How can someone be even more beautiful when they cry? Her eyes aren’t just green anymore; flecks of honey border her iris, and I swear, I draw in a breath from her beauty.
I wipe a tear off her cheek with my thumb, then another as it rolls down her cheek.
“You okay?” I whisper.
She nods, barely. “Yeah. I just got scared. They wouldn’t stop shouting things, and I didn’t know if they’d try to come in.”
“Fuck,” I breathe, pressing my forehead to hers. “I’m so sorry.”
She sniffles, trying to laugh, but it’s brittle. “How did you get here? They said you were drunk off your ass.”
“Carter dropped me off, and I sobered up the second I heard your voice.”
Her eyes flick to mine, confused, but I press on.
“What do you like to do when you feel this way?” I ask, “When you’re sad.”
She blinks at me. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’m serious. What do you do when it all feels too big?”
She hesitates at first, then answers so softly.
“I love the beach.”
I nod slowly. “Okay. Get up.”
“What?”
“Come on,” I say, standing and holding my hand out. “Let’s go.”
“You are not sober.”
“I’m clearly not sober, but you can drive; I’ll give directions. You trust me?”
She eyes my hand, but a flicker of curiosity dances in her eyes, and she finally scoffs, slipping her fingers into mine.
“Where the hell are we going?”
“Dollface,” I grin. “Tell me your favorite beach.”
She rolls her eyes and mutters, “Moss Cove.”
The windoff the coast is cooler than I expected for a California night, but Amelia hasn’t said anything about it. She’s sitting next to me in the sand, her arms wrapped around her knees as her chin rests on top. Her long black hair dances in the ocean breeze, tangled from the salty air, but she hasn’t bothered to fix it.
Waves crash just a few feet away, with the gentle roar of water tumbling while the scent of salt and the twang of seaweed linger thick in the air.
Our sneakers are thrown aside. My jeans are soaked atthe ankles. Her bare toes dig into the sand with each wave that washes over us.
I’ve been silent too long, trying to give her space, but the silence is starting to feel like it’s fucking swallowing me whole.
She breaks it first.
“Don’t you have your first game of the season tomorrow?” Her voice is hoarse, like it’s been stuck in her throat since we got on the jet.
I glance over, watching the way her profile glows beneath the moonlight. “Yeah,” I admit, running a hand through my wind-blown hair. “But if this makes you feel better.” I bump her shoulder gently, trying to coax out something light, “then fuck the game.”
Her head turns slowly.
