Instead of turning left to her place, I keep the wheel straight and end at West Cliff Drive, the winding road that hugs the coastline. The drizzle is more mist than rain. I get out, tug my hoodie over my head, and stride onto a narrow sandstone peninsula. Below, the earth gives way to the Pacific Ocean. A sea lion emerges from a kelp bed, looks around to get its bearings, and we make eye contact. He sizes me up, decides there’s not much to see, and ducks back under the waves. After Sunny’s accident, I packed her stuff at the coffee shop, and yeah, fine, glanced at her writing before shutting down her MacBook. Maybe it was spying. I never know what the girl thinks, but finding that half-written letter is one thing I never expected. A suicide note? I’ve never known anyone more alive than Sunny Letman. If life’s a crazy journey, she’s in the driver’s seat, top down, wind in her hair, making you wonder what it would be like to go along for the ride.
