"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."
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
"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. "They never stop, Ben," she replied, her voice