Page 68 of The Fall Before Flight

Checking the time on the kitchen microwave, I quickly fix Ferdi his daily serving of the specialty raw food I spend a small fortune on—I don’t want him getting any ideas about picking a new buddy. Then I head for the shower to rinse off the lingering salt and sand.

Twenty minutes later, I’m weaving through pedestrian traffic toward the restaurant and thinking about my homework from Dr. Wilson. Mostly, I wonder if it’s even possible. I mean, it’s not impossible. I just really, really don’t want to do it.

I have to make amends to Kevin, which includes coming clean about the baby I lost. Ugh. Dr. Wilson also said no phone call or letter. I need to do it face-to-face. For resolution. Healing.

Being mentally healthy is fucking hard.

Magnolia Café—housed in a prime location on the Venice Beach Boardwalk—is deceptively rustic in appearance. No tablecloths, cloth napkins, or fancy glassware. The menus boast basic black print, the single sheet protected in plastic with items like pancakes, cheeseburger, and salad listed at affordable prices. We’re open seven days a week from nine to ten, and only in off hours is there no line outside.

Despite its lack of extravagance, minimalistic white decor, and borderline-paltry menu options, Magnolia has been popular since before it even opened. The owner, a restauranteur famous for flower-themed restaurants, has the Midas touch when it comes to location, ambiance, and fare.

The owner and his family are frequent visitors and hands down some of the nicest people I’ve ever met. They pay amazingly well, offer great benefits, and rumor even has it they let their daughters create the menu.

Freaking swoon.

It’s Monday afternoon between the lunch and dinner rush, and I’m manning the hostess station while our part-timer, Gloria, takes a break. I don’t mind, as the people-watching is unparalleled. Within minutes, I see a man in a leotard on a unicycle, a group of bodybuilders in Speedos, and a hundred different expressions of style and near-nakedness. Skaters weave through the crowd. Punk kids with chains and tattoos smoke cigarettes despite the ban. Adolescent girls flounce around in too much makeup and clothes that would make their parents flip. Hippies float by in clouds of pot smoke.

A group of mystified out-of-towners meander past the café, all of them wearing long-sleeved tops, pants, hats, and sunglasses. Apparently they didn’t get the memo that Southern California weather is as fickle as a teen.

“Hi.”

I smile at the small figure in the doorway. “Well, hello there.”

He’s maybe seven or eight years old, gorgeous in an innocent way—the girls haven’t gotten ahold of him yet—with a mop of brown curls and dark, expressive eyes in a sun-flushed face. Dressed in swim trunks and a damp T-shirt over his narrow shoulders, I surmise he’s spent most of the morning in the ocean.

Expecting his mother or father any second, I glance at the open doorway. Though a steady stream of people pass by on the boardwalk, none seem to be heading our way.

“Are your parents around?” I ask gently.

He nods, grinning so hard two dimples appear in his cheeks. “My dad is. You have cool hair. It’s the same color as the cotton candy I got at the pier last week.”

I laugh, lifting the braid on my shoulder and feigning a bite of the pastel pink strands—my single remaining act of outward rebellion.

Making a face, I stick out my tongue. “Yuck. Doesn’t taste like cotton candy.”

Mystery Boy laughs at my expense, the sound sweet and bubbling in my ears.

“Of course it’s not cotton candy. It’s hair!” He looks over his shoulder and waves. “Dad! In here!”

A tall figure rounds the corner, face downturned to his cell phone. One hand effortlessly manages the device while the other absentmindedly brushes through the curls on his son’s head.

“Sorry, bud, I’m almost done answering this email. Did you finally decide where to eat?”

The beautiful boy smiles happily at me. “Yep. This is the place. This lady is nice and has pink hair. Hey—why do you look all pale?”

I can’t answer him.

30

IMPLOSION

Holy shit, holy shit.

Even as my brain turns to mush, my eyes greedily swallow every inch of the man before me. A man I never thought I’d see again outside my daydreams. But he’s here. Real. And even more handsome than I remember.

Leo’s dark hair is longer than it was months ago, messy and half-dry from a recent swim. Broad shoulders are encased in a faded black T-shirt, highlighting muscular arms. Swim trunks hug his lean hips, leaving his tanned calves bare.

I sway a little toward him, like I’m in free fall and he’s the ground. The following seconds stretch for an eternity. The longing I’d thought buried screams like gale-force wind in my ears.

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