Page 94 of Find My Way Down to You

“Me,” I say lowly.

My hand brushes the back of his wrist. I’m not sure whether I’m trying to convince him or if it’s for another reason.

Below us, a dog barks as its owner tosses a ball across the beach. My eyes flit back to the water. But my fingers skim absently over his smooth knuckles.

“I used to come here to think.”

I keep my gaze away from the wooden bench inches from us. The one I’d sit on for hours while skipping school.

“To be alone,” Cary prompts.

My throat tightens, so I nod for him.

Grief is easier alone. No one can ask how you’re doing. Orrecite some pretty but worthless quote they read online about healing. They can’t apologize for your pain. For the ache that comes without you even thinking about it.

Words rarely make grief better. Sometimes, they hurt more.

Here, I didn’t have to hear the whispers from my classmates. Or the one-note speeches teachers gave me like they were reading from a handbook. No moresorry for your lossfrom strangers. Sad, pitying smiles like any of them knew what I was feeling.

Here, it was just me and the sea.

Here, I could miss London without the weight of everyone else’s grief piled on top of me.

The breeze picks up. Sea spray mists the cliff walls. I taste it on my lips, salty ocean water. Except, when I blink, I realize it’s not.

Warm trails wet my cheeks. Fat tears sit on my upper lip.

I almost wipe them away, embarrassed, but Cary’s flipped his hand over. He tangles his fingers around mine. When I turn my head, his gaze is on the whitecapped waves as they roll.

He’s giving me the peace to hurt while reminding me he’s right here.

“You came here a lot to escape,” he says. Again, not a question.

“Yeah.”

“Then”—his eyes finally meet mine—“whatisyour favorite place, August?”

A tiny grin flexes my mouth.

We ride the 4 bus to downtown Santa Barbara.

Cary’s eyes shift around the entire time. From the gray-haired white woman rifling through the dozen shopping bags piled next to her to the young brown-skinned boy spinning a soccer ball on one finger while bopping his head to huge wireless headphones. The Black woman with beautiful purple locs reading a battered copy ofBeasts of Preyon our left.

He whispers, “Why is that mortal yelling?”

At the front of the bus, a finance bro has been shouting into his phone for nearly twenty minutes.

“Makes him feel accomplished?” I offer.

Cary scowls. “I hope Poppy haunts his dreams.”

I laugh the rest of the ride.

Santa Barbara County Courthouse is like a castle in the middle of downtown. It’s large and eye-catching. White as snow with red tile roofs. We follow a flagstone path toward the Great Arch. Past the Spirit of the Ocean Fountain, nude sandstone-carved figures holding the tail of a fish spitting a steady stream of water into a clear blue pool.

The old creaky elevator takes us to the rooftop. My breath still catches when I step out onto the clock tower’s viewing deck. From all sides, Santa Barbara stretches unendingly. A panoramic look at the mountains and islands and city.

My city.