He flashes me a smile, reminding me of my intimate and thorough sniff down of him yesterday in the tree. My cheeks warm. I scrap around for a new topic. The soccer ball medallion hanging from the rearview mirror catches my eye. “What would you do if you didn’t play soccer?”
“That’s easy. I’d study whales. Humpbacks swim half the globe to care for their young. Blows my mind.”
“The power of a mother’s love. Though it can make you crazy,” I grumble.
He laughs. “But that’s part of the job description. In fact, I’d been thinking about getting a degree in oceanography, though Dad’s not happy about it.”
“Why not?”
“He thinks it’s a waste. He always wanted to play soccer, but didn’t have the legs. If you draw the winning lottery ticket, you shouldn’t burn it. What would your mother say if you didn’twant to be a—?” His finger wiggles as he searches for the word.
“An aromateur. She’d probably lock me in a room with blackberry bramble until I changed my mind.”
“Blackberry bramble?”
“The nonberry part of the plant smells like remorse. It’s angular—it jabs at your nose until you want to mend your ways.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No. They used to plant it on graves to prevent the dead from climbing out.”
“I meant about your mother locking you in a room.”
“Oh yes.” Mostly. “Thankfully, I enjoy using my nose to help people out.” I also like being able to detect soap bubbles of his nervousness, and the blush of paprika. “I was born for it. It’s not so much a talent as a calling. Though, it has its limitations.” Like, the one sitting next to me.
“What would you do if youcouldn’tsmell the way you do?”
“The list is long.”
“Top three, then.”
I answer without thinking. “Three. I would float in the Dead Sea. I heard it’s just like flying, only wetter. Two. I’d load up on sugary, salty movie snacks. Buttered popcorn. M&M’s. Peanut butter cups. Are they as good as I think they are?”
“The popcorn is, but I can’t speak for the candy. I’m allergic to nuts.” He glances down at the black case clipped to his belt that contains his EpiPen.
“Is it as bad as bees?”
“Worse. What’s the first thing?”
“Um, I haven’t decided,” I stammer as I realize the first thing involves him.
We come off an incline and suddenly the Pacific Ocean opens on the horizon, nearly blinding us with her radiance. Court pulls down the sunshades.
The charcoal cliffs that mark Las Ballenas Reserve run like a black ribbon against a peacock-blue skirt. I inhale the air coming in through the ventilation. The briny scent of the ocean hits me first, mellowed by spicy sagebrush, bay laurel, and a hundred other back notes. I can’t detect the miso-soup scent yet, but I suspect the air currents are chasing it away.
“There.” I point to a sign partially hidden by shrubs that reads Playa del Rey.
We park in a clearing under a cypress tree with craggy branches that resemble a waving hand. There’s no one around. Most people don’t stop until three miles down where the paved parking lot and a wooden staircase make the ocean more accessible.
Court shrugs on his letterman jacket and I button my sweater. It’s always ten degrees colder on the coast.
“When’s the last time you came here?” he asks.
“When I was five. Mother wanted me to practice unlayering. The plants here are so dense, you have to concentrate to pick everything apart. Plus, the smell of the ocean blocks a lot of the subtler notes. It’s like—” I search for the right analogy.
“Cheese sauce.”
“Cheese sauce?”
