48. Opal
FORTY-EIGHT
Opal
“ O pal…” A warm hand rubs up and down my arm, and I groggily blink my eyes open until I remember where I am. In Alex’s van. How the heck did I fall asleep? I never sleep during road trips.
The sky is dark now, and it takes me a moment to focus my eyes enough to see through the windshield in front of me. “Where are we?”
“Crystal Cove. About an hour from Galveston.”
I finally sit up, and now I can make out the pier standing in the distance ahead of us. I look around, but the parking lot we’re in is almost completely empty. “Why?” I ask.
“Because you love the ocean.”
It’s true. I’ve always loved the water, something about it has always been therapeutic to me. Even just sitting in a bathtub full of water has calmed me down ever since I was a child.
“Yeah, but…why?”
He shrugs. “You deserve a vacation. Why not?”
Sighing I turn my head to look out the window, I can just barely see the moonlight shimmering on the ocean waves in the distance and it calls to me, begging me to come closer.
“You wanna go for a walk?”
“Where are we staying?” I look around, realizing there aren’t any hotels in the immediate area.
“I rented us a beach house.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a key dangling from a singular keyring.
“Alex, how did you manage to do all of this while I was sleeping?” My brow arches.
“What can I say? I’ve done a lot of traveling, it’s second nature at this point. And you’re a surprisingly heavy sleeper.” I was never a heavy sleeper until recently, but I can’t really argue. “Plus, I’d do just about anything to make you smile.”
My heart beats faster and I know I’m probably blushing. Why am I blushing? I’m not a twelve year old girl, but for some reason my brain seems to revert back to one when I’m with him.
He cracks his door open. “Come on.”
Before I can gather my purse and water bottle he’s already at the passenger’s side, opening my door for me. “Thanks.” I grab a thin cardigan from my bag, noticing the slight chill in the breeze.
He holds out his hand for me, and I take it, the contact causing butterflies to stir in my belly. We walk down the boardwalk together, still holding hands. I’m not sure if he even notices that or if it’s just out of habit.
The sounds of the waves crashing and the scent of the thick, salty air invades my senses. It warms me from the inside out.
“What beach did you say this was?” I ask as I slide my arms through the cardigan and wrap it tight around myself.
“Crystal Cove.”
“I’ve never heard of it before.”
“It’s a quieter beach.”
I toe off my sandals and leave them next to the dunes. We walk along the shoreline in silence, listening to nothing but the waves and the wind whipping around us.
“I like it here. I haven’t been to the beach in years.” It hadn’t even crossed my mind that I haven’t taken a true vacation in so long. The last one was a short beach trip with Maisie and her daughter over two years ago.
For a moment I imagine the three of us, Alex, me and the baby. Here on a family vacation. Our baby splashing their feet in the shallow water, or digging holes in the sand with their chubby little hands.
Quickly, I shake away the daydream. That isn’t something co-parents do, as far as I know. Then I remember that I hardly know what married parents do.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“I know that isn’t true,” he grins. “I know you’re deep in thought when you have that look on your face.”
Sighing I stop walking, facing the water. “Just thinking that…this is nice. Thanks for bringing me here.”
“We could live here.”
I glance over at him, my brows furrowed. “What?”
“You, me and the baby. We could get a place here.”
I shake my head, not understanding what he means by that.
He brushes his hand through his hair. “You could go to college. Start a career. We could start fresh here. A clean slate.”
“Ha, I don’t really think so.”
His face deflates, his green eyes narrowing a bit. “Why?”
“I’m having a kid. I know college isn’t in the cards.” As if it ever was. I gave up on that dream a while ago.
His lips twitch and he looks away from me. “That isn’t true. You can still do anything you want, Opal. I’m here to support you.”
I know he’s trying to be nice, but thinking about the fact that I missed out on college is still a sore spot for me. I let go of his hand and begin walking back the way we came. “Let’s go see where we’re staying.”
He catches up to me, but doesn’t say anything. We make our way back to his van in silence, then drive up the road a few blocks until we reach a row of pastel beach houses that sit on tall stilts. They all have silly names like “The Pelican” and “Gilligan’s Island”. The one he finally turns into is baby blue, and the placard on it reads “Blue Skies.”
He gets out and immediately starts loading up his arms with our belongings. I guess it’s a good thing I brought a change of clothes, but I don’t even have a swim suit.
“I didn’t bring a swimsuit. I’m not exactly prepared for a beach trip.”
“I already bought you one,” he winks at me as he grabs a couple of Walmart bags from the back of the van.
“Are you secretly a billionaire or something?”
He chuckles, leading the way towards the wooden staircase that leads to the front door. “No. I used some money that I saved from my last show.”
The house has a little front porch with two yellow lights on each side of the door. There are cacti and flowers in clay pots of all different sizes. He unlocks the door and opens it, revealing a good sized living room and kitchen.
“Did it pay pretty well?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Not bad, but it’s certainly not the same as having a steady year-round job. Some venues would pay a lot, others would offer me pennies.” He sets the bags down on the large kitchen island.
I sit down on one of the blue couches in the living room. The space is light and airy, decorated with beach-inspired decor like lighthouse paintings and jars of seashells. “I remember you saying how much you would hate your life if you had to work a regular job.”
He crosses the room to come sit beside me. “My perspective may have changed a bit since then. It’s not as bad as I imagined, honestly. Plus, I don’t see myself ever going on tour again, so I have to be realistic.”
I look up at him, my brows arched. “Never?”
He shrugs, kicking his feet onto the ottoman. “Going on tour with a child would be pretty difficult.”
“Obviously the kid would be with me while you did that.”
He glances over at me. “Maybe when they’re older I’d consider it, but putting all of that responsibility entirely on you would be unfair.”
For the first time since all of this happened, I feel a little bit guilty. I feel like, once again, I’m depriving him of the dream he’s worked so hard for. “Lots of fathers travel for work, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. I mean heck, lots of people who co-parent only see their kid during the summer. We could make it work.”
He sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “That’s not really what I want for my child, though.” His eyes connect with mine again. “For our child.”
My heart speeds up a bit from the intensity of our eye contact. “I don’t want you to give up on your career, Alex. That’s not fair.”
“You gave up yours for me. It’s the least I can do, actually.”
We sit there in silence for a moment, as I try to figure out what to say next. I feel like he’s ripped off a band-aid that I forgot I was wearing. “It was my choice,” I say quietly. “You never forced me to give up on it.”
“And you’re not forcing me to give up on mine.” His hand slides over the fabric of the sofa until it softly lands on top of mine. “You had big dreams, too, Opal. I don’t forget.”
The feeling of his skin on mine makes my body heat up at least a few degrees. “Not really, not like yours. I wanted to go to college so I could work a nine-to-five job in an office. That’s not really comparable to what you’ve done.”
“Maybe that’s what you convinced yourself of, but I know what you really wanted. You wanted to be a writer, maybe you still do. There are a lot of different careers you can do with that degree. I know that my dreams overshadowed yours, and I’ll always be sorry for that.”
Warmth spreads through my chest, and the sincerity in his gaze makes me want to tuck myself into his arms and stay there for a while. “It’s okay.”
“Do you ever write anymore?”
My eyes flick away from his to the floor, and I nod. “I do. Sometimes I post some of my stuff on Instagram.”
“What, for real? Can I see?” His eyes light up with the same passion and excitement I’ve always seen in them when he plays guitar or talks about his music, and it makes my stomach feel funny.
“Um,” I pause. I’ve never shown my account to anyone in real life, but part of me wants to share it with him. “Okay.”
I stand up and cross the room to retrieve my bag from the kitchen, then rifle through it until I find my phone. I pull up my Instagram app and then switch it to my poetry account.
I don’t post any photos of myself on this account, so aside from my initials at the end of each poem it’s totally anonymous. I prefer it that way.
My hand shakes a bit as I hand it to him. Even though I post something to this page almost every week, it feels scary showing it to someone when they know I’m the person writing it. Being anonymous makes writing a whole lot less intimidating for me.
His green eyes light up as they dance over the screen. “Damn, almost ten thousand followers? When did you make this?”
I shrug. “Like two years ago.”
He taps on the first post and scans his eyes over it, then scrolls onto the next one. He’s silent for a few minutes, and I start to feel even more awkward and exposed. I sit down beside him, but try not to stare at my phone or at him.
“These are amazing, Opal.”
I flick my eyes up to meet his as a blush crawls up my cheeks. “Really?”
He nods. “You’re talented. Obviously.”
I’ve never felt like that was obvious. Even though I am proud of the small following I’ve gained on there, I know it’s a tiny drop in the bucket compared to actually successful creators and writers.
“Thanks,” I give him a small but sincere smile. It means something to me that he appreciates my work. Sometimes, even though I never imagined he’d read any of it, I felt like I was writing my poems just for him. Like they were little letters to him that I’d never send.
“I mean it, I hope you won’t give up on this.”
A nervous laugh escapes me. “It’s not really anything. I don’t make money off of it or anything like that.”
“But you could,” he passes the phone back to me. “You could make a book of poetry, or sell prints.”
“I guess. Seems like a big investment that might not be worth it, though.”
“Is there a reason you don’t put your name on there?”
I pause for a second. “I’d be embarrassed if people who knew me in real life saw it.”
“Embarrassed? You should never be embarrassed about doing something you love.”
He would say that. “I don’t know. I don’t really fit the aesthetic. Poetry girls are supposed to be cute and clean and super organized, right? I’m…messy,” I shrug, placing my phone on the coffee table in front of us.
When I look back at him he’s staring at me, his mouth pulled into a frown as his eyes study my face. “You really don’t see how fucking perfect you are, do you?” Warmth fills every part of my body from my belly to my fingertips, but I remain silent. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”
The air around us crackles, and suddenly I’m aware of how close together we are on this small couch. His green eyes are heavy-lidded as they stare into mine.
“I guess we should get ready for bed,” I say, my voice squeakier than normal. “I can sleep down here.
“There are two bedrooms upstairs.”
“Oh.” For some reason I almost expected him to book a place with only one bedroom. Even though I should be relieved, I’m slightly disappointed. “Well, perfect,” I say as I quickly get up and grab my bag, making my way towards the stairs.
I glance back at him still sitting on the sofa, and his eyes are slowly sweeping down my body, taking in every new curve that’s formed in the last four months. His gaze causes goosebumps to break out over my skin, and I suck in a quick inhale before continuing up the stairs and finding the master bedroom.
It’s pretty large, with a king sized bed that’s covered in dark blue bedding. Black and white photographs of the ocean are hung all over the walls, and there’s a sliding door that leads to a balcony.
After setting my stuff down on the bed, I walk out onto the balcony, the salty night air enveloping me in its warmth. I have a partial view of the ocean, and I can just barely make out the sounds of the waves crashing on the shore in the distance.
I glance at the door of the bedroom, wondering if Alex will come find me. I’m not sure why he would when all I do is keep pushing him away, but part of me hopes that he will.
After a while I walk back inside, locking the balcony door behind me before changing into my pajamas and crawling into bed. It’s huge in comparison to my double bed at home, and it feels strangely empty and cold. I turn out the lamp on the side table and try to shut my eyes, knowing that I probably won’t be able to sleep at all tonight. I’ve always had difficulty sleeping in new places, whether it be a friend’s house or a hotel, I usually end up staring at the ceiling until the sun comes up.
Moments later, I hear the faint strumming of guitar strings from outside my room. I started to assume he was asleep already, but I’m relieved that he isn’t. I hate being the only one left awake.
I crawl out of bed and tiptoe down the hall, peeking my head into the second bedroom. It’s a lot smaller and more basic, with a smaller bed. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, guitar in his lap, and a notebook splayed open on the floor beside him.
“Hey,” I say quietly.
He peeks up at me, his brows furrowed. “I didn’t mean to wake you up, I’m sorry.”
I shake my head. “You didn’t.” I walk over and sit beside him, leaning my back against the bed. “It sounded good.”
His lips curl up in the corners as he jots a few more words onto the page. “I just came up with it, you wanna hear it?”
I nod and he begins strumming the same melody from before. It’s gentle and soft, almost like a lullaby. He closes his eyes before he begins singing the lyrics.
Quiet domestic life,
Baby sleeping through the night,
Tell me we’ll be alright.
I could go on like this forever,
If my back don’t go out, if the work don’t dry up,
We can live out this dream of blissful love.
This quiet domestic life.
Tears swell in my eyes as I swallow down my intense emotions. “You wrote that?”
He looks over at me and chuckles. “Yeah, why?”
“Wow,” I whisper as I shake my head.
“You like it?”
My eyes dip to his pillowy lips, a small smirk planted on them. When our eyes meet again, his are dark and heavy-lidded, but simultaneously cautious and reserved.
Fuck it.
I reach my hand out and pull his chin towards me until our lips meet, and a slight moan leaves his throat, the sound sending shockwaves through my core. His lips move softly over mine as one of his hands finds the back of my head, weaving through my hair and pulling me closer against him.
“Hold on,” he whispers, pulling away from me as he sets his guitar on the floor on the other side of him. He tucks one arm under my legs and the other around my back and hoists me into the air, carrying me until he softly lays me down on the bed, his lips still pressed against mine.
“Is this alright?” he whispers, pulling away slightly to gauge my response.
“Yeah,” I nod.