PROLOGUE
Britain
18 years old
I step out onto the darkened front porch to check the weather, not sure if I’ll need a sweatshirt tonight or if I can get away with just my tank top and jean shorts. I swear, the worst part about living in this valley is the summer heat. It’s a dry, sweltering heat. But the best part is the nightly breeze that rolls off the foothills. The tall, golden grasses and eucalyptus trees surrounding our little ranch house sway in the breeze, creating a constant, gentle rustling. It sounds like a waterfall of whispers and soft-spoken promises, and when the breeze touches my bare shoulders, a gentle shudder passes through me, and warmth fills my insides. It’s one of my favorite sounds in the world. I decide then,no sweater needed. If I get chilled, I’ll askhimto keep me warm.
The screen door thwacks closed behind me as I turn to walk back into the house, flipping the porch light on behind me. As I enter, my mom shuffles down the hallway in her worn slippers and decades-old robe, no doubt to scoop up her nightly bowl of ice cream. My lips tilt up slightly, not in a smile, but at the predictability of her days that provide a certain kind of comfort. I follow her into our galley kitchen of oak cabinets and terracotta tiles.
“What flavor you having tonight?” I ask.
She opens the freezer door and ponders her choices for a few seconds. “Looks like it’s going to be…chocolate.”
“Chocolate,” we both say at the same time.
Closing the door, she smiles, holding her nightly treat in hand. My mother is predictable; every day the same. She wakes up before dawn to work her small garden at the back of our house that sits just ten minutes outside of town. She gets ready for work while drinking two cups of coffee and grabs a can of V8 for the road. She heads into town to her job at the MS Group and is back home at 5:15 on the dot. She immediately sheds her work clothes and makeup, replacing them with a pair of comfy linen shorts and a tank. Slipping on her worn-down Birkenstocks, she’ll head out into the backyard with a glass of white wine and a paperback.
Just thinking about it, I can hear the three ice cubes clinking against the stemless, plastic wine glass emblazoned permanently with her classic mauve lipstick along the rim. That Avon lipstick may as well be her calling card; she’s worn the same shade since I’ve been alive. She’ll putz around the garden, weeding or reading until the sun starts to set, then shuffle inside, trading her Birkenstocks for equally worn house slippers and head into the kitchen. She’ll warm a can of soup for dinner, eat while watching the evening news, then retreat to her room for the rest of the night. That is, until it’s time for ice cream.
Every day is predictable and constant. I find it equal parts comforting, depressing, and frustrating. I want nothing more than tonotbe like my mother. I send out a silent prayer — a wish — to whoever’s out there to please,please,not let me be like my mother. To not let me be lonely.
I’m snapped out of my thoughts by the sound of feet being wiped against our sunflower doormat followed by a gentle knock on the frame of the screen door. Warmth and anticipation pool in my belly from the mere proximity of his presence. My cheeks heat, and I know without looking I’m as pink as a garden rose.
“Hello?” A deep, comforting voice sounds from the porch.
Oh my god, that voice. I could melt.
“Let me just get some shoes on!” I shout while I run out to the garage to grab a pair of flip flops then nearly skip to the front door. My mom watches me while never adjusting her blank expression, but there's something out of the corner of her eye that glistens.Is that right?Weird.
On my way to the door, I holler back over my shoulder, “Just going for a drive. Be back in a bit! Love you!”
“Bye! Be safe,” she calls after me, never once changing her blank expression, just that slight glisten to her eye.
“Hi,” I beam as I open the screen door and step on to the porch that’s now softly glowing from the dim lights mounted on the beige siding.
He smiles back at me and, without a word, slides his hand into mine. He pulls me down the front walkway and into his Camaro, gently closing the car door behind me once I’m seated. I buckle up and inhale. His scent is fucking intoxicating. Pine, aftershave, maybe a hint of tobacco. He opens the driver door and slides into the low car, pure fluid, grace, and man. He turns to give me a dimple-filled smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.Fuck, I can already feel myself dampening as I clench my thighs together in anticipation.
“Where are we going?” I inquire.
“Just somewhere I want you to see,” he says quietly. He’s not normally so subdued. It’s kind of strange, but he smiles towards me while continuing to face the road, and that’s all I need to see to be satiated. I trust him, and honestly, he could take me to see the gas station three miles down the road and I’d still probably be awestruck. I feel like I’m falling in love.Maybe I already am?
My ex, Jeremy, was the first boy I ever told I loved him, and I never, never felt this way towards Jeremy. What I feel forthis man, is altogether different. My stomach twists as that thought flows through me.I’m in love with him. I look out the window as we wind through the low golden hills lit by moonlight and smile as an old George Strait song flows gently through the car.
We drive through town only to turn and head straight back out of town on highway 68, the one that leads to Spearhead Lake. Fifteen minutes later we’re pulling off the side of the road onto a narrow gravel lane that leads into a small grove of trees. When the lane abruptly ends, we slowly ease to a stop.
I turn and give him a questioning look, but all I receive in answer is a slight smirk and a low, “Come on, let’s go.” He reaches behind his seat, pulling out a familiar plaid blanket. My cheeks turn bright pink as I dip my head, smiling, and I exit the car.
He comes around to my side, taking my hand so gently and looking down at me with such intensity I can hardly stand the feel of his gaze. My insides turn hot and I begin to fidget. This is what’s so special about him. Despite his size and his looks and who he is, he is always so gentle and affectionate with me. It’s a quality I never knew existed in men, quite honestly. I’ll never forget the way he makes me feel.
He leads me through the trees, heading the opposite direction of the road. There’s enough moonlight that I can make out a small foot path, freshly made. After several minutes we come to the top of a hill whose peak is part granite. The large boulder is lodged in such a way thatit looks like an extension of the hill itself. A deep crack runs right through the middle, dividing it into two broken halves — one smooth and gently inclined to the peak, the other jagged with hard lines and sharp edges that might cut you just by running your hand across it.
The boulder is a bit like us; two sides of the same stone, but different, so different. Where I’m fair and light, he’s tan with hair as black as night. I’ve always been a shy outsider, and he always lights up any room. I’m a “have not” from a single mother with a brother who lives 3,000 miles away. He’s a “have” with three brothers and a huge extended family, like something out ofMy Big Fat Greek Wedding.
But the hill, the huge chunk of granite, aren’t the good parts. The good part of this spot is the view. Looking down onto the valley floor, you can see all the littered lights of town and beyond that, all the way out to the coastal range. At the back of the hill, in the distance, stand the Sierra Nevada mountains, large and domineering in all their glory.
I take it all in: the whispering grasses, the trees with their soft spoken promises, the moonlight cascading across the cool gray granite peak, and I breathe deeply.
“This spot is amazing,” I say after we stand there for several moments completely silent.
