Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
It’s not annoying. It’s fucking beautiful.
No. I don’t want to say that. Maybe it’s annoying, but it’s beautiful anyway. That’s what a real relationship is: seeing all the parts of someone, not just the easy ones.
I never notice women’s flaws. Not when we first start dating. I only see the pretty parts. Then I fall, fast, and I hit the ground and notice all the issues. The tendency to stay out late, the lack of interest in art, the inability to clean up after themselves. There’s always something. A lot of things.
No one ever compares to the vision of perfect love in my head.
And Deanna doesn’t, either.
But right now, I can’t form that vision. Only a fractured, messy, imperfect one with a fractured, messy, imperfect person.
Which makes me want to tell her something I’ve never told anyone. “I like my mom’s music, too.”
She notices the change in the mood. My mom isn’t exactly a frequent or fun topic.
I want to know all of her, especially the parts she hides, the things she deems too ugly for public consumption.
“Nineties rock,” I say. “Nirvana, Soundgarden, Hole, Bikini Kill. Smaller bands no one remembers.” The odes to heroin that pass as love songs. They’re salt on the wound, and I’m addicted to punishing myself with them.
She waits for me to continue.
I don’t.
For a few minutes, we let Grandma’s pop song fill the car. It fades to the next, to something softer, a ballad.
I take the twisty streets, park a few blocks from the secret beach, on a hill filled with houses just like the ones on our block. Big, symmetrical mansions in shades of blue and white and beige and sand.
Deanna waits until we step out of the car. Until we walk along the clean sidewalk, through the hidden path, to the small beach.
She looks at the kids in the dark water, the families on the sand, the teenagers listening to music on a shared pair of headphones.
This is a small beach. More of a cove or a bay, really. The size of the Huntingtons’ house. Less crowded than the long expanse on the other side of Newport Harbor—from the wedge all the way to Seal Beach.
This is tiny. Cliffs on both sides. A minimal view of the rest of the coast.
A space for us.
Ours.
It belongs to all these other people, too, but it feels like it’s ours, all the same.
“Do you think about her a lot?” She steps onto the sand and finds a spot for her bag. “Your mom?”
“Sometimes.”
“Are you in touch?”
“Sometimes.”
She looks at the ocean, watching the sun glimmer off the waves. “Is that too personal?”
“We’re supposed to talk about sex. That’s why we came all the way out here, where no one will hear us.”
She doesn’t call me on dodging the question. “We will. But we have to do this first.” She motions to the water. “Swim.”
I can’t help a grin. “After you.”
Chapter Eighteen
River
Deanna shatters my previous image of her in one moment.
She takes my hand, races to the waves, and squeals as she jumps into the cold water.
She releases her grip, wades to her waist, dives under a wave.
She emerges with a come-hither expression that sends my blood racing south. The Pacific Ocean is no match for the appeal of Deanna Huntington.
Maybe in January.
But on a warm June day, it doesn’t stand a chance.
She looks way too good in that teal bikini. All long, lean curves, short wet hair sticking to her cheeks, water dripping off her chin and chest.
Even though her makeup stays perfect, she shows a tiny sign of vulnerability. It’s not her clothes, her grooming, her posture even.
It’s the way she looks at me like she’ll die if I don’t join her.
She wants me.
There’s no way she’s faking that enthusiasm.
She offers her hand again. “Are you going to stand there? Or have fun?”
“This is fun.” Too fun. There’s something primal about watching her in the water. In the big, beautiful ocean, the source of life and danger for half the planet. The two most powerful forces in the world: the Pacific and Deanna Huntington.
My body wants both.
I want to feel her against me, slick and soft and pliable.
Get a grip.
She blushes as she catches me staring, but she doesn’t call me on it. She smiles and dives under the water, graceful and gorgeous and utterly in her element.
She loses herself in the motions. The way she loses herself during sex.
No. The way she should lose herself during sex. The way someone needs to help her lose herself during sex.
I need it, too.
It’s been too long. And it’s never been what I wanted. It could with her. For some reason, I believe that. But this is complicated. Too complicated.
The thought dissolves as Deanna emerges from the water and motions come here with her first two fingers.
That’s what I need. Everything I need.