Twenty-Six
Griffin
The coast appears around a bend, and I hear her reaction before I see it.
I glance over, and she’s already turned toward the window, chin lifted, watching the Pacific come into view below the headland. She looks like she’s been waiting for it.
It is, I’ll admit, a view.
The highway winds along the ridge here. The land drops away on the left to a coastline with blue water and white surf. The afternoon sun is low. There’s a reason people drive this road.
“God,” she says softly, leaning toward the open window. The wind takes her hair, but she doesn’t fix it. Tipping her head back, she closes her eyes and breathes it in. At the sight of it, I have to force my eyes back on the road because looking at her feels like a toxic trait I’m developing.
She keeps her face to the window. “When I was little, whenever something was bad or loud or too much, Dad would take me down to the beach. Just the two of us. We’d just sit on the wall and watch the water.”
I hold the image for a second, then I take the next exit and follow the signs toward the water.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“Following the water.”
The beach is down a track I nearly miss, marked by a wooden sign. It’s a gap in the headland where the land gives way to a small horseshoe-shaped stretch of sand, hidden from the road.
I park at the top of the trail. The beach below is empty, and the water is rolling in large swells. Piper is already out of the car before I’ve even taken the key out of the ignition.
“Can we go in?” she calls back, already walking toward the sand.
I chuckle. “No bathing suits,” I remind her.
She turns, still moving backward. “So?”
“Piper—”
She’s already pulling her shirt over her head.
Jesus Christ.
I scrub a hand down my face, close my eyes, and pray for strength. This day is testing me in ways I never prepared for.
I should just stay in the car, let her have a swim, and wait here until she’s done.
But I’m a fucking glutton for punishment because I get out.
She’s at the waterline by the time I hit the sand, jeans gone, standing in a white cotton bra and underwear set. She appears to have exactly zero feelings about it.
“It looks cold,” I say, stopping a safe distance away.
“It looks incredible,” she counters.
Yeah, so do you.
She looks over her shoulder. There’s sand on her feet, and her hair is a mess, but she looks like she’s returning to something she belongs to.
“Are you going in with me or not?”
I pull my shirt off. Something happens in her expression that she quickly rearranges. I note it, file it under ‘Things that will keep me up at night,’ and wade in.
She’s right about one thing: it’s incredible.
