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CHAPTER TWO
Ferries suck.
My leather leggings squeak on the chair as I shift on the hard plastic. I haven’t been able to feel my ass since we set out half an hour ago, and my stomach is rolling like it’s about to take leave of my body. What kind of island doesn’t have an airport?
I plug my earphones in and close my eyes behind my Ray-bans, trying to ignore the vomit-inducing swaying and the fact that I’m sweating like a mofo. Note to self: don’t wear head-to-toe black then sit on a sun deck in the middle of the Pacific Goddamn Ocean. I’ve already twisted my tank into a knot beneath my boobs, piled my hair onto the top of my head with the help of my red, paisley headscarf, and kicked my biker boots off to zero effect. I’m still melting. Normally I get cold when I’m on a plane. A plane. How was I supposed to know I wasn’t going to be able to buy a plane ticket to use instead of the ferry ticket Flynn booked for me? And more to the point, how was I supposed to know that sitting in the ferry cabin makes motion sickness about seventy times worse? I grew up on a tour bus, not a boat.
Flynn would be laughing his ass off right about now. He knew I hated boats. Maybe this is his way of getting me back for misplacing his Guns N’ Roses vinyl. I shake my head, my pissy mood evaporating into some good old nostalgia.
We bonded over music. Eighties rock to be exact. I’d maybe have stayed around if he had. Moot point. He didn’t. My nose buzzes making my eyes water like it’s not stopped doing for the last few weeks. I grind my teeth and strum my fingers against the canvas of my guitar case as the final chords of November Rain fill my head and the nose-buzzing stops. Music makes things better.
Music is always the answer.
My fingers freeze mid-strum as Axel Rose’s comforting rasp is replaced by the next song’s painfully familiar notes.
Music is always the answer... until it’s not. Until it’s the problem. Then it just plain sucks.
My heart does the same weird contraction it always does when this particular song slithers into my mind, bringing with it a whole lot of memories I’d rather not remember.
“Baby, you’re a genius. This song is gonna make us Rock Stars.”
“Baby, what difference does it make if the rights belong to me and you, or just you, or just me ... It’s gonna be me and you forever...”
A so-loud-it-vibrates-my-brain foghorn shocks me back from my rock-induced not-so-happy place. Thank fuck.
Stupid. Love makes you stupid and weak. It’s as simple as that.
Blowing out a long breath, I tug my earphones out and let them hang around my neck. I really need to check borrowed playlists better. I slip my feet into my well-worn boots and stand to shrug my backpack onto one shoulder and my guitar onto the other. I guess we’re here. It’s time to see what this Clua place is all about.
Warm, salty air whips the strands that have escaped my head scarf around my face as I grip the railing. This place is ... it’s like a flipping postcard. I don’t think I’ve ever seen water this clear. I lean forward and watch the boat cut through the white-tipped waves, my contracting heart and rolling stomach overtaken by an excitement I haven’t felt in a while.
“There’s nothing quite like arriving in Clua, is there?”
I shoot back up straight and turn to the owner of the voice as she comes to a stop by my side.
“It’s my first time.” I shrug my guitar strap up my shoulder.
Holding her sandy-blonde curls back from her face with her forearm, she sighs happily and stares out towards the island port, her green eyes sparkling in the midday sun. “It’s a magical little place. You’ll love it.”
“Hope so. I’m here for a month.”
“A month, huh? You should check out our bar.” The guy behind her grins and dips his head to kiss her cheek, his messy black hair falling over his forehead, his hand dropping to her extremely pregnant tummy. “Open mic night tomorrow.” His blue eyes flick to the guitar case on my shoulder when he straightens.
“That could be cool.” I barely manage to keep from hugging him. Night life. There is some. It looks like Flynn knew me after all.
“Here...” The woman hands me a flyer. “There’s a map on the back. You’re looking for The Beach Hut on Talamanca Beach.”
“Thanks.” I smile and flip the glossy paper over to scan the advertisement for The Beach Hut. “I’ll definitely check it out.”
“Great.” The guy puts his hands on her shoulders when the ferry’s loudspeakers call for anyone with vehicles to get to the car deck. “We should head down. We’ll hopefully see you tomorrow.”
“Sure. And thanks for this.” I hold up the flyer.
I watch them go, hand in hand and glaringly in love. My head shakes of its own accord. From the outside, it’s near impossible to tell who holds the power between them. It is with most couples. But just because it’s not visible doesn’t mean it’s not the sucky reality of relationships.
The scales of power always tip in favor of the one who loves less.
It’s a fact. A shitty, but very real fact.
