Somewhere Between Water and Sky (Shattered Things #2) by Elora Ramirez Page B

the salt.
    “ Okay. I ’ m ready when you are. ” She leans against the counter and rests her chin in her hand.
    I grab the bowl with both hands and swing around to the refrigerator, put it on one of the shelves, and then turn to face her. Her bikini is bright orange — a big surprise — and her cover up reveals what her mini-skirt did not: another tattoo of a lion with a mane made of flowers on her upper thigh.
    “ Whoa. Nice piece. ” I point to her leg and then blush when she giggles. “ I meant your tattoo. Not your ass. Although, you do have a nice ass. It ’ s just …” I can feel my face shift into ten shades of red so I stop. “ Never mind. I like your lion. That ’ s not a euphemism is it? ”
    Jessa laughs. “ No. But I ’ m sure we could make it one. ”
    Groaning, I walk past her and grab my phone out of my purse. “ Okay. Now that I ’ ve sufficiently embarrassed myself, I ’ m ready. ”
     
    .::.
     
    The late afternoon is hazy with a marine layer blowing in over the shore. We walk down the street, passing a teal building with yellow trim, the various tourist groups with matching t-shirts, and a man attempting to convince people that he ’ s opening for Usher in his concert next week.
    “ Come on, man! Help a brother out. I just need gas money. ” He turns his eyes toward us and smiles. “ Hey ladies. You want to help me make my dream come true? ”
    A growl escapes my lips before I can stop it and Jessa just walks on by, not allowing him any attention. However, she does stop at a guy who sits at a table with a typewriter. A poster board on the front of his table flaps in the wind - WILL WRITE POEMS FOR DONATIONS.
    She pulls a twenty out of her wallet. “ Hey! Will you really write a poem for me? ”
    He nods. “ I will. Just give me the topic and it ’ ll be done in about thirty minutes. ”
    She doesn ’ t hesitate. “ Write me a poem about emotion. ”
    He looks at her. “ Emotion? ”
    “ Emotion. ”
    “ Any specific one? ”
    “ No. ” She shrugs. “ Just emotion. ”
    He glances at me. “ Do you want one, miss? ”
    “ Um. Sure. ” I look through my purse and pull out a five dollar bill. “ This is all I have. Sorry. ”
    He flashes a smile and shrugs. “ No worries. What word do you want me to focus on for your poem? I can do anything. Anything at all. ”
    I think for a moment and look around me for inspiration. Nothing comes. I bring my hand up to my forehead and shield my eyes from the sun. I think of the silence and how it burns, and the abandoned building going up in flames, and the fear that one day all this good around me will fall to ash.
    “ How about burning? ”
    The poet is already writing down words and phrases for Jessa ’ s poem when I speak up. His eyes flicker up to my own.
    “ Burning? ”
    “ Yes. Burning. ” I feel the heat of attention settle deep in my chest and radiate down my arms. I only have a few minutes before my arms feel like lead so I look away, avoiding eye contact. My gaze meets Jessa ’ s and her eyebrows are raised in approval.
    “ Okay then. Burning and emotion. Should be easy. ” He claps his hands and moves his face down toward the paper, jotting down notes and ideas. For now, we ’ ve lost him. He ’ s in a completely different world.
    Jessa nods her head. “ So uh … we ’ ll see you in about thirty minutes? ”
    He answers with just the raising of a solitary finger, pointed to the sky. Jessa and I look at each other and shrug and then move toward the pier.
    “ If you look to your right there ’ s a pathway down to the beach. ”
    I find the side path and make my way to the steps.
    I ’ m halted by her sudden hand on my wrist. “ Stephanie! Look! ”
    I follow her gaze. “ What? I only see an older lady with horrible fashion sense. ”
    She snorts. “ That ’ s who I want you to see. Look closer. Don ’ t you recognize her? It ’ s Diane Keaton. ”
    “ That ’ s Diane Keaton. ”
    We ’ re ear to ear