“Carlos?” I say aloud.
Something moves, two cars behind me: a shadow receding back into the hedge lining the sidewalk. It’s the silhouette of a person.
Someone is there... Someone is following me.
For an instant, a sliver of a second, I allow myself to believe it’s Tate. That he misses me, that he’s come to win me back. But there’s no Tesla in sight, and I ruthlessly quash the thought before hope can rise up in place of the panic. I need to leave, now.
I reach my car and fumble for my keys. I slam the car door and glance back in the rearview mirror: one shuddering heartbeat, two, three—still no sign of the shadow.
A thump lands against my car door and I scream, jerking away from the sound.
But it’s just Toby McAlister, being dragged by Alex Garza and Len Edwards. Toby’s palm slides across my car window as they pull him away, Toby swerving in and out of the street.
I just want to get out of here.
*
Instead of heading home, I find myself driving west. I can’t imagine going back to our tiny house right now, climbing into bed with my thoughts still whirling. I drive north along the PCH, too itchy in my skin to sleep. It’s late, and the highway is a winding stretch of open road, the ocean black and gaping to my left, like an abyss yawning open. I reach Malibu quickly and pull into Playa Point beach. The parking lot is empty. It’s breezy and cold and moonless, the sky wrapped in a high layer of clouds.
I stand on the shore for almost an hour, staring at the waves as they roll white and foamy across the sand. I remember the night I told Tate how sometimes I wish I could dive into the ocean and let it take me to a faraway land. To a different life.
I strip out of my clothes, a shadow in the dark.
The air is cold against my skin, but I wade out into the deep, letting the frigid water rise up to my thighs and then my waist, until it touches my chest, and then I dive under, letting the ocean take me.
An icy chill passes through me but I don’t turn back, I pull myself down, under a series of waves crashing above my head. Bubbles spill from my nostrils and mouth, and when I finally come to the surface, I let out a gasp of air. I spin onto my back and blink up at the flat, featureless sky.
My lips taste like salt—and I think again of Tate.
I dip my head back under again, trying to rid him from my thoughts, wipe him clean from my skin, from every place he has touched me—his fingers branding my flesh. I need the cold, I need it to help me forget. To strip him clean from my memory.
The tide tugs at me, drawing me farther out, to where the pale blue turns to black. I don’t fight it.
The night stretches out around me, the minutes and seconds no longer measured. I drift until there is nothing left of me.
When the chill starts to numb my legs and my entire body begins to shiver, I drop my legs beneath me and head back to shore.
He is gone, I tell myself.
SIXTEEN
IT’S ONLY FEBRUARY ELEVENTH, AND everyone is already talking about Valentine’s Day. The Student Council has spent the last week cutting out paper hearts and making banners to hang from every doorway and hallway, signifying the approach of one of high school’s most highly anticipated holidays—the one where everyone confesses their secret crushes and makes out in the hallways just a little longer before a teacher yanks them apart.
Midway through the day, lockers are already plastered with red and pink paper hearts, secret messages tucked inside. It’s a tradition to leave hearts on the locker of your secret crush. Those who get the most hearts by Valentine’s Day are the most desired...and therefore, of course, the most popular. At the end of the school day, there are still no notes on our locker. I’m relieved, but Carlos looks defeated.
“This will all feel really far away by next Valentine’s Day,” I tell him, but I think I’m actually trying to convince myself.
That afternoon, I sit for five minutes with my head down on the steering wheel, before texting Holly to ask if I can have the night off from work. She’d asked me to work extra shifts since it’s one of our busiest weeks, and I hate leaving her in the lurch, but she replies right away and tells me to go home and she’ll see me later in the week. She’s been way too easy on me since my breakup. I guess it’s one benefit of her hopelessly romantic heart. I go home and take a nap, praying that sleep will help.
When my phone alarm goes off at six p.m. I force myself to get up. I have my internship hours at UCLA tonight, and if I skip, I could lose my position.
“Do you want me to drive you?” Mia actually offers when I walk into the kitchen.
“I’m fine,” I say, grabbing a slice of cold homemade pizza that Grandma made yesterday.
*