Chapter 41
CHAPTER
FORTY-ONE
CHRISTINE
Hollister Ranch sprawls along the coast two hours northeast of LA, comprising miles of undeveloped cattle ranch and beach, dotted with infrequent estates.
Last time I came here was more fun. We snuck in at night—me and a few other surfers, back when I was just an aspiring actor—hiking over blurry trails and keeping an ear out for the ATVs that patrol the most common paths to keep interlopers off private property.
Once you make it down to the beach, you’re free: any land below the high tide line is considered public by California law.
And god, the breaks are gorgeous.
I miss that summer, when so many things still felt possible.
Now I have connections. Which means permission. Which means… boring.
I drove down to a cabana this morning, parked my car, and walked onto the beach.
The crystal sea and rolling mountains are still exquisite; the breaks are still magnificent.
But it doesn’t feel the same.
Everything is… grayscale.
I caught waves all morning, and it passed the time.
Every wave is different. I always used to love that, love the challenge of riding out whatever wave came my way. I’d take the ones others would skip, just to see what I could do. I was always good at that. At improvising. Figuring it out along the way.
But now, I… I have no idea what to do.
Now, I sit on the beach, letting the low tide lick my toes. I might stay here until the high tide rolls all the way in.
God, I just want to… get drunk, go out, forget about all this.
But I’m never touching alcohol again. Not after…
Fuck, I should’ve been paying attention. Should’ve scented that alpha on the wind. Should’ve heard him scale the roof. Should’ve sensed Mylo’s distress sooner, should never have left him alone, should have been doing anything other than standing in that storeroom chugging liquor like an idiot.
The scent of Mylo’s fear still clings in my nose, acrid and sharp.
No amount of fresh sea air can wash it away.
My almost omega.
The reality that I nearly killed a man has never felt like anything more than an afterthought. I’d do it again without hesitation. In the chaotic blur where the ambulance was arriving and I was slipping away with Mylo, I lied and told the EMT we’d seen him fall from the roof.
Given that it’s my professional performance against the word of a concussed menace who probably already had a rap sheet a mile long, I’m not concerned. That is, if he ever woke up.
I couldn’t care less.
Waves crash around me.
They’ve been lapping this shore for eons and they’ll keep on eons after me and my stupid problems are gone.
Lana kept calling, and I… I left my phone in LA.
Maybe if I had been willing to take a chance, maybe if I’d realized sooner how I actually feel about Mylo, then maybe I’d have… something.
I wanted everything. And now I have nothing.
Well… not nothing.
Mylo is safe. He’s where he wants to be. Maybe even somewhere he could be happy. And that’s… the most that can be done. Especially since it’s my fault everything went to shit in the first place.
You and Mylo have a scent match.
If he’d never met me… he’d still be happy. Maybe in a world without me, he can be.
Not that I’m thinking like that; it’s been a long time and a lot of therapy since I thought like that.
I could move somewhere nobody’s ever heard of me.
But if I go missing—if Christine Evansworth, America’s Sweetheart goes missing—it’ll plaster the news cycle for weeks.
Months. Paparazzi and reporters will be tracking down every assistant, rigger, and caterer from Christine Evansworth’s Last Movie. They’ll find Mylo.
No more running. Time to grow the fuck up.
I just need…
A couple more days.