“Just wishing we had more time,” I admit softly, before rolling my head toward his.
“Me too,” he says just as softly. As if neither of us dare to disturb the quiet, nearly empty beach around us.
Messy, dirty blonde hair flops over his brow. Sand clings to the wavy strands, but he doesn’t seem to mind. It suits him, the salt and the sand.
This is what I’ll miss most,I think, making sure I ingrain this image to memory.
The sun beating down on his face, lighting up his features orange and gold like a canyon fire.
The crash of waves reflected in his navy blue eyes.
Wavy, unkempt hair burnished gold and rough from sea salt.
This boy of mine was made for California sunsets on the beach, and yet he’s the one leaving tomorrow. While I remain here.
His hand reaches out, finding mine, lacing our fingers together.
I eye our matching tattoos, loving the way they seem to interlock and merge into one from this angle.
My gaze then drifts up to the inside of my wrist, where my new ink has started to scab over. It’s itchy as hell, but I’m used to it by now.
It’s nothing too crazy. Just a simple heartbeat design, like what you’d see on an EKG. If you line all three of our wrists together, though—Mason’s, Shawn’s, and mine—it connects to form one steady heartbeat.
Cheesy? Maybe.
But I love it.
“I’ve been thinking about going back to school,” Will announces suddenly.
My head shoots up. “Really?”
He nods, biting his lip. “Can’t really putz around forever, you know. The bar’s great and all, but it’s—”
“Not long-term for you,” I finish gently, nodding in understanding. And the income is far from stable. I search his gaze. “So are you thinking of finishing your degree, or…?”
Blowing out a breath, he looks down, dark gold lashes fanning his cheeks.
“I have more than enough credits to minor in psych,” he says slowly, the words dragging out, almost like he’s stalling.
Frowning, I say, “So you don’t want to major in it anymore, is what you’re saying.”
He starts nodding, but stops.
Then, suddenly, he sits up.
He faces the water with his knees pressed to his chest, arms wrapped around his shins. He’s in jeans, like me, but he’s not wearing a shirt—his faded gray AC/DC t-shirt left discarded where he was using it as a pillow.
Slowly, I join him, watching the way the sun’s orange rays war with the emotions playing out on his face. Wariness mixed with something like determination.
His tanned shoulders bunch, like he’s bracing himself.
“I think…” he says slowly. “I think I want to go into social work.”
Oh.
My chest rises with a deep inhale and I turn to face the water so I’m no longer staring at him. I watch the rise and fall of water as the tide pulls back, then crashes forward once more. Over and over and over again.
“The system’s fucked.”