Page 42 of Every Beautiful Mile

I have to be dreaming. It’s the only explanation for how I can smell coffee while lying in bed.

“Finn, can you stir that?”

Marin’s voice sounds as real as the nutty aroma in my nostrils.

I pull the curtain around my bed back and blink my eyes open and shut.

Marin and Finn are moving around the kitchen, making breakfast, and Finn has an actual cup of coffee in his hand.

“Is this real life?” I croak as I roll onto my side and watch them.

“Good morning, Penelope.” Marin hums as she scoops oatmeal into bowls.

I squint. “What is happening in here?”

“Mar made breakfast, and I made coffee,” Finn says, like it’s obvious.

“You made coffee?”

I sit up with a start, banging my head on the ceiling.

“You are going to kill someone with that toxic crap,” he responds, leaning his hip against a small space of countertop.

I reach my hands out as I fumble down the ladder. “Gimme.”

Gone is the bitter bite that was on the brink of making me sprout chest hair, and instead is a taste of smooth nuttiness.

“I’ve died and gone to a caffeinated heaven, Finn James!” I gasp dramatically. “How did you learn to make this, and why have you been making me suffer all this time?”

“Google, Mom. This isn’t that impressive.”

He lifts his chin and shakes his hair out of his eyes.

Marin puts a bowl of cinnamon oatmeal in front of me, and I eye it suspiciously.

“Did you poison this?” I demand. “Why are you two being so nice?”

Yesterday was a disaster. The AC completely broke in the Avion in the middle of our thirteen-hour drive, and by the time we finished setting up camp last night, we were all the very worst versions of ourselves. Putting poison in my breakfast doesn’t seem that farfetched in the light of day.

“We can be nice when we aren’t having our souls boiled out on the interstate,” Marin says, sitting next to me, smiling, popping a spoonful of oatmeal into her mouth.

Outside is cool and glorious. There’s a renewed sense of excitement when we finish breakfast and head out for a walk wearing sweatshirts with warm drinks cradled in our hands. If we didn’t just spend so many days melting in the desert, maybe I wouldn’t love it so much, but I do. God, I do. The earthy smell and the way the cool air wraps its fingers around my skin are everything I don’t know I need.

“Haystack Rock is supposed to be lit. I think we should check it out.”

Finn thumbs through a pamphlet as we walk.

“Lit, Finn?” I chuckle, taking another sip of my coffee. “I don’t think such hip words apply to such old formations.”

“Don’t be such a grandma,” he scoffs.

“Believe me, I think if I was your grandma, I’d be saying lit.”

At this, they both laugh, because yes—Poppy would be saying lit.

Lost in the conversation and the feeling of the crisp air on my skin, we end up on the beach facing the Pacific Ocean.

The gravity of the moment crushes down on me like a tidal wave, heavy and all at once.

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