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Mom is strangely okay with my request to borrow the car. Emma too. She doesn't ask where I'm going or insist on coming. Dad either.
It's weird.
Like they know what Brendon's up to. And are somehow okay with it. But that isn't possible. If my parents knew we were sleeping together, they'd kill him.
Or maybe...
I mean, I told Grandma.
She might have narced on me. And I wasn't exactly subtle about crying to Mom about a guy who didn't love me.
The sad promise of Love Will Tear Us Apart flows through the speakers. Joy Division is the only band Brendon and I like. Well, the only band he'll admit to liking. He hates the indie pop and pop-rock I play. (Sue me, I like vaguely pop sounding things). But he's different with some of the pop-punk bands. Maybe it's all high school nostalgia. Or maybe it's a secret love of well-recorded, melodic music.
I'm going to call him on it one day.
But not today.
Love has already torn me apart.
I'm just hoping it puts me back together.
I check the address again. Almost there. My fingers curl around the steering wheel. My heartbeat picks up. I don't know what this is, but guys don't leave beautiful drawings and promises as break up notes. I think. I don't know anything about guys.
Grandma would tell me to be brave. To go with it. She'd say something cliché about how she regrets all the things she didn't do. All her mistakes taught her things or brought her joy. Even her ex-husband. He brought her Mom. And that was worth everything.
I turn into the beach parking lot. It's half empty. And there, in the corner—that's Brendon's rental car. I think. It's some generic black sedan with a big yellow sticker advertising the rental company. It could be anyone's rental car.
I park at an end space. Turn the car off. Force my hands into my lap.
They're shaking.
But it's a good shaking.
A nervous energy I'm capable of feeling alive shaking.
I climb out of the car, tap the lock, hug my purse.
A breeze blows over my shoulders. It's a cool day and the ocean breeze isn't helping matters. This dress isn't nearly warm enough. And it's not a boardwalk dress. My hair isn't right. Or my makeup. Or my shoes.
No. This is fine. It's clothes. They aren't what matters.
I cross the parking lot and climb the wooden steps to the boardwalk.
He's standing there against the railing, the sand and the ocean and the sky his backdrop.
He looks so good. All tall, dark, and handsome.
Those same black jeans.
Those same coffee eyes.
That soft smile curling over his lips.
I move toward him. Until I can smell his soap. My fingers curl around the note. "It's a beautiful drawing. New?"
He nods. "Had something in my head I had to get out."
