Outside, the coastal air is wet and salty, the kind of cold that seeps through your coat and makes you breathe deeper anyway, because nothing feels better than your lungs tasting that fresh air. Edie’s waiting by the truck, hands in her pockets, the December light catching the pink in her cheeks.
“That went better than expected,” she says as I open her door.
“You told them you love me.”
“I do.”
“After three days.”
“After years of pretending I wasn’t allowed to lust after you, Ms. Hall.” She catches my hand. “I love you, Wren. Deal with it.”
I grin, the words sticking somewhere between my heart and my head. “I love you, too. Have since that Christmas dinner when you escaped to the kitchen to actually talk to my mom instead of schmoozing with Nick’s colleagues.”
“Thatlong?”
“That long.”
She smiles, and I know I just gave her the best holiday present. “Take me home.”
“Your apartment?”
“No. Home.Yourplace.”
“Our place,” I correct, warmth unfurling in my chest. “Definitely our place.”
As we drive back toward the coast, the bay glints silver under the pale winter sun. The town’s quiet, shop windows still dressed in lights from last night. For the first time, the gossip doesn’t bother me. Let them talk in their homes and the back of their cars on the way back from Grandma’s.
Because this—her hand on mine on top of the stick shift, laughter in her chest, the future wide and waiting for us—this isn’t just the beginning.
It’s the continuation of everything I’ve wanted sinceIwas a kid.
Chapter 9
Edie
We don’t talk much on the drive.
Wren’s hand rests on my thigh, a sweet balm that keeps me steady as my mind completely replays what happened earlier and how, exactly, I’m telling my parents about this. Her touch somehow keeps the world from spinning too fast, you know? The radio plays an old holiday station that fades in and out as we curve along the cliffs, the signal catching whenever we break into a pocket of civilization.
The sky’s still heavy with clouds, but they’re breaking apart in places, letting rays of winter light fall on the water. Southern Oregon always feels like it’s going throughsomethingin December, with rain soft one moment and making you batten down the hatches the next. We’re used to the wind whenever, but the rain? It adds that blistering punch at this time of year.
But now, just past noon, the air is clean. We blow past both streets that would take us to either of our apartments.
Neither of us sayswherewe’re going. Wren just takes the turn toward Cape Arago, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out where this detour is headed.
By the time we reach Sunset Bay, the clouds have parted enough to show a pale band of blue above the ocean. The parking lot is half-empty, aside from a few locals who have brought their dogs to chase driftwood through the surf. The wind carries shouts down from the cliffs.
Wren cuts the engine and leans back in her seat, eyes closed. “You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah.” She turns her head toward me. “Better than I should be.”
“Same.”
We sit there for a moment, the quiet stretching between us before expanding to include the sandy beach and the gray ocean churning today. Wren reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Come on, angel. Let’s walk before the weather changes its mind.”
The air bites my face as we step out. My breath fogs in front of me, and I’m compelled to make my hoodie prove its worth. Wren takes my hand and squeezes once. A nice reminder that I don’t have to face these conditions alone.
We walk down the short path to the beach. The sand is damp and dark, packed by the tide. The cliffs rise behind us, covered in moss, and the water rolls in with the kind of warning that every coastal kid grows up with: never, ever turn your back on the sea... but it’s okay to enjoy the view, knowing that as long as you stay above the tidewater, you’ll be as safe as the person next to you.
