Discovering Licapta

3 (pt.ii)

WE CONTINUE DOWN the two lane highway for a lot longer than I initially expected. The highway is barren of signs, as it has been since we passed through security, which makes it feel as though we're lost.

Émile and I stay quiet for the remainder of the drive, and I pass the time by listening to the instrumental music streaming through the car speakers while admiring the beauty of the coastline to my right. Under the setting sun, the blue ocean water glistens, and it almost looks like someone dumped glitter into the ocean.

"It's so pretty," I find myself saying out loud.

"What?" Émile asks, and I feel the car sway slightly to the left as he glances in my direction. He won't say it, but I can sense he's tired from two— at least two, since I don't actually know where he's come from— days of driving. "Oh," he says, his usual alertness returning. "Isn't there the ocean where you're from?"

"Yes," I say, tearing my gaze from the shimmering water to look at Émile. "But the beaches are always crowded, and the greenery is different. This... I've never seen anything like it. The sky seems brighter, the water bluer— look! There's... is that a seal?" I ask, pointing outside.

Émile glances over quickly just before the brown thing plunges under water.

"Sea lion," he states.

"Sea lion," I repeat. "See, I'm pretty sure I never would have seen one of those back home—" I stop, my lungs suddenly feeling empty, deprived of air. I have to remind myself to breathe, but even the simple action feels like a challenge.

Home. That was something I never thought I'd call Seattle, the city where I'd found myself after my accident. Sure, I'd felt a weird sadness while taking a last glance around my rundown studio, but never had I envisioned the place as home. Home meant warmth, friendship, happiness, memories. Home was a place you could think of and immediately feel comforted at the prospect, the promise of returning to it. That was home.

Home was something I didn't have, and the realization washed over me harder than the waves crashing over the rocks outside my window.

The tide picked up gradually as we continued our journey, and the music playing seemed to mirror their momentum, the gentle piano and flute melodies playing before replaced with a more violent piece played by what I guessed was some sort of string instrument. I'd never been to see an orchestra before, but we had a vast selection of instrumental music at the bookstore, and so I'd grown familiar with the sounds of various instruments, studying the short descriptions that went along with each album. "This is 'Winter,'" I state, reaching to turn up the dial. "From the 'Four Seasons,' right?"

"Yes— Vivaldi."

I feel a sense of proudness at having recognized the piece, and I smile. "I see you like instrumental quite a bit."

Émile's lips twitch upward the slightest bit, but the expression quickly disappears, making me feel like I've uncovered a secret. He shrugs.

"Why is that?" I press, trying as best I can to keep my tone lighthearted and friendly. Even though we just met yesterday, I don't feel like I should be bombarding Émile with questions. Other than our conversation at the bar, we've scarcely spoken. After all, in just a few moments we could part ways, never to see each other again.

Émile answers my question easily. "It doesn't force me to think."

"What do you mean?"