Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 46231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
"Even if you did fail Raul—which you didn't. But even if you did. You deserve to be happy. And it's what he'd want."
"It doesn't make sense."
"Because she's a pink-loving New Yorker?"
"For a lot of reasons."
"Did you like New York?"
"Things about it."
"Are you thinking of defecting?"
"No."
"East Coast, least coast."
"West Coast, best coast," I agree.
"Opal… go fuck her again?"
"Doesn't rhyme."
"Shit. I better work on that." She smiles. "You miss her a lot."
"And?"
"And? I'm the pragmatic one. If you love her—"
"I didn't say that."
"If you love her and you miss her, why not go for it?"
"Details are important."
"But is there anything you can't overcome?"
No. Maybe. I don't know anymore.
"Go for it. For Raul."
"You're playing that card again?"
"Absolutely."
"It's bullshit."
"It's what he'd want though."
It is.
After Cassie leaves, I do what I always do when I can't clear my head. I draw.
For hours, I sketch. Abstract shapes. Images of New York skyscrapers, California coastlines, beautiful women in knee-high boots or sandals.
Opal, in a million positions, with a thousand expressions.
Exactly where I want her.
It's obvious.
She's what I want.
I need to go to her. To find her. To talk to her.
I book a flight for first thing tomorrow. Try to find the words, to figure out exactly what I want to say.
But I'm too slow.
She's here.
Chapter Twenty-Three
OPAL
"Hey." I don't know what else to say. I don't know how else to start. "You look good."
"Tired?"
"Handsome." I want to touch him, to reach over and feel the soft fabric of his shirt, the rough denim of his jeans, but I keep my hands at my sides. "Really handsome. I… I've never seen you in a t-shirt. It suits you."
"More than a tie?"
"I don't know. I like both. I, uh…"
"Do you want to come in?"
"Yes. Thank you."
He pulls the door open for me.
I step inside. Take in the wide, open space. So different than Max's sparse apartment in the city, but so similar too. The same wide windows and sleek furniture. The same coffee maker on the counter. The same black frames.
But all these touches of him.
A blanket draped over the couch. A pop art book on the coffee table. A shelf overflowing with books. Framed prints hung on the walls. An eclectic mix. Wood-block prints, impressionist paintings, cubist, pop art.
It's not his style as an artist—his lines are simple and minimalist, the opposite of mine—but it suits him just the same. It's really his home. His place.
"Do you want something to drink?" he asks.
"It's barely afternoon."
"Coffee?"
"I shouldn't. I had a lot on the plane. And I… I'm already nervous." I wipe my palms on my sundress.
"You look good."
"Not too pink?"
"On you? Never."
My heart thuds against my chest. "Maybe water."
"You're declining coffee?"
"I am."
"It's that serious?"
"It is."
He nods with understanding, fills two glasses, brings one to me.
"The semester is over."
"It is."
"And I know… you're back here. And you don't have plans to leave."
"I don't."
"But I… I don't have summer plans. And I don't have to be in New York until the end of August. I'm not saying I'd stay here—I have an Air BnB. With my friend Izzie. Well, eventually. She wants to see how she likes California, but her boyfriend is up in Malibu, and we're not really near Malibu, are we? But she knows how to drive and she isn't even sure if she wants to get back together with him, so—"
"Opal—"
"Yes—"
"Stay."
"Are you sure?"
"I am." He closes the space between us. "Stay. For as long as you want."
"All summer?"
"All summer."
"And after?"
"I don't know." He brings his hand to my cheek. Runs his thumb over my temple. "But I know it will be a hell of a summer." He leans down and presses his lips to mine.
He kisses me like he's claiming me.
Maybe it's not forever.
But it's for now.
And, right now, that's everything.
Epilogue
OPAL
"Is it like this everyday?" Izzie raises her sunglasses for a better view of a tall man in a small swimsuit.
"You're staying four blocks away."
"All by myself."
"I visit."
"Not enough."
"If you want me there, say the word."
"No. You look so needy when you sleep over. Like you just can’t handle another night without Max’s hand around your throat."
My cheeks flush.
Izzie smiles, victorious. She loves to make me uncomfortable. And though I’m more comfortable with my desires these days… I’m not comfortable talking about them with her.
She holds her hand over her eyes, deems the gesture insufficient, returns the shades to their previous position. "It’s bright here."
"Oddly bright."
"You fit in though." She motions to my hot pink bikini top, my bare feet, my wavy-from-the-salt-water hair. Then to her own still blue (but faded from the sun and salt) locks, her red heart-shaped sunglasses, her black bikini, her black fingernail polish, the brand spankin’ new tattoo on her hip (a bright blue butterfly). "Me…"
"I do not."
"You do too, Opes. You’re a total Malibu Barbie."
"We’re not in Malibu."
"Newport Beach Barbie."
"I’m too flat to be a Barbie."