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Entering the room, I look around and notice everything is as pristine as if they were still alive. The bed is made, no sign that their bodies laid there for hours all those months ago, and the glass top of my mother’s make-up table glimmers in the moonlight streaming through the sheer white curtains. The crystals dangling from her lamp gleam, and I flip on a light, doing a three-sixty around the large bedroom.
As much as I try to search for a connection to them, though, it doesn’t come. There are no memories here. No nights of crawling into their bed. No playing with my mother’s make-up or helping my dad with his tie.
I walk into the closet and turn on the light, gazing at the long line of beautiful dresses I desperately wanted to try on over the years and never could.
“Hey,” I hear Mirai say behind me.
She’s back.
I turn my head slowly, looking at the closet of clothes and the displays of jewelry and watches. I think of all the art in the house and the cars in the garage that have nothing to do with me anymore. A home full of things that were never a part of me, and I no longer desire them to be.
“Can you call Christie’s in the morning?” I ask Mirai, pulling the closet door closed and twisting around to look at her. “Let’s hold an auction. We’ll donate the proceeds to their favorite charities.”
“Are you—”
“Yes,” I cut her off, walking out the door. “I’m sure.”
“Thank you.” I smile, taking the breakfast burrito and my receipt.
Walking out of the small shop, I pull up the hood of my sweatshirt, protecting my AirPods from the light rain as “The Hand That Feeds” plays in my ears. I cross the empty walkway, bypassing the pier, and head out to the beach, sand spilling inside my Vans as my heels dig in.
The dark clouds hang low as the waves roll in, the morning sun hiding and the beach blissfully empty except for a couple joggers. Two surfers paddle out, their black wetsuits glistening. I plop down and shimmy out of my backpack, taking out my water bottle and sitting cross-legged as I unwrap the foil around my burrito.
I take a bite and stare out at the ocean, the salt and sea in the air making me smile a little.
Six weeks.
Six weeks back in California, and the days are getting easier. The auction will be happening soon, I’ve redecorated my bedroom and revamped some of the furniture in the house, and I’ve chosen a design school in Seattle to attend college in the fall. I have a few months to travel or do just about anything I want to do before school starts.
I’ve called Jake. He’s called me.
But he’s not much of a talker on the phone, adamant that I just need to come home and he’ll talk to me there when I do.
I’m not going home, though. I need to do this.
I finish my burrito and stuff my trash into my backpack, lifting my water bottle to my mouth. I might not be any happier than I was when I left, but I respect myself, at least. There’s no other choice.
I lie back, falling onto the sand, ready to feel the small drops on my face.
But as I look up, someone stands over me, looking down.
“Hey,” he says.
Noah?
I yank out my AirPods and shoot up, pushing my hood off my head.
“So this is Surf City, huh?” he says, dropping his boots to the ground and plopping down on the sand next to me.
I gape at him, unable to blink. “Wha—where did you come from?”
He smiles that Noah smile, and I can’t control myself. Tears shake my chest, and I dive in, wrapping my arms around his neck.
“How did you know I was here?” I ask.
“Well, you weren’t home,” he tells me, his arms tight around me. “And it was raining, so I took a chance.”
I let out a laugh, remembering I’d told him about me loving to come to Huntington Beach when it rains. Clever.
