I need a coffee. I turn toward the fridge to grab the milk, but before I can open the door, I notice a new addition pinned under a magnet next to one of Penny’s drawings. It’s the Polaroid selfie Josh took of us on the hiking trail yesterday. We both came out looking terrible. His hair wind-whipped into a ridiculous shape, my face caught mid-laugh with my eyes squinted shut, the background tilted. It’s the worst photo ever taken of me.
Yet as I stare at it, the burning in my chest eases. Despite the unflattering angles and the technical imperfections, the happiness on my face is undeniable, an unguarded joy I didn’t think would be possible again.
Maybe I’m not ready to let Josh anywhere near my heart. That space is still a war zone littered with landmines of grief and fear. But as I grab a tissue and blow my nose, I decide that he can stay in my kitchen.
As long as he doesn’t try to make me breakfast again.
12
JOSH
Finding a free parking spot near the pier is a joke. We end up on a side street three blocks inland, strolling toward the ocean with a crowd of other hopefuls. The walk is quiet, but not the bad kind. After the breakfast incident, I expected peak awkward: long silences and forced laughter. Instead, Lily showed up at my door in a faded tank top and shorts, her hair twisted up in her usual ponytail, looking like she was born to saunter down a boardwalk. She acted as if nothing had changed after the full-scale emotional meltdown she had in her kitchen. Just flashed me a smile and asked if I was ready for maximum tourist exposure.
And she wasn’t wrong.
The Santa Monica Pier on a Sunday is a pinball machine of flashing lights, cotton candy clouds, and crowds thick enough to make a firefighter calculate evacuation routes.
Strollers with mini-humans in them—or dogs—block every path. Sunburned couples in gym clothes stand three abreast as if the beach were their personal yoga mat. Neon signs flash even in the sunlight. All this, framed by salt-weathered railings and wrapped in the yeasty aroma of funnel cake, sunscreen, and the wet-dog funk of the ocean at low tide. The Ferris wheel spins lazily against the cloudless sky over a sea of people, gondolas packed with tourists and teenagers, all clutching phones and each other like they’re trying to bottle up the world’s famous view. And how to blame them? It’s the same as every postcard of California. I’d call it a cliché if it wasn’t so damn iconic.
Lily stops at the edge of the pier, grabbing the railing. She closes her eyes, inhaling the salty air.
“Isn’t this the most Californian you’ve felt since moving here?” she asks, squinting one eye at me.
I take in the arcade’s clatter, the ring of laughter from the midway games, a street performer painted head to toe in silver pantomiming a slow-motion moonwalk, and pretend to consider the question, scratching my chin. “I don’t know. The other day I ordered a ten-dollar green smoothie and pretended to like it. That felt pretty peak California.”
Her chuckle is immediate and unguarded. It prompts a warm, liquid expansion in my chest. Making Lily Finnigan laugh has become my new favorite hobby.
“Mmm, I don’t know,” she teases. “If you didn’t say ‘superfood’ out loud it doesn’t count.”
“Pretty sure that’s a fancy word for pond scum.” I grimace at the memory. “The entire experience reaffirmed my commitment to coffee.”
She tilts her head toward me. “So what’s next, farmers market and goat yoga?”
“I draw the line at produce. Goat yoga is where I tap out.”
She snorts and pushes off the railing, gesturing for us to continue. We join the stream of tourists and locals flowing down the wooden planks of the pier. Children dart between adults, teenagers cluster in giggling groups, and couples walk hand in hand. Lily eyes the latter with an expression I can’t read.
“So,” I say, nodding toward the massive Ferris wheel dominating the skyline, “should we hit the Pacific Wheel first or save it for last?”
Lily follows my gaze upward, squinting against the sun. Hesitation flickers across her face. She chews her bottom lip, a habit I’ve noticed kicks in when she’s overthinking.
She looks okay now. Her eyes are clear, her smiles come easily, and she’s lost that haunted expression from this morning. But I’m not fooled anymore. I’ve seen what lies beneath the strong front she puts on for everyone. The fragility she works so hard to hide, especially from her daughter. I’m glad I was there when she let it out. Even if witnessing her pain firsthand felt like having a battering ram smashed into my chest.
But it made me understand her and our situation better. I could have the safest career on the planet—accountant, librarian, professional pillow tester—and she still wouldn’t be ready to date me or anyone else. Her heart is trapped living in a plural past tense that hasn’t become quite past enough. And as much as that realization stings, it’s also liberating to know the problem with us is not just my job.
“Afraid of heights?” I prompt when she still doesn’t answer.
She looks up at me, eyes unreadable, and deadpans, “No, I’m worried about being trapped in a tiny gondola with your bad jokes for a full rotation.”
“Ouch.” I clap my chest, wounded. “That stung. You should’ve read the waiver before agreeing to be friends with me. Section 3, paragraph 2 clearly states ‘Must endure terrible jokes without complaint.’”
She sighs with exaggerated resignation. “Ah, Collins, sorry, I’m pretty sure you got the short straw on the friendship waivers.”
So much is packed in that sentence. But I need her to understand it doesn’t matter how heavy her baggage is, I can shoulder the weight. “I don’t like smoothies anyway, remember? I’m fine drinking beer from the bottle. No straw needed.”
Her jaw works, and she swallows like she’s biting back a dozen replies, none of them safe to let loose. I wish I knew which one she wanted to say most.
“Let’s go,” she finally says. “We’re going to see the entire city from up there.”
