in the wind, floating like delicate strands of silk, and I watched as she absentmindedly brushed them away, staring at the horizon as if she could already see the end of the line.
If I were to sit this Ellis beside the version I’d first met at the beginning of the trip, I would hardly recognize her.
She was no longer the overly careful, coiled girl who measured every word before she spoke.
Now she seemed looser, easier in her body, as if she’d stopped bracing against the world and finally let it move around her.
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.
I could still feel her warmth from the night before—how she’d felt beneath me, head tipped back, her hands fisted in the sheets like she didn’t know where else to put them.
I could still hear the small, desperate sounds she’d made, feel the tremor in her thighs when she was right there, at the cusp of pleasure.
She had been so shy, so careful, as if unsure she was allowed to make a sound or even touch me back. But when I kissed her deeper and her hands found my breasts, I’d nearly blacked out from the ache of her soft palms on my skin. God, I had wanted more, but last night had been for her.
All for her.
When I coaxed her hips upward, when my hand found all the right places, she became all motion and heat—her nails biting into my skin, her breath catching with each thrust of my fingers inside her.
And after—God, after—when she looked at me in the dim light that crept through the curtain, her cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes glassy—I knew I’d remember that image forever.
She had been so worried about me seeing her scar, as if it were a flaw instead of the most beautiful, defiant mark I had ever seen.
I had touched it gently, tracing the pale pink line with my fingertips, and to me it wasn’t a flaw at all.
It was proof. Proof that Ellis Langley was more than prickly comebacks and guarded silences.
It was proof that she had gone through hell—mind, body, and soul—and she was still here. Still smiling. Still letting herself be touched.
And now she sat beside me, feet on the dash, hair tangled in the wind, smiling at the blur of the world rushing past.
She was actively living.
Jesus, I felt some deep things for Ellis.
Before I could sit in that thought too long, Liv leaned forward, her head between the seats.
“Maybe we’ll hit traffic,” she said, almost hopeful, tapping my headrest.
“Maybe,” I murmured, my head spinning as Ellis laughed softly. That low, warm sound snapped the tension in my chest, and I could breathe again.
I hoped we did hit traffic, I found myself thinking. I didn’t want this journey to be over.
With the roof down and the wind in our hair, it was the smell that hit me first—that salty tang clinging to the air, sharp and briny, such a contrast to the endless dust and dry heat we’d been inhaling for weeks.
When I caught a faint shimmer of blue on the horizon, I let out a squeak, and Ellis sat up, her broad smile breaking across her face.
The ocean.
“We made it!” she cheered, clapping her hands.
The blue widened as we drove, the horizon opening into promise. Santa Monica. The end of the line. The end of one hell of a trip.
Tears pricked behind my sunglasses. I thought of Margaret, how I had kept my word and gotten her here. She’d had one last big adventure before moving on to her final one.
This was really happening.
Ellis’s cheeks were flushed as she clutched her travel dossier to her chest. I wasn’t sure why. Was she showing it proof that we’d made it? Who knew. I let her have whatever moment she needed.
As we hit Ocean Avenue, the streets clogged with tourists. Families crossing with dripping ice creams. Kids dragging stuffed animals twice their size. I could see the pier ahead, arching into the water, lit up with life.
A carnival at the end of the world.
“God,” Ellis whispered, leaning back against her seat.
I shook my head, my eyes fixed on the pier as the weight of it all settled over me. The end. The trail we’d followed for weeks was spitting us out into sunlight and saltwater—and for Liv, this moment was more than a landmark.
I glanced back at her in the rearview, studying her face.
This also meant we were that much closer to goodbye.
Finding a parking spot was probably the hardest thing we’d done the entire trip, and that was saying something.
By the time we pulled into one, we still had a walk ahead of us to reach the final sign, the final landmark photo. Ellis had begun filming content along the drive, documenting the end, aiming her camera at me a few times with documentary-style questions that made me snort as I tried to focus.
When we finally clambered out of the Mustang, the car gave a tired groan, as if it knew it had carried us across the country and was ready for a rest. We raised the roof and double-checked the locks. This wasn’t the desert anymore, and we couldn’t take risks.
As we walked along the pavement, dodging tourists overloaded with bags, drinks and poised cameras, I slipped my hand confidently into Ellis’s.
This was L.A.—we could be somewhat safe here.
She gripped back and shot me a grin. Liv walked a few paces ahead, her gaze on the sights but her enthusiasm muted.
California was where she’d grown up. I doubted this was her first time at the pier.
Our footsteps joined the hum of life on the wooden planks, the music and laughter, the buzz of conversations, the creak of the pier beneath us.
We passed so many bars and restaurants that my stomach began to growl.
I eyed Ellis—she’d need lunch soon for her meds, and I wasn’t sure I could keep going without food myself.
I was about to say something to her and Liv when I saw it. It came up faster than I expected, and my mouth went dry.
Between the Oatman Rock Shop and Pier Burger, the sign stood proudly, faded from years of wear but still commanding. I halted. Ellis did too.
I hadn’t really thought too much about this moment—about what it would mean, if it would even mean much.
I assumed it would be just another stop, another photo, another marker.
A box ticked to say, yes, we did this. But standing there in front of it, with Ellis close enough to brush my arm and Liv standing just under it, pink hair glinting in the sun, the world suddenly felt sharper.
Ellis stepped forward and tilted her face to the sky, letting out a laugh edged with disbelief. The wind carried her hair back as she looked at the sign, shaking her head and clasping her hands under her chin.
“I can’t believe we made it,” she said as I walked up beside her, her gaze fixed on the sign. “Like, seriously. This is the biggest thing I’ve ever done, and we made it. I’m here. You’re here. And Liv is here. We did it.”
“Well,” I said, teasing in my voice, and she turned to me. “Did we really make it if we don’t have a photo to prove it?”
Ellis beamed and dug through her bag for the Polaroid camera before narrowing her eyes at the crowd, scanning for someone she deemed trustworthy enough to handle it. Her gaze landed on a middle-aged group of women, all dressed in pastels and wearing fanny packs.
She strode over to them.
“We should’ve placed bets on who she’d pick,” I told Liv. She rolled her eyes, but a smirk tugged at her lips as we watched Ellis chatting with the women.
“How are you feeling?” I asked her.
“Nervous,” she admitted. “But ready.”
Ellis skipped back—yes, skipped—with one of the women in tow, halting anything else I might have said to Liv. Her expression was radiant, her eyes sparkling almost blindingly as she tugged me under the sign and discreetly beckoned Liv closer.
“Okay, girls,” the woman said, her words wrapped in a thick Southern accent. “Squish up together nice and close while I line this up, we don’t want to miss half the sign!”