"You're counting the waves again," Bennett said softly. He didn't need to ask why; he knew her rhythms as well as his own poetry.
The air at the —a stretch of jagged cliffs and restless gray water—always smelled of salt and secrets. For Paloma, the coast was a mirror. Like the shoreline, she felt eroded by the waves of her past, her "mean party girl" persona acting as the seawall she’d built to keep the world out. peyton coast
"They never stop, Ben," she replied, her voice barely a whisper over the roar of the Atlantic. "They just keep hitting the same spots until there's nothing left." "You're counting the waves again," Bennett said softly
"The coast doesn't disappear, Paloma," he said, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "It just changes. It becomes something stronger, something that knows how to survive the salt." For Paloma, the coast was a mirror