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Drip by drip.
I feel a little more human and less like a machine that spits out work.
This isn’t going to heal in a day, but it’s sure starting to feel like healing is possible.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SABRINA
I slip from beneath Coen’s arm. It’s early, but there’s a faint rim of gold and pale blue through the window. I can’t find my sweatshirt, but Coen’s bag is open, and there’s one hanging halfway out. In a moment of daring, I pull it out, slipping it over my head. Damn, that’s nice, nicer than any sweatshirts I packed for the trip. It might have more to do with it smelling like him than anything else.
Quietly, I make a cup of coffee in the rickety little machine in the corner and tiptoe across the floor. He doesn’t move as I slip out.
God, it’s so beautiful out here.
Walking to the edge of the pool, I inhale and hold for a moment before releasing. The surface of the water ripples softly with the movement of the free floating filter. A mockingbird chatters quietly, as if it’s trying to be mindful of everyone sleeping.
A deep sense of peace settles in my chest.
I wonder if Coen felt like this at the beginning of his career, when touring was still fresh. I’d love to ask him, but getting info out of him is like pulling teeth. I know it would help him feel better, if only he’d be willing to talk, but he seems almost embarrassed. As if, because he was lucky enough to be successful, he no longer feels loneliness or pain.
I sink down, kicking off my sandals and letting my feet sink into the water. It’s still warm from the previous day, warmer than the air and concrete.
The same feeling of happiness I felt in the back of the truck eating take out with him creeps back. I’m lighter than air, no responsibilities in sight.
I could stay here forever. At least, I could if he’s around.
The door creaks. I don’t have to turn around to detect Coen’s footsteps. He pauses, and I wait, feeling him stare into my back.
“You want some better coffee?” he asks.
I get up, shaking my legs off. “I’d love that.”
He’s in his gray sweats, the ones that give me the best view of everything, and a rumpled t-shirt. After everything tumbling through my brain, I’m tempted to go up to him like we’re dating or something, but I hesitate. He must see it in my face, because he wraps one arm around my neck and kisses me. When he pulls back, the affectionate warmth in his eyes is firmly in place.
“You look good in my sweatshirt,” he says.
“Oh, sorry,” I say. “I forgot I was wearing it.”
“Keep it.”
He says it gruffly, like he realized what he’s saying in the middle of his sentence. But he doesn’t take it back. His arm flexes, sliding back so he can run his fingers through my hair. It’s tangled from being loose all night. I need to stop and pick up a cotton scrunchie to hold it while I sleep.
“There’s a little cafe down the road,” he says. “You want to head over?”
I nod, unable to speak, though I’m not sure why. We’ve only been on the road for two nights, but it feels like a week at least. The time before that seems like months. He kisses my temple, ushering us both back inside. I wait while he puts his clothes on. Then, we walk through the silent pool area and the parking lot to where his truck sits. The office is open, flamingo pink sign gleaming.
“I like this place,” I say, settling into the passenger side.
He starts the engine. “Yeah, me too. We should come back sometime.”
My stomach clenches, then flutters. Why is he talking like that? It’s driving me up the wall, giving me all kinds of thoughts that are going to come back and bite me in the ass. I don’t say anything, just keep my eyes on the pale, flat landscape as we get back on the road.
It’s a short drive before he takes a right and pulls into a lot in front of what looks like a tiny surf shack out here in the middle of the desert.
“Oh, this is adorable,” I say.
He smiles at me, not saying anything as he grabs his wallet and key fob. I climb out, and he does this thing that makes me want to climb him like a tree. He waits for me to walk up the path first, and when I go by him, his hand lingers an inch above my lower back. Before I met him, I didn’t realize how important those tiny details were. Now, I think it’s one of the defining things that separates him from other men I’ve gone out with or been interested in.
