Page 23 of Into the Deep Blue

When we get back to our room, Nick belly flops onto the bed.

“Do you want to use the bathroom first?”

I ask, dropping my tote on the chair.

“No,”

he mumbles into the sheets.

I swipe my pj’s from my bag and head in to change. It feels like heaven, peeling off my outside clothes and slipping into comfort. I wash up and click off the light.

“Nick?”

I whisper, taking soft steps across the floor.

He doesn’t answer.

He’s passed out with his sneakers still on.

I drop my clothes on the desk and slide the picture from my tote.

The room is dark, and I don’t want to wake him, so I turn on the flashlight from my phone.

It’s a blurry photo, but definitely them.

Mom is laughing, and Dad looks, well, like he usually does—unimpressed.

A flower is tucked behind his ear.

I can’t tell what kind.

I place the photo on the desk and rub my eyes.

What am I looking at? Dad could tell me, but I don’t want to text him.

I want to see the look on his face when I show him this.

Nick’s feet dangle off the edge of the bed.

I gently slide his sneakers off, and he curls his legs closer to his chest.

I drape a throw blanket from the loveseat over him, then crawl under the sheets and try to sleep.

A slamming door from our neighbors wakes me the next morning.

The clock on the nightstand blinks six-thirty.

Nick’s arm is draped around Minou.

He’s in a white T-shirt and gray plaid pajama bottoms.

He must have woken up last night.

When he’s sleeping, I don’t have to worry about what my face gives away, so I take this gift of a minute to study him—

his full lips, the expanse of freckles lightly scattered across his cheeks like distant stars in the Milky Way, the way his sun-kissed sandy hair flops gently over his eyes.

It’s getting long, and I can’t help myself.

I reach for a lock on his forehead and gently sweep it away.

It flops back down.

He lets out a soft moan and hugs Minou tighter.

He doesn’t budge when I slide out of bed.

I shrug into a clean white T-shirt and shorts, and take a makeup wipe to my face.

There’s a notepad on the desk, so I scrawl.

“At the beach,”

on the paper, with a heart drawn beside it.

I hesitate.

Since the love-you text, hearts on notes might hit differently.

But whatever, I’ve always drawn hearts on notes.

Hearts on notes is normal behavior, so I tear off the page, neatly fold it and drop it on the bed beside him.

I grab my bag from the floor and slip out of the room.

A pathway from the motel takes me to the highway, and it’s so early it’s nearly empty.

The beach is across the street.

The wind is brisk this morning, and sand whips around my face.

It’s low tide.

Two women hunt for newly exposed shells along the shore.

Five dolphins swim by in five minutes.

It’s beautiful.

We used to go to the beach close to home all the time.

Mom and I would spend hours collecting shells while Dad relaxed on the sand.

I would search for the whelks, her favorite, and she would scoop up the scallop shells because they were mine.

Once our hands were full, we’d reveal them to each other like treasure and choose a favorite to take home.

She called the loud rush of the waves free therapy and even had three crisp waves tattooed on her ankle.

Dad would laugh and say he thought he was the free therapy.

We haven’t been to one since she died.

I take a picture and text it to Dad.

Far to my left, the beach ends at a red-and-white barrier.

Beyond it is a rocky cliff.

It would make a nice picture.

I feel antsy now that a few more people are milling about, so I head toward it for privacy.

The waves lap against the shore, and pools of white foam form around my ankles, the water warmer than the air.

I walk until I reach the barrier.

The area is peppered with signs: Rocks are Slippery When Wet.

Dangerous Currents.

Do Not Enter.

They warn me to turn around, but I want to carry on, like a broken robot who can go nowhere but forward.

Mom would love this view, wild and free.

So I climb over the barrier.