29. cotton candy

29

COTTON CANDY

Tomorrow is Halloween, but you wouldn't know it from the weather. Santa Ana winds—aka the Devil's winds—have been pummeling the city for days, simultaneously pushing temperatures into the mid-nineties and moods down the crapper. At least the surf has been epic.

I spend the early morning hours in the water, soaking in the salt and sun, then run home to shower and change for work. On the small patio outside my front door, I prop my board in the shade, then strip out of my wetsuit and toss it over the small railing to dry. By the time I pull my house key off the thong around my neck, I hear distinctive mewling and scratching from inside.

Smiling, I open the door and look down at Ferdi, our neighborhood stray. He rubs his gargantuan body against my leg then curls around my ankles, almost tripping me. Once I've passed inspection, he sits on his haunches, fixes bright green eyes on my face, and starts his rusty-engine purring .

No one actually knows his name, or if he's ever had one, but he's huge, black and white, and reminds me of Jameson's favorite childhood book, The Story of Ferdinand. Like the titular character, Ferdi would rather lie around in the sunshine napping than hunt mice. Probably because he's extremely well fed and therefore as lazy and entitled as any house cat.

Still, he's had his share of trouble in life. One of his ears is missing the top portion, the healed border ragged with scar tissue. A thin scar also bisects his black nose and a corner of his mouth, giving his kitty-grin a lopsided effect.

"Hey, Ferdi," I coo, closing the door and reaching down to scratch between his ears. "Found your way in again, did you?"

I'm on the second floor and the small complex has a coded gate for safety, so I usually leave a window or two open to catch the breeze off the ocean. For all his weight, Ferdi is deceptively agile. One night about a month after I moved in, he made his way onto the roof, sliced through the sagging screen of one of my bedroom windows, and jumped onto my bed.

The rest is history.

Ferdi follows me across the apartment, a sunny, cheerful haven I fell in love with at first sight. After Oasis and the grueling weeks spent between the hospital, Kinsey's pad, and Jameson's spare bedroom, the apartment felt like a gift from the heavens. It still does.

Checking the time on the kitchen microwave, I quickly fix Ferdi his daily serving of the specialty raw food I spend a small fortune on—I don't want him getting any ideas about picking a new buddy. Then I head for the shower to rinse off the lingering salt and sand.

Twenty minutes later, I'm weaving through pedestrian traffic toward the restaurant and thinking about my homework from Dr. Wilson. Mostly, I wonder if it's even possible. I mean, it's not impossible. I just really, really don't want to do it.

I have to make amends to Kevin, which includes coming clean about the baby I lost. Ugh. Dr. Wilson also said no phone call or letter. I need to do it face-to-face. For resolution. Healing.

Being mentally healthy is fucking hard.

Magnolia Café—housed in a prime location on the Venice Beach Boardwalk—is deceptively rustic in appearance. No tablecloths, cloth napkins, or fancy glassware. The menus boast basic black print, the single sheet protected in plastic with items like pancakes, cheeseburger, and salad listed at affordable prices. We're open seven days a week from nine to ten, and only in off hours is there no line outside.

Despite its lack of extravagance, minimalistic white decor, and borderline-paltry menu options, Magnolia has been popular since before it even opened. The owner, a restauranteur famous for flower-themed restaurants, has the Midas touch when it comes to location, ambiance, and fare.

The owner and his family are frequent visitors and hands down some of the nicest people I've ever met. They pay amazingly well, offer great benefits, and rumor even has it they let their daughters create the menu.

Freaking swoon.

It's Monday afternoon between the lunch and dinner rush, and I'm manning the hostess station while our part-timer, Gloria, takes a break. I don't mind, as the people-watching is unparalleled. Within minutes, I see a man in a leotard on a unicycle, a group of bodybuilders in Speedos, and a hundred different expressions of style and near-nakedness. Skaters weave through the crowd. Punk kids with chains and tattoos smoke cigarettes despite the ban. Adolescent girls flounce around in too much makeup and clothes that would make their parents flip. Hippies float by in clouds of pot smoke.

A group of mystified out-of-towners meander past the café, all of them wearing long-sleeved tops, pants, hats, and sunglasses. Apparently they didn't get the memo that Southern California weather is as fickle as a teen.

"Hi."

I smile at the small figure in the doorway. "Well, hello there."

He's maybe seven or eight years old, gorgeous in an innocent way—the girls haven't gotten ahold of him yet—with a mop of brown curls and dark, expressive eyes in a sun-flushed face. Dressed in swim trunks and a damp T-shirt over his narrow shoulders, I surmise he's spent most of the morning in the ocean.

Expecting his mother or father any second, I glance at the open doorway. Though a steady stream of people pass by on the boardwalk, none seem to be heading our way .

"Are your parents around?" I ask gently.

He nods, grinning so hard two dimples appear in his cheeks. "My dad is. You have cool hair. It's the same color as the cotton candy I got at the pier last week."

I laugh, lifting the braid on my shoulder and feigning a bite of the pastel pink strands—my single remaining act of outward rebellion.

Making a face, I stick out my tongue. "Yuck. Doesn't taste like cotton candy."

Mystery Boy laughs at my expense, the sound sweet and bubbling in my ears.

"Of course it's not cotton candy. It's hair !" He looks over his shoulder and waves. "Dad! In here!"

A tall figure rounds the corner, face downturned to his cell phone. One hand effortlessly manages the device while the other absentmindedly brushes through the curls on his son's head.

"Sorry, bud, I'm almost done answering this email. Did you finally decide where to eat?"

The beautiful boy smiles happily at me. "Yep. This is the place. This lady is nice and has pink hair. Hey—why do you look all pale?"

I can't answer him.