Page 67 of The Fall Before Flight

I know he’s talking about more than the accident.

My eyes sting. “Yeah, I remembered. Something inside me turned off when Mom and Phillip died, but whatever it is, it’s on again. I think Dr. Chastain might have saved my life.”

He nods, eyes soft with relief. “I think you might be right. Told you they had the best drugs.”

I manage a laugh. “If by drugs you mean therapy, then yes. The best drugs on the West Coast.”

One day later, when the surgery is over and my dad is resting comfortably in a recovery room, I call Kinsey and ask if she wants a temporary roommate. Her scream of acceptance almost blows my eardrum out.

I take a cab to a house nestled in the Hollywood Hills, where a newly brunette and natural-looking Kinsey greets me with tears and hugs. I meet the infamous Teacup. The tiny, yapping shithead pisses on my leg within five minutes. But I have to concede he’s pretty cute.

Five days later, Jameson and I take our dad home from the hospital. A sweet-faced and cheerful in-home nurse arrives after us. Her unlucky job for the next six weeks is to manage his medications and assist him in developing better physical and dietary health. He’s not a happy camper, but he’s alive.

One week later, I get a full-time job at a new restaurant in Venice. Then I borrow money from Jameson to put a deposit on an apartment within walking distance.

As much as I like her, a week living with Kinsey turned out to be six days too long.

One month later, I pick up my surfboard from Jameson’s house. I haven’t felt like surfing yet, but I want it just in case. I also make an appointment with a new therapist recommended by Kinsey. Thankfully, Dr. Wilson isn’t anything like Dr. Reynolds. She actually reminds me a bit of my mom.

When I see her every week, I tell the truth. Not because I don’t have anything else to lose, but because for the first time in a long time, I do.

Two months later, I still have a job, an apartment, a therapist, and I surf every morning before work. Dad’s doing better, thanks in part to a massive crush on his nurse, Jessica, who still comes by a few times a week to check in. We’ve also started a new tradition of family breakfast every Sunday at the Malibu house. Sometimes Jessica joins us.

And I’ve made friends. A few at work and a couple I met out in the water. All women. We do things like see movies and go to concerts and art museums. Activities that once upon a time would have bored me to tears. I kind of like them now.

My best friends, however, are Kinsey and Nix. The odd-yet-somehow-perfect couple drag me out on the town at least once a week. The three of us keep in touch with Callum, who’s back in New York, and Tiffany, who’s in Massachusetts—I was right about her father being a senator. I also recently saw a flyer for Amy Falls’ new tour, and a tabloid photo of a smiling, healthy-looking Declan.

Wherever Preston is, I hope he’s okay.

My therapist has me journaling a lot, automatic writing being her “thing.” My homework is to spend at least ten minutes a day scribbling down anything that comes into my head. It was hard at first—more days than not, I forgot to do it—but now I look forward to journaling at the end of the day. I call it my daily exorcism.

During therapy, we often talk about topics that come up repeatedly in my writing. Fears and uncertainties about the future. Regrets and unresolved issues from the past. In yesterday’s session, I made the unwitting mistake of mentioning I was writing about Kevin a lot. Thinking about what kind of girlfriend I was and feeling conflicted about how things ended.

Thanks to my confession, I have new homework. Homework that makes my bones itch. For the first time since leaving Oasis, I want to jump out of an airplane.

I go surfing instead, for hours and hours until I can barely stand when I hit the sand. The itch is still there, but it doesn’t control me anymore.

29

COTTON CANDY

Tomorrow is Halloween, but you wouldn’t know it from the weather. Santa Ana winds—aka the Devil’s winds—have been pummeling the city for days, simultaneously pushing temperatures into the mid-nineties and moods down the crapper. At least the surf has been epic.

I spend the early morning hours in the water, soaking in the salt and sun, then run home to shower and change for work. On the small patio outside my front door, I prop my board in the shade, then strip out of my wetsuit and toss it over the small railing to dry. By the time I pull my house key off the thong around my neck, I hear distinctive mewling and scratching from inside.

Smiling, I open the door and look down at Ferdi, our neighborhood stray. He rubs his gargantuan body against my leg then curls around my ankles, almost tripping me. Once I’ve passed inspection, he sits on his haunches, fixes bright green eyes on my face, and starts his rusty-engine purring.

No one actually knows his name, or if he’s ever had one, but he’s huge, black and white, and reminds me of Jameson’s favorite childhood book, The Story of Ferdinand. Like the titular character, Ferdi would rather lie around in the sunshine napping than hunt mice. Probably because he’s extremely well fed and therefore as lazy and entitled as any house cat.

Still, he’s had his share of trouble in life. One of his ears is missing the top portion, the healed border ragged with scar tissue. A thin scar also bisects his black nose and a corner of his mouth, giving his kitty-grin a lopsided effect.

“Hey, Ferdi,” I coo, closing the door and reaching down to scratch between his ears. “Found your way in again, did you?”

I’m on the second floor and the small complex has a coded gate for safety, so I usually leave a window or two open to catch the breeze off the ocean. For all his weight, Ferdi is deceptively agile. One night about a month after I moved in, he made his way onto the roof, sliced through the sagging screen of one of my bedroom windows, and jumped onto my bed.

The rest is history.

Ferdi follows me across the apartment, a sunny, cheerful haven I fell in love with at first sight. After Oasis and the grueling weeks spent between the hospital, Kinsey’s pad, and Jameson’s spare bedroom, the apartment felt like a gift from the heavens. It still does.

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