She laughs. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Have fun!” I say as all three of us part ways toward separate cars.
Kitty grins. “I will.”
I pull out my keys from my purse and look over at Cody, several cars away. “Tell little baby Blake hi for me.”
“We’re feeding him solids for the first time tomorrow. I’ll send you pics!” Cody yells over the cars between us.
I open my car door with a smile, hit with a wave of gratitude for the new friends I’ve made.
Fifteen minutes later, I pull up to my new apartment. The place is nothing to gawk at, but it’s as close to the beach as my budget can afford. The outside paneling looks like its last coat of white paint was put on in the seventies, giving it a yellowish hue, but fortunately, the interior of the building has been recently renovated. Whatever interior decorator was hired went a little crazy with the nautical theme, but it serves as a constant reminder that I’m just a few minutes’ drive from the beach and the salty sea breeze I love.
When I get to my floor, cardboard boxes line the interior of the hallway. Someone’s moving into 5D, the apartment just two doors down from mine. I’ve already met the neighbors on both sides of me. On one side is a pair of eccentric artists who live in San Francisco for half of the year while they sell their artwork at local farmer’s markets, while on the other side lives a middle-aged couple with twin girls who remind me of American Girl dolls. The kids are always picture-perfect and stylish with matching identical hair bows. I like my neighbors, but it would be nice to have someone my age—or single—living close by.
I walk around the boxes, making a mental note to stop by and introduce myself later this weekend, when I catch the faintest hint of sage and something warm and homey. I squeeze my eyes closed and shake my head. The boxes smell like Jordan. But what doesn’t smell, look, or remind me of Jordan recently. I swear, my eyes snag on every car that looks like his at least ten times a day. Who knew there were so many silver Kia Sorentos out here?
When I make it into my apartment, I realize I’ve been holding my breath since smelling the boxes. As if keeping my nose from smelling would hold memories of Jordan at bay. But all I’ve managed to do is think about not thinking about Jordan. I breathe in the vanilla scent of my apartment, courtesy of the air fresheners I plugged into every musty room after moving in, and try not to remember the smell of sage. I need to move on from Jordan. And later tonight, I plan to do just that.
After scarfing down my stir-fry dinner and giving Cabby her Fancy Feast, I eye the few boxes taking up half the floor of my small kitchen. Since moving in over three weeks ago, I’ve made some decent progress on unpacking. But while most of my boxes were neatly packed and organized, thanks to the help of Ji and Missy, the few boxes remaining are full of random items that we threw in at the last minute.
After I accepted Z3, I was told I could start my new job as soon as the following week. I didn’t waste any time moving to California. Even a day longer in Colorado felt like too much. After many tears and plans to come visit California during Thanksgiving, Missy and Ji waved goodbye as I drove away from the house that had been my home for nearly nine months.
Missing my friends, I FaceTime Ji and Missy while I unpack my random boxes. Missy does her makeup in the bathroom while we talk. She’s getting ready for a date with a former pageant director’s son. And Ji sits on the toilet lid behindMissy and rubs her feet as she tells me about the Paris-themed wedding she planned and attended that day.
All the talk of weddings and dates only worsens the ache inside me. I try to smile through it all, but when I hang up, I take a break from unpacking and do what I’ve been putting off since I came home.
I open my phone and pull up Jordan’s and my California Dreamin’ list from our senior year of high school. I look down the list at all the things I’ve wanted to do in California but never did, hoping that one day I would do them with Jordan. But he’s not here and never will be. And somehow, accomplishing this list feels like a step in the right direction. Uncomfortable, yes, but the sooner I accept his absence, the better—the old rip-off-the-Band-Aid method.
Without further thought, I grab my keys and shuffle into my flip-flops. Though the California Dreamin’ list contains many items, I know exactly where to start.
When I turn into the parking lot, my nerves tremble like fragile fall leaves. A wall of trees blocks me from seeing the beach, but I know that just on the other side is something I’ve only imagined in my dreams.
Sand Ridge Beach.
This is the place Jordan wanted to take me to tell me how he felt after senior year. It’s where Jordan said he would take me when we were in Aspen together. I’ve never set foot on this beach, but the place is already haunted by my dashed hopes and ghosts of what could have been.
Just as I’m doubting my reasons for coming here, I remember Jordan’s words from nearly two months ago when we watched the sun rise in the mountains and talked about Sand Ridge Beach.“It reminds me of you. If Paige Devons were a beach, she would be that one.”
It may be pure vanity, but some part of me wants to know what Jordan Miller truly sees when he thinks of me. In some ways, seeing this beach would be like hearing him talk to me just once more. The thought is completely counterintuitive to my original plans to get over him, but it’s enough to propel me out of the car and down the narrow path that leads to the beach.
Golden sand presses between my toes as I forego my sandals and step onto the most beautiful beach I’ve ever seen. A wall of lush green trees seclude the sandy expanse from the rest of the world, giving it an otherworldly feel.
On one side of the beach, a cluster of bushes bloom with brilliant red and yellow flowers. And on the opposite side is a small cliff that juts out of the sand. The cliff is covered with vine-like foliage, and at its base is a tide pool where kids hop from rock to rock, searching for sea life.
The beach is speckled with people, but it isn’t too crowded. From where I stand, I can see a few surfers taking advantage of the sun’s last rays as they glide across the glittering waves. Several yards away, teenagers dig out a moat for sea water to flow into, while a man nearby does beach yoga on a sandy mat. Closest to me, a sweet couple that look to be in their seventies nestle together on a blue-and-white-striped blanket, listening to music that streams from a speaker perched next to them.
The song playing from the couples’ speaker is “Yesterday” by The Beatles. The nostalgic chords and lyrics talk of the bliss of days past. The music prods at a tender spot inside me, though I can’t fault the couple for their song choice. They’ve got good taste. It’s just the kind of song I would choose for this moment.
The beach is an explosion of vibrancy and color. Tears spring to my eyes.
The idea that anyone could see this perfect place and think of me takes my breath away.
All I want to do is hug Jordan. To tell him how much this moment means to me.
Instead, I walk toward the ocean and sit down in the sand, letting the steady churn of the waves soothe my aching heart.
Then… I see him.
