Chapter 3

Beatrice's POV

I'd been driving for three hours, and somewhere around Santa Cruz, the Range Rover handled the curves of Highway 1 like it was born for them. A wave of satisfaction washed over me.

I cranked up the volume. Taylor Swift's "Shake It Off" blasted through the speakers and I sang along at the top of my lungs with all the windows down.

Salt air whipped through the car, tangling my hair into knots I didn't bother fixing. I don't have to organize dinners for multiple people or stress about everyone's dietary needs when booking restaurants, it feels amazing!

I was just driving.

The road ahead opened up, and there it was—Bixby Bridge, arching across the canyon like something out of a postcard. I'd seen it a thousand times on Instagram, but nothing prepared me for how it felt to actually be here, in this moment, choosing this for myself.

I pulled into the viewpoint and killed the engine.

The silence hit different out here. No Marcus explaining why we couldn't afford a beach vacation. No Diane criticizing my choice of restaurants. No Ashley rolling her eyes at my attempts to connect.

Just the sound of waves crashing against rocks two hundred feet below.

I grabbed my phone and took maybe thirty pictures of the bridge, the ocean, the sky so blue it hurt to look at. Then I set the timer and took one of myself, windblown hair, actual smile.

"This is what I should've been doing all along," I said out loud to nobody.

I got back in the car and kept driving south.

Ventana Big Sur sat perched on a cliff like it was too good for gravity. The woman at reception handed me a glass of champagne before I even finished checking in.

"Ocean view suite with the private terrace," she said warmly. "You're going to love it."

She wasn't wrong.

The room opened onto a deck that hung over the edge of the world. Beyond the infinity pool, my own private infinity pool, the Pacific Ocean spread out in shades of blue I didn't have names for.

I stood at the railing and let the champagne bubbles fizz on my tongue.

This was what Marcus's credit card was for, right? Not just his birthday toys and his mother's rose bushes and his sister's endless shopping sprees.

By the time the sun started setting, I'd changed into the white bikini I bought specifically because Marcus once said it made me look "too exposed." I grabbed a fresh glass of champagne from the mini-bar and positioned myself at the edge of the infinity pool.

The light was perfect. Golden hour, they called it on Instagram.

I took maybe fifty photos. Me with the champagne glass raised. Me in the pool with the ocean behind me. Me on a lounge chair with my book and sunglasses.

I picked the best three and opened Instagram.

My feed was usually full of careful, curated shots, Marcus and me at charity dinners, Sunday brunches with Diane, family gatherings where I smiled with my teeth but not my eyes.

Not today.

I posted the pool shot first. Then I added the caption: Finally found my happy place 🌊✨ #SelfCareSunday #LivingMyBestLife #BigSur

My thumb hovered over the share button for only a second.

Fuck it.

The post went live.

I barely had time to set my phone down before it started vibrating. Once. Twice. Then constantly.

Marcus.

Where's Mom's blood pressure medication?

Ashley can't find her snacks. The gluten-free ones.

Beatrice, I know you see these messages.

This isn't funny. Mom needs her medication NOW.

I watched the messages pile up, one after another, while I sipped my champagne.

Finally, I typed back: Blood pressure meds and snacks are both in the green tote bag. Have a great trip!

Three dots appeared immediately. Marcus was typing.

I didn't wait to see what he'd say. I opened my phone settings and turned on Do Not Disturb.

"Now," I said, raising my glass to the sunset, "the vacation actually starts."

On the next day, I drove north to Napa Valley.

The wine tasting room at the first vineyard was all exposed wood and natural light, with views of endless green rows of vines marching up the hillside. The sommelier, a woman about my age, poured me a Pinot Noir that tasted like earth and cherries and summer.

"First time in Napa?" she asked.

"First time doing anything just for me," I admitted.

She smiled like she understood. "Then we better make it count."

By the third pour, I was thinking about things I'd spent five years not thinking about.

How did I get here? Not Napa. Not California. But here, in this version of my life where I needed permission to take up space.

"Life can actually be this good," I said, more to myself than to the sommelier. "Why did I wait for someone else to tell me it was okay?"

The sommelier refilled my glass without asking. "Better late than never."

I was raising the Cabernet to my lips when my phone rang.

Unknown number. California area code.

I pick up.

"Is this Beatrice Rodriguez?"

Male voice.

"Yes?"

"This is Officer Woods with the California Highway Patrol. Your husband, Marcus Rodriguez, was involved in a vehicle accident on Highway 1 near Big Sur. He's been transported to Monterey Peninsula Hospital with head trauma. You should get there as soon as possible."

The wine glass stopped halfway to my mouth.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Your husband was in an accident. He's at Monterey Peninsula Hospital."

"Big Sur?" I was stunned. "He's not supposed to be in Big Sur. They're going to Yellowstone. Wyoming."

Officer Woods paused. "Ma'am, I'm just telling you what I know. The accident occurred on Highway 1 approximately fifteen miles south of Big Sur. Can you make it to the hospital?"

My hand started shaking.

"Why would he be on Highway 1?"