Chapter 13 #2
Through a torii gate, we walk down Shoreline Steps, a narrow wooden stairwell built along the steep cliffside. I pause two flights before the wood turns to sand and surf. The ocean’s song is pronounced here. A constant roar as waves slap the shore.
Cary leans against the railing with me, shoulder to shoulder. To my disbelief, he speaks first:
“This is your favorite place.”
It’s not a question. I turn my head. He’s illuminated by the sun, watching and waiting for a response.
I pivot and say, “Why do you talk like that?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Old-fashioned? You don’t sound like Poppy or Henri.”
The breeze sweeps through his hair. He combs it back. I want to stop him, leave him messy and imperfect.
“They get to spend more time around mortals.” His eyes soften. “I only have moments.”
I pin my bottom lip between my teeth. The way he said it…I almost feel sorry for him. “But you’re here now,” I tell him. “This is longer than a moment, right?”
He smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Definitely. Thankfully, there are other Deathless besides me who collect souls.”
My mind drifts to the conversations I’ve had. Things I’ve heard.
“Henri,” I say. “And Poppy.”
Cary nods. “And others. But I am the only one who can take souls across the bridge. That is my gift.” The faraway look in his eyes tells me it’s a curse too.
I nudge his shoulder, a grin teasing my mouth. “I guess you don’t get to have a lot of conversations with people before they die.”
His lips twitch. “Or after. Who wants to chat with the boy taking you to the afterlife, anyway?”
“Me,” I say lowly.
My hand brushes the back of his wrist. I’m not sure whether I’m trying to convince him or if it’s for another reason.
Below us, a dog barks as its owner tosses a ball across the beach. My eyes flit back to the water. But my fingers skim absently over his smooth knuckles.
“I used to come here to think.”
I keep my gaze away from the wooden bench inches from us. The one I’d sit on for hours while skipping school.
“To be alone,” Cary prompts.
My throat tightens, so I nod for him.
Grief is easier alone. No one can ask how you’re doing. Or recite some pretty but worthless quote they read online about healing. They can’t apologize for your pain. For the ache that comes without you even thinking about it.
Words rarely make grief better. Sometimes, they hurt more.
Here, I didn’t have to hear the whispers from my classmates. Or the one-note speeches teachers gave me like they were reading from a handbook. No more sorry for your loss from strangers. Sad, pitying smiles like any of them knew what I was feeling.
Here, it was just me and the sea.
Here, I could miss London without the weight of everyone else’s grief piled on top of me.
The breeze picks up. Sea spray mists the cliff walls. I taste it on my lips, salty ocean water. Except, when I blink, I realize it’s not.
Warm trails wet my cheeks. Fat tears sit on my upper lip.
I almost wipe them away, embarrassed, but Cary’s flipped his hand over. He tangles his fingers around mine. When I turn my head, his gaze is on the whitecapped waves as they roll.
He’s giving me the peace to hurt while reminding me he’s right here.
“You came here a lot to escape,” he says. Again, not a question.
“Yeah.”
“Then”—his eyes finally meet mine—“what is your favorite place, August?”
A tiny grin flexes my mouth.
We ride the 4 bus to downtown Santa Barbara.
Cary’s eyes shift around the entire time.
From the gray-haired white woman rifling through the dozen shopping bags piled next to her to the young brown-skinned boy spinning a soccer ball on one finger while bopping his head to huge wireless headphones.
The Black woman with beautiful purple locs reading a battered copy of Beasts of Prey on our left.
He whispers, “Why is that mortal yelling?”
At the front of the bus, a finance bro has been shouting into his phone for nearly twenty minutes.
“Makes him feel accomplished?” I offer.
Cary scowls. “I hope Poppy haunts his dreams.”
I laugh the rest of the ride.
Santa Barbara County Courthouse is like a castle in the middle of downtown.
It’s large and eye-catching. White as snow with red tile roofs.
We follow a flagstone path toward the Great Arch.
Past the Spirit of the Ocean Fountain, nude sandstone-carved figures holding the tail of a fish spitting a steady stream of water into a clear blue pool.
The old creaky elevator takes us to the rooftop. My breath still catches when I step out onto the clock tower’s viewing deck. From all sides, Santa Barbara stretches unendingly. A panoramic look at the mountains and islands and city.
My city.
I walk over the compass painted on the brick floor to reach one side of the tower.
My elbows lean on the wrought iron railing.
Below, a couple poses for wedding photos in the wide sunken garden.
The bride’s dress is stunning against a backdrop of tangerine birds of paradise. Palm trees sway in the breeze.
I shiver. Heat radiates off Cary as he joins me.
After a beat, I say, “When I was younger, my mom would bring me up here after school.” I point at a building, a smudge of white against green nearly two miles away. “She’d tell me about all the kids like me my dad was taking care of at the hospital.”
My fingers tense around the railing.
“She did it so I wouldn’t miss him when he worked long shifts,” I manage. “But I still did.”
Cary watches the city, but I can tell he’s listening.
“When I turned thirteen, I started coming up here on my own,” I say. “Not to look at the hospital anymore.”
“Why?”
My thumb rubs across my blue-and-yellow bracelet. I hesitate. “To write songs.”
“You really love music.”
I smile. “How can you tell?”
“You are always humming.” Sunlight outlines his profile as he studies the sea. “When we are in the water together.”
“I am?”
The beginnings of a grin push his cheeks higher. Warmth spills into my face when he catches me staring.
“I did love it,” I admit. “Music.”
I shift around to gesture at the wide ledge sitting under the teal-framed window. “I’d write over there for hours. Silly songs with shitty lyrics. I thought I was gonna be the next Ed Sheeran.”
A scratchy laugh sneaks past my lips.
He eyes me. “But you quit.”
Guilt aches under my ribs.
Cary crosses the tower to sit on the ledge. His long fingers drum the spot next to him. He gives me an expectant look.
Sighing, I oblige.
The moment I’m seated, memories pour through me like an open fire hydrant: