Stick Around ✔

𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯 ~ 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥

I wake up early and alone.

The sun beams brilliantly through the windows, and those little, floating particles that dance in sunlight are only slightly disturbed when I get out of bed.

Eager to get off the yacht before Ed, or any of his friends that know me, wake up, I quickly brush my teeth, and quietly move through the superyacht to lower deck.

There are a few people stirring, thankfully none that I know. A group of three or four people are getting ready to leave. I find myself catching a ride back to the docks onboard their RHIB.

They know that I'm the girl Thaddeus Reiley Junior has been hanging around with for the past week or so, but they don't say anything—probably because I look like I'm about to burst into tears. Or puke. I was feeling a little seasick and hungover—not a good combination, I assure you.

After thanking the group that gave me a lift, I walk from the docks back to the parking lot I've been living in. A sort of gladness fills me, since Bessie's still pretty much packed up after me nearly leaving the other day, there's not much for me left to do in California.

There's no way I'll be able to drive for 42 hours straight, so I'll break it down across four or five days—driving no more than ten hours a day, and sleeping over in a roadside motel, or just parking up somewhere I can legally sleep in my van. Getting arrested wouldn't exactly bode well for the rest of my career, would it, now?

Looking out across the sea, the waves are rolling in oh-so-beautifully, and the sun is shining, almost like California itself is begging me to stay.

But there are waves and sunshine back home, I remind myself, and your family, and friends, and your life.

It would be torture to leave whilst the waves are so good, so against my better judgement, I quickly change into my wetsuit, grab my board and head off down to the shore.

After a quick stretch and blocking out my thoughts, I'm ready to go. I dunk dive through the first few breakers, until I'm out far enough to be able to catch a wave in.

Strangely, my legs are wobbly as I pop up onto my board, and I faceplant into the water before the power of the wave can even begin to carry me forwards.

Spluttering, I resurface, frowning to myself—that's never happened before, even when I was learning how to surf.

A sharp twinge of pain in my knee points out the fact that I hit my board before hitting the water, and, maybe if this wasn't my last day in California, I would've gotten out of the water and stopped—but this is my last day in California; I don't stop.

I try again, this time managing to ride the wave for a few metres before I lose concentration and end up hitting the water again.

It's a good thing that this is a quiet beach, I think with a grumble, clambering back onto my board and paddling further out, hoping that I'll have better luck out in the bigger swell.

I lie on my board for a few minutes, the constant movement of the ocean is reassuring, and thoughts start seeping into my head like ink through wet paper.

Last night...

Madison and Austin...

Ed...

It was stupid to think that I could ever have a future with Ed; we live on different sides of the States, after all.

Stupid to think he loved you.

Stupid to think he cared about you.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

In swallowing back my tears, I also swallow a lungful of seawater—the salt making my throat burn.