Page 35 of Find My Way Down to You

Suddenly, the water pulls on me like at the fountain on SBS’s campus. Except this time it’s tender.

“One more breath,” Cary tells me.

My lungs expand. A shiver chases up my spine as the river kisses my collarbones, then my neck. Cary doesn’t let go.

I keep my eyes closed as we sink and sink.

The Before

I hear himbefore I see him.

Feet pounding on the metal stairs. Quick, heavy breaths. His low, frustrated swear when he undoubtedly loses one of his slides and has to hop back down to get it.

I smile. For some reason, he refuses to use the elevator. Even though it’s a lot less work to get here.

I’m in my favorite place: the clock tower at the top of the Santa Barbara County Courthouse.

In my favorite spot: the stone bench tucked underneath a teal-framed window.

The view is perfect. Deep blue skyline. Clouds drifting by like floating islands. The city, small and vast below. Me, far from its reach.

Here, I can think. No,write. Lyrics pour from my pen. Itap my fingers on a half-finished song while waiting for him to finally appear.

After a moment, his head pops up from the stairwell. Windswept brown hair, cheeks flushed pink. Wild green eyes search until our gazes meet.

London grins. “I knew I’d find you here!”

When he bends over to kiss me, my chest swells.

It’s not the first time he’s done this in public. We’ve been together over a year. Everyone knows. But there’s also no one around to see us. It’s late afternoon. While the clock tower is a high-traffic tourist destination, very few people come around this time. Especially not on a random Wednesday in February.

Which is why it’s my favorite time to come. Just me and my notebook and the ocean-salted breeze.

And sometimes London.

He plops onto the brick floor in front of me. Right on the painted white compass. Carelessly, he yanks off his messenger bag, fumbles with the flap, then drags a hand through his hair. He’s fidgety. Almost…nervous.

London’s never nervous.

My head tilts. “What’s wrong?”

He looks up, smiling weirdly. His eyes go to my notebook. “Can I see?”

Reflexively, my hand covers the page. I always share my songs with him. Even when they’re bad or silly. Not once hashe laughed at me. Or offered polite critiques, like my dad, even though he knows nothing about music.

But more and more, my lyrics have been about…him.

It’s not intentional. It just happens.

I clear my throat. “I’m not finished.”

“So? That’s never stopped you before.”

Heat gathers behind my jaw. He’s right. But I’m not ready for him to see these.

Squinting at him, I say, “Are you deflecting?”

London squirms a little. I laugh. He wiggles one of his slides off to toss at me, half-heartedly.