Chapter 9 Edie
Edie
We don’t talk much on the drive.
Wren’s hand rests on my thigh, a sweet balm that keeps me steady as my mind completely replays what happened earlier and how, exactly, I’m telling my parents about this.
Her touch somehow keeps the world from spinning too fast, you know?
The radio plays an old holiday station that fades in and out as we curve along the cliffs, the signal catching whenever we break into a pocket of civilization.
The sky’s still heavy with clouds, but they’re breaking apart in places, letting rays of winter light fall on the water.
Southern Oregon always feels like it’s going through something in December, with rain soft one moment and making you batten down the hatches the next.
We’re used to the wind whenever, but the rain?
It adds that blistering punch at this time of year.
But now, just past noon, the air is clean. We blow past both streets that would take us to either of our apartments.
Neither of us says where we’re going. Wren just takes the turn toward Cape Arago, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out where this detour is headed.
By the time we reach Sunset Bay, the clouds have parted enough to show a pale band of blue above the ocean. The parking lot is half-empty, aside from a few locals who have brought their dogs to chase driftwood through the surf. The wind carries shouts down from the cliffs.
Wren cuts the engine and leans back in her seat, eyes closed. “You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah.” She turns her head toward me. “Better than I should be.”
“Same.”
We sit there for a moment, the quiet stretching between us before expanding to include the sandy beach and the gray ocean churning today. Wren reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Come on, angel. Let’s walk before the weather changes its mind.”
The air bites my face as we step out. My breath fogs in front of me, and I’m compelled to make my hoodie prove its worth. Wren takes my hand and squeezes once. A nice reminder that I don’t have to face these conditions alone.
We walk down the short path to the beach.
The sand is damp and dark, packed by the tide.
The cliffs rise behind us, covered in moss, and the water rolls in with the kind of warning that every coastal kid grows up with: never, ever turn your back on the sea.
.. but it’s okay to enjoy the view, knowing that as long as you stay above the tidewater, you’ll be as safe as the person next to you.
Every time a wave breaks, it leaves behind a quilt of foam that dissolves at our feet. I can’t feel it through my boots, but I know it’s frigid. Unlike the hand in mine.
A golden retriever sprints past us, chasing a stick into the shallows. Its owner calls out an apology, but Wren just laughs. “He’s living his best life,” she says.
“You ever think dogs have it figured out?”
“How so?”
I swing our arms as we continue to walk, the dog happily tossing the stick up in the air and catching it again. “They don’t question what makes them happy. They just… go after it.”
She glances at me with a snicker. Her breath also creates a fog before her voice. I suppose it’s cold out here. I hardly notice. “Yeah. Guess I’m trying to be more like that.”
I try to laugh, but it doesn’t work. The ocean always does this to me.
While other people can live in the moment and let go of what makes them anxious, I watch that endless expanse of sea and turn inward.
I might be a speck of sand in the realm of the universe, but that just means I have a smaller zone of control. I might as well make the most of it.
“It’s strange,” I admit. “Yesterday, I was worried about how people would look at me. What they’d say. And now…”
“Now you don’t care?”
“Now I do, but not enough to stop.”
We walk farther, close enough that the edges of the waves soak into our boots.
The cold finally bites my toes, but I don’t move.
Wren is beside me. Not only does she keep me grounded in her warmth, but now that I know I can just be…
hers? Things like temporarily wet and cold toes don’t bother me anymore.
“Did you always want to stay here?” I ask. “In Coos Bay?”
Wren thinks for a moment. “Not always. When I was a teenager, I wanted out. Maybe start in Portland before deciding between LA or maybe something crazy like… the South? Sure. But I think that was just me wanting to outrun my thoughts.”
“And now?”
She shrugs, looking out over the water. There’s one commercial fishing boat out today.
The water must be decent enough that hardy stomachs and good balance can survive out there if the catch is good.
But it’s Christmas. It makes me wonder what kind of fishermen work on Christmas.
Are they desperate for money? Don’t have any family?
Have different traditions, and today is just another day?
“Now I’ve got all this know-how with my hands, a shop I built from scratch, and a woman who looks at me like I just, dunno, tamed the sea.
” She blushes as she realizes she only said that because we’re looking at the ocean. “Feels like I already made it.”
I’m also bashful, but for a different reason. “You really think that?”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean, Edie.”
Hearing my name like that, with such soft-spoken passion, makes my heart ache in ways I’ve never felt before.
Not with either of my boyfriends… hell, not even in my childhood fantasies, when I would watch Wren from afar and wonder what it would be like to hug her for more than a couple of seconds like friends do.
We reach the driftwood line, where the waves have tossed up bleached logs and cold, tangled seaweed. Wren hops up on one, balancing easily despite her boots. I follow her, less graceful, and she laughs when I wobble.
“Hey, no judgment.” I steady myself without faceplanting in the dusty sand. Up here, things aren’t as neatly compacted as they are down closer to the tideline.
Wren offers her hand. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
When I take it, she doesn’t let go.
A wave rushes in, then out again, and I find myself thinking how love feels like that… this constant give and take, push and pull. Wren looks down at me, her grayish blue eyes matching the colors of the sea and the sky.
“I’ve been thinking about expanding the shop,” she says suddenly. “Maybe open another bay. I’ve had people asking about classes, like how to restore old bikes and keep them running. You think anyone’d come?”
“In this town?” I say. “Half the people I know drive trucks that rattle like those model skeletons they have in science class. You’d have a waiting list.”
She laughs. “Maybe I’ll start advertising that all the rednecks and wannabe rednecks can come get lessons from some twenty-something lesbian who drives a better rig than them.
Get a little local program going with Marshfield or something.
Train some kids who don’t want to leave after high school. Kids are the future, I hear.”
“Give them something to stay for.” I know that sentiment well. “Not everyone wants to leave their hometown, but you have to have some kind of income to keep you around.”
“Exactly.”
The wind gusts harder, and I pull her sweater tighter around me over my hoodie. She jumps down from the log and wraps her arms around my waist from behind, her chin resting on my shoulder. “You cold?”
“Little bit.”
“Better?” she asks, holding me closer.
“Much.”
We stand like that, watching a trio of dogs chase one another through the sand, barking at the waves. A father and daughter fly a red kite near the cliffs. Its tail flutters wildly, dipping and climbing with the wind.
“I love it here,” I whisper. “Even with the weirdos and everyone knowing our business.”
“Especially because of that,” Wren whispers, barely audible over the crashing waves. “Means they know you’re here and that you’re a part of the community.”
I turn in her arms, resting my hands against her chest. “I’ve never thought about it that way, and I think that’s what I want. To belong. Let’s build something that lasts.”
She brushes her hand across my cheek, hair slapping against my skin. “You’re already doing that. You’re teaching. You’re shaping people before they even know who they’ll become.”
“Come on. You make it sound noble.”
“It is.” Her voice drops. “You’re the most grounded person I know. I’ve spent half my life trying to be half that steady.”
“Please,” I tease. “You’re the steady one. You know who you are. You built your whole world with your hands.”
She looks down, smiling in that way that means she’s trying not to show emotion. “Yeah, maybe. But it didn’t mean much until I had someone to share it with.”
I lean up and kiss her. The wind catches my hair, tangling it around her face, and she laughs against my mouth.
When we part, her forehead rests against mine. “You thinking about leaving?” she asks.
“Not really,” I admit. “Before all this, I might think maybe I’d transfer, find a school somewhere new or bigger. But now… I’ve never really wanted to leave. I like being a part of this place. It’s my home. I belong to it, and as much as it might fight me, it’s stuck with me.”
“Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”
The tide creeps closer, soaking the edge of Wren’s boots. She doesn’t move. Neither do I.
“Do you ever think about kids?” I ask, hopeful.
Her expression is thoughtful. “Yeah. I used to think I wouldn’t be any good at it, like I’d mess someone up the way my parents messed up me and Nick. But now?” She looks out toward the water again. “It could happen. Someday. With the right lady.”
The words settle warm in my chest. “You’d be great,” I say. “You’d build treehouses and fix scraped knees and probably teach them to change oil before they can drive.”
She chuckles. “You’d read to them at night. But not Dr. Seuss. It would be something like ‘Manny the Mechanic at Monster Truck Mayhem.’”
“And we’d argue about bedtime. Because ‘Manny’ takes a few hours to tell with all the good voices, so that kid either has to be in bed at six or we’re up until two.”
“Definitely. And maybe there would be cookies involved.”
We both laugh. Deep down, she must also know how hard all of that would be. But if our parents could do it with all of their problems…
“There would be some family we become friends with,” Wren continues. “They’d have a kid, too. We would always wonder if something would spark between them, like it did with us.”
The waves break harder now, foam scattering like confetti around our boots. The wind carries a faint sound of bells from inland. Someone’s porch decoration, maybe. We’re not far from some of the coast-side houses lining Cape Arago Highway.
“This is home,” I say. “Isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” she answers. “Not too bad for a place we didn’t choose, huh?”
We walk back to her truck, hand in hand, our footprints washing away behind us.
The sky’s gone that pale Oregon gold that only lasts a few minutes before the clouds swallow it again.
Soon, it will be too dark to see five feet in front of our faces…
even with all of the Christmas lights glittering up on the houses safely out of reach from the king tides.
When we reach the truck, I pause, looking back at the beach—the cliffs, the water, the dogs still going nuts while their owners attempt to call them back so they can go home for Christmas dinner.
I think about how small this town can feel, how insulated from the outside world of greater Oregon.
Yet, right now, across the span of that big ocean… it feels infinite.
Wren opens the passenger door for me. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I climb in. “Everything’s cool.”
She starts the engine a few seconds later. “Good. Then let’s go home.”
As we drive back toward town, the fog thickens again. The truck crawls along the wet road, the wipers keeping time with the classic rock music on the radio.
Outside, the sea fades behind us, but the sound of it stays in my ears. Steady. Endless.
Exactly what I want to carry into the new year. With Wren.