Page 11 of Britta & the Beach Boy
But I don’t get out of bed. I can’t. The more I think about the empty day ahead, the more my heart picks up speed. So does my breath. I see my chest move up and down, but I don’t feel air reaching my lungs.
I hear a knocking sound, and Stella pokes her head in the door. “Hey! What should we do today?”
Her voice sounds far away as I turn to her bright, smiling face with every intention of returning her cheerful greeting. But I can’t. Nothing comes out but a cry.
“Are you okay?” Stella rushes to me, climbing onto the bed to wrap me in her arms.
I can’t hug her back. My arms are numb. My whole body is. I think I might be crying. Someone is making a whimpering sound, and I don’t think it’s Stella.
Stella shushes me, rubbing my back while also rocking me back and forth. “You can let it out. You’ve held it in too long,” she whispers gently.
I hate those words and that she’s saying them to me. She’s not the first person to tell me it’s okay to cry and that I need to grieve, but she is the first to see me break down. I guess I’d rather it be her than my dad or brothers, but I’d prefer not to lose control at all. That’s not who I am.
I inhale and force the breath to reach my lungs. Then I do it again and again until my eyes are dry and I can pull away from Stella.
“I’m fine.” I mutter before sliding out of bed to dig through my suitcase for something to wear. “We can do whatever you want. We’ve got the whole day and lots to explore!”
I’m relieved when my words come out sounding normal and not like I’ve taken her hostage on my crying jag. But I don’t trustmyself to look at her yet. I stare at the empty closet, wishing my clothes would magically hang themselves up or, at least, tell me what I should put on. Every decision feels heavy.
Stella stays quiet for too long, forcing me to look over my shoulder at her. She’s studying me like a math problem. As though there’s a formula to solve what’s wrong with me. I tense, waiting for her to tell me what I should do to stop being sad. To feel like myself again.
Her dad died when she was a baby. She never knew him. I had a lifetime with my mom compared to what Stella had with her dad. I shouldn’t be sad. I should be grateful for the amazing years I had.
“Let’s find some good coffee,” Stella says with a soft smile instead of the advice I expected. “That’s the only assignment for the day. We wander and try whatever coffee house or café we find. After that, maybe we go to the beach or unpack a little more…”
I send her a worried look, and she quickly adds, “Clothes. Not emotions.” She glances at my mess, then back at me. “Or we keep living out of a suitcase. We can do whatever you feel like.”
The knot behind my ribs slowly unravels. “Coffee sounds great. Let’s start there.”
“Good plan. Let me throw on some clothes.” Stella scrambles off my bed and hop-skips to the door, making me smile.
“Thanks, Stel,” I say quietly before she goes through the door.
Without turning around, she waves off my gratitude. “Love you, cuz. We’ll get through this!”
Stella is an eternal optimist, which makes me want to believe her. I’m not there yet, but right now, I’m more grateful than she knows to have her here with me. And grateful to Georgia, not just for this apartment but also for letting Stella work remote while we’re here. I didn’t think I’d need my younger, bouncier cousin, but she’s already proven I do.
I sort through my suitcase until I find a pair of linen shorts and a t-shirt. While the weather is getting cooler in Paradise, it’s still hot here. I guess I’m grateful for that, too. I’m dreading the cold months ahead when business will slow to a crawl, and I won’t have Mom to fill my empty hours.
Fifteen minutes pass and Stella still hasn’t told me she’s ready to go when I decide to search for her. I find her in her bedroom, still in pajamas, staring at her already-organized closet.
“What are you doing?” I stand next to her and stare at the same spot, but I don’t see what she’s trying to see.
“Finding something to wear. Sundress? Or workout clothes?” Her closet is full of the first, and I’m sure her dresser drawers are full of the second.
I look down at my cut-offs and the signed, but old and coffee-stained, Post Malone tee I’ve had for at least five years. “We’re just going for coffee.”
“We’re inLA.There’s no such thing as just ‘going for coffee.’ Famous people live here. I need something casual but chic.” Stella pulls a short, white, spaghetti strap dress from her closet and examines it.
“And I need coffee.” I open one of her drawers and find a pair of Lulu shorts and a tank top, and hand them both to her. “Let’s go please.”
She rolls her eyes, but with a grin, she takes the clothes from me. “Fine.”
I walk away to let her get dressed, but before I get to the door, Stella says, “My goal is to get you to relax before we leave here. We’re not on any kind of schedule.” Her voice raises as I shut the door. “You’re allowed to slow down and enjoy yourself!”
She’s loud enough I can hear her through the door, but I don’t need to. I’ve heard it a million times from my dad, too. If I wanted to slow down, I would. Slow isn’t enjoyable. It’s onlylong moments filled with too many thoughts. That’s why I never thought about taking a vacation until Georgia talked me into it.
“Two minutes. Then I’m leaving without you.”
