“Most of the year, I live in LA,” she said with a faint smile. “But it never gets old, seeing this ocean.”
I’d once thought the same. The pickup snaked along the road, where dusty-brown-and-green-tinged mountains looked like ancient dinosaur feet stepping into the sea. At least that was what I’d said once as a kid to Mamie. The memory did little to ease the tight bands across the back of my neck and over my forehead.
Breathing steadily, I gave her a quick “It’s beautiful” and kept driving. Despite the growing headache, I couldn’t deny the beauty so affecting Emma Maron. The California coastline was awe inspiring, humbling. The ocean crashed and frothed against the granite cliffs and swirled in eddies around small bits of golden beaches.
Like Emma, I’d come back to California to let the land soak into my battered soul. To find peace. But I didn’t feel it. Peace eluded me. The pain in my head increased, digging in with fingers that touched the back of my eyes. And with the pain came the nausea, thick and greasy. Hell and shit-fuck. I hadn’t been hit with a migraine for weeks. Why now?
But I knew. The doctor told me I might experience headaches under sudden stress. It was her. Without even trying, she’d yanked me right out of my nice, safe cocoon of numbness, and I didn’t want to be woken up.
I cracked the window, refusing to give in to it. Next to me, Emma lightly sang along to Fiona Apple. I doubted she was even aware of doing it, but I didn’t mind. Her voice was soft and sweet. A nice distraction.
The sun rose higher, the glare intensifying. My headache swelled with it. A fine sweat broke out over my skin; light reflected off the ocean, and the road merged into one big glittering blur.
A migraine hadn’t hit me while driving before. Humiliation warred with common sense. The road wasn’t any place to fuck around in the name of male pride. I had to stop. I had to tell her I wasn’t fit to drive. I let out a slow breath, preparing to confess to Emma.
But she spoke first. “Do you mind if we pull into that overlook coming up? It’s just so beautiful, and I want to take a picture for my Instagram account.”
I wasn’t about to complain and gave her a short nod that made my weak-ass brain slosh around in the pain soup that had invaded my skull. Lights burst in response. I ground my teeth and tried to breathe through it.
The whole situation pissed me off; I’d skated with torn muscles, split lips, a busted-up nose. I held on to my stick with broken fingers taped up for one-quarter of a season. But I couldn’t handle this. This one thing had brought me down.
After turning into the semicircular dirt-and-gravel overlook, I put the truck in park as soon as possible and practically stumbled out. Emma didn’t notice, hopping down on light feet and all but racing to the edge.
The sea here was aqua where it met the froth of waves at the shore. A little ways down the coast, surfers bobbed on their boards, waiting for a good wave. Emma tilted her head back and drew in a deep breath of sea-scented air. Sunlight touched the golden strands of her hair and turned her skin the color of a perfect brioche. For a sharp second, I forgot all about my throbbing head. I forgot how to fucking breathe.
She was stunning. She had to be cold in the white sundress she had on; the air was brisk and damp in the wind. But she didn’t show it. Instead, she spread her arms wide, as though embracing the world, and the sunlight turned the white cotton of her skirt translucent, revealing the lines of her sweet little body in a silhouette.
I had no business noticing these things, especially not with her. Yet I couldn’t seem to help myself; Emma Maron was impossible to ignore. Not just because of her beauty but in the way that she soaked up joy, as though simply breathing was a gift. Maybe it was, but it didn’t feel like it at the moment.
With an inward curse, I looked toward the water and followed her lead, sucking down deep breaths and willing the migraine to subside. But it gave me a big “Fuck you” and surged with such force that I swallowed down a gag.