Chapter 19
Rayne
Overflow—Marianne Beaulieu
Easton is taking me to the beach. I’ve known it since we left the city.
As soon as the darkness swallowed us up, broken only by the headlights of oncoming cars, I knew exactly where we were headed.
We’ve left the lights of Boston behind us, and it’s dark and quiet now.
It gets even darker and quieter when he steers the van into an empty parking lot and turns off the engine.
We’re in the middle of nowhere, not a soul in sight.
Easton smiles. He gets out but still doesn’t say a word.
I’m silent too, because there’s a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes, which I’m frantically trying to blink away.
He brought me to the ocean. He remembered what I wrote to him that night in June, when he messaged me in the middle of the night asking me what my favorite place was.
The three-hour time difference between LA and Boston never stopped us from writing to each other.
“Are you coming?”
I look up, realizing only now that I’m still sitting in the passenger seat, staring out the windshield into the darkness, while Easton has been waiting outside for me. I nod and open the door. The cold wind hits me and I shiver, hunching my shoulders. I’m glad Easton gave me his hat.
We set off in silence, leaving the parking lot behind and approaching that quiet, steady sound that’s so comforting to me, even though we’re in Massachusetts and not California.
It’s still the same, and it’s somewhere right in front of us.
My steps quicken of their own accord, and the sound becomes louder.
There it is: the ocean, dark and vast. Easton is close behind me; I can hear his footsteps.
“You brought me to the ocean,” I say, my voice choked with emotion.
I’m about to start crying, I know it. He remembered, and he brought me here because he knew it would help me.
The endless sea is spread out in front of us, and the infinite but very cloudy sky is above us.
He knows being here makes everything seem a little less bad.
“Yeah. I was hoping you could show me your star, but I don’t think that’s going to happen tonight.” He’s right; it’s not. Even if the sky were clear, there’d be no guarantee I could find it. I haven’t looked for it since I left LA.
“But that’s not why we’re here,” he says before I can remember what I don’t want to think about. He caresses my hand, just like he did at the house.
What is it about these fleeting touches that makes them feel like silent questions and answers at the same time? They say things like I’m here and you’re not alone, and they do something to me that they shouldn’t.
I feel an ache of longing in my chest. It hurts, but not terribly. Not like being left alone. It’s different this time, because Easton brought me here. Because he’s here and isn’t leaving me alone, just like he promised.
I don’t know what I did to deserve him. I don’t know if I even do deserve it, him being here for me. He’s somehow helping to hold together whatever is left of me, while I’m not doing anything for him in return. There’s nothing I can give. But maybe I don’t have to.
Real friendship doesn’t work like that, after all. It’s not about debts, about somehow repaying each other for help. It’s mostly about being there for each other whenever you’re needed, isn’t it?
“What are you thinking?” Easton whispers, as if he can look into my head and see all the complicated questions in a tangled mess.
Now his fingers aren’t just brushing against mine; our hands are fully intertwined.
I can hardly breathe. Then suddenly I can, as he gently holds my hand.
It feels way too right, and that scares me.
Part of me wants to let go because I don’t know where we stand right now, but letting go is not an option for me. It never was.
I take a deep breath and just tell him the truth. I want him to know what he’s doing to me.
“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you.”
He stops so abruptly that I almost trip over my own feet. “What?”
“You know what I mean.” I don’t dare look at him, but his grip on my hand tightens, and I almost believe he’s afraid I might pull away. But that’s just as much an option for him as it is for me.
What’s going on here?
“Honestly, I have no idea. You don’t have to earn me.”
“But you do so much for me, and I—”
“You believe in me,” he says, his voice sharp.
Now I have to look at him, because the last thing I want is for him to be angry at me.
We promised each other we wouldn’t argue anymore.
If I’ve messed things up again, then . .
. The voice in my head goes silent as I look into his eyes.
I can’t see the blue anymore, it’s too dark, but I’ve seen enough of his eyes by now to know how intense it must be.
“You believe in me, Rayne Bellamy,” he repeats, a little more gently, but no less emphatically. “You believe in me and the band, in our music and the songs I write. You do more than enough for me. I know that if I ever had a problem, you’d be there for me. You would, wouldn’t you?”
“Always,” I reply without hesitation.
“So don’t tell me you don’t deserve me. You do, but even if you didn’t, you don’t have to. That’s not how friendship works. And we’re friends, right?”
“Yes,” I say, but all at once that quiet voice is there in my head again, shouting No! But I can’t say it out loud, for way too many reasons that I don’t want to think about right now because doing so will only make everything too complicated.
“Then stop worrying about it. It’s not necessary. Really.” He smiles at me, and a feeling of warmth spreads from my center.
“Okay.”
“Good that we talked about it.” He gently pulls my hand, and we start walking again in sync, toward the water. The sand gives way underneath our shoes.
“Do you think so? I feel like I’m making a big deal out of nothing.”
“I always want to know what you’re thinking, Rayne.”
“Why?”
“So I can talk you out of the ideas that are bad for you and encourage you to stick with the right ones.”
“How do you know which are right?”
“Um . . . I can usually tell by looking at you.”
“Is that so?” I raise my eyebrows skeptically.
“Yes. You have a very specific look in your eyes when you’re thinking about something you don’t like. Like just now.” He gives me a mischievous grin.
“What does that look like?” I’m genuinely curious, but he just shakes his head.
“I can’t say. It’s hard to explain. You’d have to see it for yourself to understand.”
I sigh. “Then I guess it’s not going to happen. I’m not about to try it in front of a mirror.”
He laughs, and I’m overwhelmed by how much I love his laugh. His thumb strokes the back of my hand. Our hands are both chilled, but I’m not cold. How can I not be cold?
“Easton, how can you know me so well?”
“How could it be any other way?”
I don’t answer. His question is justified. After all, I know him just as well as he knows me.
“Can I tell you something?” he asks after a while, as we walk side by side along the water.
It’s low tide, so the waves breaking on the beach are tiny.
The air is clear, and although it’s cold, much colder than in LA, it smells like home.
Easton is still holding my hand, and it doesn’t seem like he’s going to let go anytime soon. I really don’t mind.
“Please do,” I manage to say, my voice cracking again. Maybe he can actually read my mind, and maybe he’ll answer the questions I don’t want to think about because I’m too afraid of the answers.
“I don’t believe in fate or anything like that,” he begins.
I feel butterflies in my stomach, but I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not.
Strangely enough, it just seems to be a nervous flutter.
A curious one. “But I think it was more than just a coincidence that we posted the video of the song your dad wrote for you. And it’s not a coincidence that you found it and wrote to me afterward.
I think it was meant to be, somehow. You know what I mean?
Otherwise, you could have written to Beck or Jax or Colin. ”
“No, I wouldn’t have,” I disagree. That wasn’t even a remote possibility.
“You wouldn’t?” He sounds so surprised that I can’t help but smile.
“No, definitely not.”
“Why?”
“Because . . .” I hesitate, but it doesn’t really matter now.
We’re alone on a deserted beach, and the world around us is dark and quiet, apart from the soft sound of the waves.
I can also hear the much-less-soft pounding of my heart in my ears.
“Because the only reason I clicked on that video ninety-seven times in a row was your voice.”
For a long moment, Easton says nothing. Long enough that my skin starts to prickle uncomfortably. I’ve crossed a line, and that’s not good. Not good at all.
Somehow, though, the boundaries of the world seem permeable today. I have no idea why, because everything is the same as always.
“Ninety-seven times?” he asks, and there’s something in his voice that I can’t quite make sense of.
“More or less.” An awkward laugh escapes me. More, actually.
“That’s—”
“A little crazy?” I finish his sentence.
“A little.” He grins at me, and I elbow him gently.
“You’re not allowed to agree with me.”
“Of course I am. After all—” he stops and looks up at the thick, dark clouds. I notice it a moment later too. It’s snowing.