Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
So I swim back and start walking out of the ocean. But suddenly there’s a sharp pain in my foot. I limp out onto the sand and when I look down, I realize that I have broken a stitch and a little bit of blood starts seeping out and pooling into the gently rolling water.
“Shit.” I look up, trying to figure out how far down the beach I’ve gone, and realize I’m near the 6th Street restrooms. This is where I would usually come in if I were walking here from my own condo.
I look back at Eason’s building. It’s not far. I’m maybe six blocks away. I take a few steps in that direction, but each time I put my foot down, I can feel the wound opening up.
Continuous stitching. I thought it was so clever when Eason finished sewing me up the other night. But this is a serious drawback. If you break one stitch, you could break them all because they are connected and not tied off individually.
In my mind I can actually hear Maart saying, I told ya so.
The blood is flowing a little bit faster now, so instead of going back, I head off the sand towards the restrooms. The minute I step onto the concrete I’m leaving scarlet footprints.
“Fuck.” I say this in my head in English, but for some reason, it comes out of my mouth in Russian. A very colorful version at that. I haven’t spoken Russian in years and the way my mouth has to form the sounds feels foreign to me now.
I look down at my foot, then up at the restrooms.
“Please tell me you’re not going in there to clean that cut.”
I look over to my right and find a young woman with long, wavy, perfect blonde hair and bright smiling blue eyes. She’s wearing all white—white shorts, white shirt, white sandals—and more than a little bit of gold jewelry. Bangle bracelets, a choker around her neck, and drooping earrings.
I have a flashback to that morning on the beach when the girl in white came up to me asking if I wanted to be a model. I don’t remember her face, exactly, but she could be this woman right here.
She could literally be this woman.
And here’s where everything starts coming full circle. A lost girl on a beach. The beginning of a new day. An invitation from a girl in white.
I look down at myself—dripping wet like I just walked out of the ocean and wearing a t-shirt that is clearly much too big for me. It clings to my body and gives off the impression that I’m homeless or have been out all night.
The woman points to my foot when I don’t answer her. “That looks bad. What happened?”
I keep quiet and start hobbling my way towards the restrooms.
“No.” The woman kinda grabs my arm. Not hard, or anything, and I pull away before she can wrap her fingers around me, but I do stop. “Seriously,” she says. “You can’t walk into the public restrooms with a cut on your foot. That’s… gross.”
I look down the beach towards Eason’s building one more time, then down 6th Street where my condo is. But both places are too far. I’m not bleeding like a stuck pig or anything, but with each step I can feel the stitches loosening. A six-block walk in any direction will undo them all.
I look at the public restrooms again. If I could just get some toilet paper, I could wrap my foot—
“Do you need help?”
I look over at the woman, ready to say no. Because she’s too much—this whole encounter with her is just too much.
But… I actually do need help. I didn’t even bring my phone, so I can’t even call a car.
“I can get you some gauze or… a Band-Aid.” The woman points to a building on the other side of Ocean Drive. “I work right over there across the street.”
I squint my eyes in that direction and they land on a motel that I’ve walked by a million times. I even considered staying there once, back before all my lucky breaks. It’s not a great hotel—it’s actually kinda ugly and if my memory serves, it had a two-star rating—but it is oceanfront.
“We have a good first-aid kit. Well, good enough to get you where you’re going.” She pauses, smiles. “Where are you going?”
Like I’d tell her.
“You don’t speak English, do you? I heard you. Was that… Russian?”
I narrow my eyes at her. What the hell? She was watching me?
If she notices the face I’m pulling, she blows it off because she laughs. “I don’t speak Russian. But I’m pretty sure you were swearing up a storm. Come on. I’ll fix you up.” She starts walking towards the motel, but I hesitate.
I can’t make up my mind about this moment. Who is she? Why is she here? What does she want?