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Brown leather flip-flops.
It’s pouring buckets now and I blink away the drops falling on my face.
I know I should say something—alert him to my presence—but there’s something about his demeanor, a frenetic sort of energy radiating from his quickening steps, that keeps me silent.
Even when he passes by, rushing past my line of sight a mere ten feet away from where I sit half-hidden, sheltered under the palms, I remain frozen.
Low, indistinguishable mutterings reach my ear, carried by the wind. I cock my head, straining to make out what he’s saying, but it’s no use.
I glance back the way he came, craning my head to see if anyone followed, say like his therapist, or one of the counselors. A friend. Anyone.
It’s obvious he’s in great distress, and yet somehow he’s alone out here. He can’t be going through withdrawal—those in detox are in what they call Level Red, and are basically under constant supervision in the medical ward. It works the same for those here for mental health reasons. The greater a threat they are to themselves, the less freedom they get.
And yet…
He comes to a sudden stop when he runs out of beach at the base of the cliffs.
Looming up ahead of him, there’s a steep, but climbable path that I imagine leads right up to the top. Rocks jut out from grassy, weed patches, spread out thinly before growing more dense the higher and steeper you get.
Not that I’ve tried climbing it—there’s a chain barrier, with a sign hanging in the middle that readsDo Not Enter—but from sight alone, I know it’s got to be doable.
He must think so too, because he charges forward and easily throws a leg over the chain, flat-out ignoring the written warning.
I frown.What the hell is he doing?
“Hey!” I call out, shooting to a stand. A cloud of sand kicks out from under me, dousing my boots and socks where I had set them to the side, but I pay it no notice.
With my gaze squinted and locked ahead, I abandon the meager coverage the palm trees provided, barely aware of the rain and wind slapping my face, tossing my chin-length hair around every which way.
All I see and know is the guy whirling around, stumbling back in shock, hand splayed over his heaving chest. Dark wet hair swept over his forehead. Big, brown eyes boring right through me.
“What are you doing?” I have to shout to be heard over the crashing waves. I lick my lips, catching salt-tinged rainwater on my tongue. Jogging toward him, I throw a hand out toward the barrier separating us. “Didn’t you read the sign?”
He continues to stare right through me, making me wonder if he even heard me.
My steps slow as I reach the path. Keeping to my side of the barrier, I shake my head, squinting through the rain. “Did you hear me?”
Still nothing.
My gaze drops, sweeping over him.
I was right. He is young. But younger than I actually anticipated.Is he even eighteen?He has to be. He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t, but still, it’s jarring.
He’s just a fucking kid. What the hell is he doing in a place like this?
No older than you during your first stint,a voice reminds me.
Lightning cracks, echoing jaggedly off the cliffs, spider-webbing the dark gray sky with white seams of light. I see it reflected in his eyes. So dark right now, they look nearly black.
I shove my wet hair back, slicking it off my face. “We shouldn’t be out here,” I say loudly. A strong gust of wind blows through, rattling the chain, spraying us with seafoam.
His jaw clenches and he turns his head, craning his neck to look up the cliff. I follow his troubled, longing gaze, a prickle of unease dancing along my spine, twisting my gut.
Wait, was he…
My gaze snaps back to the kid’s face. Wetness clings to his long, inky lashes. It reminds me of something Mel said once long ago, about how unfair it is that boys always have the prettiest of eye lashes.
Throat thick for reasons I can’t quite explain, I drop my gaze. His shirt is completely soaked through, the thin fabric plastered to his chest. His arms are rangy. Neck elongated, elegant, made more so by the natural tapered point of his chin, and upturned nose.
