Page 20

A weight settles on my chest. I feel like I’ve lost my chance. Like she’s slipping away.
But then her head lifts. Bright eyes look straight at me. “Let’s go for a ride after we eat.”
I take her to Point Reyes, find a spot where we can park, and we walk along the cliffs. The mountainside, covered in a blanket of browns, greens, and soft purples, rolls toward the Pacific. Sunlight glints off the deep blue ocean. Yet all I can focus on is the girl at my side.
She’s taking it all in with wide eyes, the sea breeze whipping at her hair. The top of her head reaches my shoulder. And even though we’re nowhere near the edge of the cliffs, I have the overwhelming urge to haul her close and hold on tight—to protect her from any potential harm.
Shit, didn’t a hiker die in a landslide a few years ago? Has it been raining? I’m ready to tell her we should go when she gives a happy little sigh.
“God, it’s beautiful here.”
“Yep.” I keep a sharp eye on the path.
She turns, and the soft California sunlight sets her skin aglow. “You’ve been to San Francisco many times before?”
I snap a sage leaf off a nearby patch, rubbing the velvety leaf between my fingers. “Grew up in Santa Cruz.”
“Really?” She smiles. “California, huh? So you were one of those dudes who hung out under the boardwalk and surfed all day?” She’s grinning as if the idea amuses her.
“Well, not all day. Mostly before practice or when I had some free time.”
Her green eyes go round with surprise. I’m guessing I don’t really look like a surfer. I silently laugh at what she’d make of my dread-wearing phase.
I tap the tip of her little nose. “It’s great for balance, strength, focus, and stamina. Kind of like football training. Only more fun.”
“Athletes,” she mutters, shaking her head, then looks me over again. “I did not have you pegged for a California boy.”
I laugh at that. “Where did you think I was from?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Somewhere rugged where dudes rope steers. Montana or Wyoming or Texas maybe.”
I laugh again. “The only bullshit I’m familiar with is trash-talking on the field.”
Fi grins wide and picks a sage leaf as well, bringing it up to her nose to draw in its scent. “Somehow I can’t imagine you talking shit.”
“No. But I’m well versed in it from defensive linemen trying to get into my head.”
“And you just let it roll off you like oil on a duck’s back, don’t you?”
“Pisses dudes off more than any words can.”
I love the sound of Fiona’s laugh. It’s loud, free, and unashamed. Her entire face lights up when she laughs. And I have to clench my hands not to grab hold of her, capture that sound with my lips, and swallow it down. I imagine that laugh might fill me up, warm all the cold places in my chest.
She comes to stand beside me, and her slim hand finds mine. Instantly, I thread my fingers with hers.
“So your parents live pretty nearby, then?” Her fingers tighten just a bit. “Or are they divorced?”
“They’re still together. The house is about an hour’s drive down the coast. But they’re in Europe right now with my little brother, doing a group tour.”
“But he’s got to be…what? Eight?”
“Yep. They homeschool him so they can all travel the world.” The corners of my mouth twitch. “They’re probably sampling bratwurst in Germany about now. Dylan, my brother, is probably whining for an American hot dog.”
“I think that’s lovely.” There’s a sigh in her voice.
From Ivy, I know their parents are divorced and have been for years. Sean Mackenzie spends most of his time in New York or Atlanta, and their mother lives in London.
“Do you miss your mom?” I ask.
She squints into the sun-dappled ocean. “Yeah, sometimes. I spent most of my summers with her, either in London or traveling. But it’s become forced over the years.” Her blond hair whips in the breeze, and she brushes it back with her free hand. “I don’t know…we’re just not very much alike. She’s focused, organized. I’m…”
Fi doesn’t finish.
I give her hand a squeeze, tug her against my side. “Creative. Full of life.”
“Sweet talker,” she scoffs, but her head rests against my shoulder.
We’re silent for a minute, just watching the ocean, my hand in hers. I run my thumb along her palm and find a callus. She notices and gives me wry smile. “Not very soft, I know.”
Taking my time, I follow a path of small, new scars and rough patches. Her hands are torn up. “What have you been doing to yourself?”
She moves to pull away but I hold fast, catch her gaze with mine.
“Nothing bad,” she says, giving up on the little tug of war we’ve got going. “I’ve been…” Her plump cheeks flush. “I’ve been making furniture. I wear gloves for some things, but you have to have a feel for the wood.”
“Furniture?” I find myself smiling. “That’s… Well, it’s fucking cool.”
Her color rises. “I haven’t really talked about it with anyone. It’s just something I do to relax. But I like it.”
“So those are hard-earned scars.” I hold up my own hand, knuckles swollen, nails cut to the quick so they won’t tear out during a scuffle.
She leans in closer to me. “Yeah. I guess they are.” Fi pauses. “I made Ivy and Gray’s kitchen table.”