Page 161 of Songbird: Black Kite
Wren
Present
Wasthereanythingbetterthan sitting in the warm sand, the sun on your shoulders while a gentle breeze blew off the ocean?
No, there absolutely was not.
Wiggling my toes, I dug them deeper into the sand, burying my feet all the way up to the ankle as I stretched in my lounge chair.
“Did you know that one in five Americans will get skin cancer in their lives?” Cooper offered, scrolling through her phone under the shade of the pop-up tent. We’d found it in a little shed off to the side of the house, along with a couple of surfboards that neither of us had been brave enough to try.
“Let people enjoy things,” I groaned, pushing my sunglasses up onto my forehead as I sent her a look. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I was able to sit and do literally nothing? No? Well, neither do I!”
Cooper shook her head, her face serious.
“I mean it, Mom. You’ve been sitting out there, unprotected, for nearly thirty minutes. Your shoulders look like lobsters. I’m just stating facts.”
“Ugh, fine,” I groaned, getting out of my chair and dragging it over to sit beside hers in the shade. “Why do you have to be so rational all the time?”
“I’m just looking out for you.” She shrugged, but I could see the hint of a smile curving her lips.
California suited Cooper, I thought. We hadn’t even been in the state an entire day, but already she was glowing, like the years of worry and judgment we’d endured in Grand Rapids had been lifted, leaving behind a lightness that I hadn’t seen from her since she was little.
It was just one more reason I was glad I had accepted Hawk’s offer to stay, and that list was growing with every minute that passed.
Waking up in Hawk’s arms had been a revelation. I had never in my entire life slept as well or felt as safe as I did in that bed, cuddled up to the man who saw into my soul.
When he’d left this morning, way earlier than I’d liked, I had snuggled down into the blankets, pressing my nose to his vacated pillow and grinning like an idiot when it smelled of him.
I’d wanted to go back to sleep, but the things I had been feeling wouldn’t let me, my mind a restless cacophony of chaotic thoughts and giddy emotions. Finally giving up on sleeping, I’d spent an hour or so writing a song, sitting cross-legged in his bed and strumming on my old friend, the Martin, which I had found on a stand in the far corner of the bedroom, shining like a beacon in the morning light.
I had nearly finished when I’d heard Cooper in the kitchen downstairs, and after a delightfully West Coast breakfast of avocado toast and fruit salad, we’d headed outside to spend our first ever day on the beach.
“We really get to stay here?” she asked for probably the tenth time since I’d told her of our plans.
“We do,” I replied. “If that’s what you want.” I knew it was important that she had a choice in all of this; it was her life as much as it was mine.
“I think I do.” Setting her phone down, Cooper sat up a little straighter in her chair, her gaze sweeping over the view before us. It was busier now, the crowd at the water’s edge boisterous with the start of the summer holidays. The sun was high, the waves loud, and if the wind blew just right, you could hear the sounds of the carnival rides at the Santa Monica Pier down the beach.
It was fucking glorious.
“It feels like this is where we should have been all along, you know?”
Her words, spoken so casually, caused my heart to clench.
Because she was right; everything about this felt like home, and I had never been so sure of a decision in my life.
We lounged out on the beach for another hour, enjoying the heat, if not the actual sunshine. When Cooper’s stomach started to grumble, we packed up, carrying our gear back across the path and into Hawk’s—or, I guessedour—private yard. She headed upstairs to change while I went to sort lunch in the kitchen.
“There’s a couple ready-to-eat salads in here,” I called to Cooper, my head stuck in the fridge as I assessed our options. “And some pita and hummus, too, I think.”
“Made yourself right at home, didn’t you, you fucking bitch?”
Snapping to attention, I spun around and came face to face with the woman of my literal nightmares.
Standing in the middle of the kitchen, wearing an outfit that probably cost more than the average car payment, Victoria looked more than a little rattled, her normally glossy red hair was frizzy and her wild eyes were surrounded by smudged mascara, as though she’d been crying and had tried to hide the evidence.
She glared at me, and everything inside me was screaming that this was a precarious situation, because the woman looked like she was ready to snap.
