Nineteen-year-old, Bea Somerton, knows exactly how she wants to live. Become a doctor, remain in remission from her childhood Leukaemia and have a happy, normal, life.
The last thing she expects is to meet rising star and troubled musician, Holden P...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
My hand sweeps through the wind, my fingers moving slowly as though they're gliding over sand. Holden has all the windows down, including the sunroof. The sea breeze dances through my hair as we drive down the road, the ocean to my left.
I can see the cliffs closing in from a distance; the knifes edge as it juts out harshly towards the sea below.
"Surprised you agreed to this," I say, my voice barely audible over the radio.
"Why?" He cocks his head briefly, eyes covered by a pair of Ray-bans.
"You're a famous musician," I deadpan, like it holds all the answers. "Didn't peg you for the type to go cliff jumping and staying the night in your car."
"I went camping with you, didn't I?" He scoffs.
I grin, putting on my own sunglasses. I remember how we'd barely escaped the rain that night; how I'd wound up sharing a tent with Holden.
"You should give me some credit, Somerton," he states, hiding a smile. "I'm a lot cooler that you seem to want to admit."
"People who think they're cool are the type of people who are not, indeed, cool," I snort. "Even when they have a headlining tour starting next week and a million record labels after them."
"I wouldn't say a million," he flashes me a grin, one hand on the wheel as he taps the other against his bare thigh.
I look away from his tanned skin, turning towards the ocean as the cliffs roar towards us.
"Have you done this before?" I question, watching as a group of teen boys shout, jumping one-by-one over the edge. I clench my fist as they disappear, the splash inaudible.
"Not for years," he states, a wave of sadness simmering in his tone.
Is this something he's missed out on since signing a recording contract? The normalcy of teenage hood swept away by fame again?
"I haven't," I say, quietly.
"I gathered that. You know, because it's in your bucket list and all."
"Right," I breathe, laughing nervously.
I can feel his eyes watching me as we approach the side of the road; three cars are parked in line with each other.
"You don't have to, Somerton."
I turn to him frowning as he pulls up, turning off the engine. The only sounds that fill the air now are those of the screaming boys and the gentle crash of waves against the rocks.
"We didn't drive all this way for me to be a chicken," I justify, conviction in my tone.
"If you're sure," he raises an eyebrow, removing his glasses so that his vibrant eyes meet mine.
