Chapter 20
Rayne
Snow on the Beach—Taylor Swift, Lana Del Rey
I’ve never been on the beach when it was snowing before. Not very surprising, because it’s usually too warm in LA for snow.
It feels surreal and pretty crazy. And maybe a little cheesy too. But the good kind of cheesy. The kind that makes your heart beat faster and puts a smile on your face.
The sky is still dark. Nothing has changed, but suddenly the night is much brighter because thick white snowflakes are falling on us.
They start slowly, only a few at a time, and then more and more follow, falling faster.
The snow mixes with grains of sand. Two infinites meeting, because you can’t count either one.
I want to stay right here in this moment forever.
“So I was able to keep my promise after all,” Easton murmurs so softly beside me that I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or to himself.
“You keep all your promises,” I say.
“I try.”
“I know.” Two words, an almost-silent whisper because my throat is tight again, even though everything feels beautiful and right.
All at once, the only thing I can think about is how I won’t be able to tell Mom about this tomorrow morning.
I won’t be able to tell her that I was on the beach with a boy who knows me far too well, watching it snow.
I won’t be able to tell her about how good it feels when he holds my hand.
Or when he looks at me. Or when he’s just there.
I want to ask her what it means, or if it means anything at all.
Am I just overthinking things that aren’t real, like I always do?
But Mom isn’t here, and I can’t talk to her about any of it.
I can’t ask Dad to distract me like he always did when the voice in my head got too loud.
I look up and stare at the sky, my eyes open wide, refusing to blink so I don’t cry.
It’s dark enough that Easton shouldn’t notice, but of course he does.
“Hey.” He takes my hand and then lets it go, but only to put his arms around me. Now I can’t look at the sky and count snowflakes anymore, which is why I start crying. “It’s okay,” he whispers, his breath warm against my skin. But it really isn’t.
“I hate this. I don’t want to cry all the time.”
“I understand. It’s okay anyway.”
I bury my face in his shoulder, and he just holds me again until I slowly calm down.
“Is there something I can do?” he asks as I pull away from him and wipe the tears off my cheeks. My skin feels tight, unable to handle the hot, salty tears and the cold, salty sea air at the same time. My chest feels too small for the whirlwind of emotions inside me.
I want to tell him there’s nothing he can do, but maybe there is.
There used to be one thing I could always do to make myself feel better, but the last few months I’ve been running away from it because it hurt too much.
But obviously, running away didn’t help.
Who knows, maybe I was wrong to do that.
Maybe I need to run toward it instead. Toward the pain, toward the memories.
Maybe they’ll hurt a little less if I embrace them instead of pushing them away.
Words in my head and a melody in my soul. Suddenly both are there, where they haven’t been in so long. Answering Easton’s question is suddenly so easy.
“There’s nothing you can do for me. I have to . . . write.” The word comes out as a sigh.
“Okay,” he says, and the tightness in my chest eases a little. He doesn’t ask why, even though I told him I couldn’t write songs. That was the truth; I really can’t. But just because you can’t do something doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it anyway.
My old room was full of lyrics. I scribbled my thoughts, which I squeezed into poems and lyrics, on every inch of the walls.
They were never good enough. Not as good as Dad’s.
But they were mine. Writing has always helped me, and to be honest, I think that’s why I stopped after Mom and Dad died: I didn’t want to help myself. Maybe it’s time for me to start again.
“Shall we write together?” I ask, because I’m sure I can’t do it alone yet. One step at a time.
Easton smiles, his dimples reappearing, and he reaches for my hand again. “If you want.”
“I want to,” I say with a sigh. But this time it’s a different sigh. One of relief.
“Let’s do it.”
We walk back to the van, but instead of driving back into town, we just stay here.
We don’t talk about it, but I think we both know that driving back won’t help.
His room, my room, it doesn’t matter. Neither would be right.
We’d be alone, but not really. There would be too many people around us, in the rooms above and below us.
Here on the beach, we’re completely alone, just us and the snowflakes falling faster and faster, already covering the windshield so we can’t see out.
Easton gets a few blankets from the back and hands me two while wrapping himself in a third.
“Let me know if you get too cold.” I shake my head.
I really don’t want to go back to the city.
“Okay, then . . . may I?” He points to the glove compartment and leans over me when I nod.
All at once he’s too close for comfort. So close that my heart doesn’t know how to deal with it, which is silly because he just hugged me a few minutes ago.
But somehow, this feels different. I can see his profile perfectly, all his features crystal clear, and a small, barely visible scar next to his ear that I didn’t notice before.
My fingers twitch, and I have to stop myself from touching it.
Then he straightens up and pauses. His face is level with mine.
He turns to look at me, and that’s not okay either.
I forget everything around us when he stares at my mouth.
My breath catches and he swallows, and I bite my lower lip.
His gaze is burning into mine, and my heart is beating so fast that I can feel it in every cell of my body.
He wants to kiss me, I know it. I can see it in his eyes.
They’ve got a glow in them that I’ve never seen before but recognize instantly.
He wants to kiss me, and I want it too. I don’t know why.
Why now, of all times? But it comes at exactly the moment when I want to feel his lips on mine.
His gaze burns into mine, and my heart is beating much too fast and so hard that I can feel it in every cell of my body.
I want him to kiss me, and he wants it too.
Easton leans forward just a tiny bit, and I want to move toward him, but I can’t move at all. I can’t look at him anymore. Instead, I close my eyes and lean back.
I can’t. I just can’t, even though I want to. God, I want to kiss him so badly it hurts.
But what if we do? What then? We’re friends.
Real friends. He’s not the only friend I have anymore, but he’s the one I don’t want to lose at any price.
Losing him . . . I don’t think I could survive it.
The risk is too great for the fleeting moment of a kiss.
And I would lose him; there’s no question about it.
Sooner or later, it would happen, because that’s what always happens.
I feel him pulling away. He clears his throat, and the sound hurts. “What do you want to write about?” he asks, his voice hoarse.
I need a few seconds to pull myself together.
It takes a moment to recall why we’re sitting in the van in the first place, and why there’s a notebook and pen in my lap.
But then I remember, and I answer him. We start working and ignore what almost happened.
Neither of us mentions it, and after a while I wonder if I just imagined the whole thing.
It’s possible. It’s probably best that way. Yes, I’m sure I just imagined it.
I wish I believed myself.
The first few minutes—or hours?—are a little awkward, a little weird.
I can’t concentrate, can’t turn off my mind, even though that’s exactly what I want to do.
It’s the whole reason we’re sitting here, after all.
But then Easton starts talking, helping me sort out the chaos in my head, and everything gets easier.
I think of Mom and Dad, and of Easton, and the words flow out of me, unchecked. When I don’t know what to say or can’t find the right word, he finds it. It’s like he knew it all along.
Hours later when we’re done, we both know we’ve just written the song that Easton has been looking for all this time.