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Chapter thirty-five

Finn

It’s funny how grief works. Last night, I was ready to surrender to the heartache, the panic, but I didn’t because of him.

When I woke this morning, I felt different, lighter, and more than that, I felt safe.

I also had a delicious ache that reminded me of what we did.

My skin was coated in sweat, but being wrapped in his arms, that safety felt bone deep, as though I knew, no matter what I decided to do today, if I had it in me to try again, he would be there for the either or.

Which is why when we crest that same slope as last night, I don’t stop because his hand rests in mine, reminding me that he’s got me.

I lean down to slip off my Vans and keep walking toward the water.

The cold sand sneaks between my toes, the wind bites at my cheeks, but I barely register it as I’m focused on my breathing.

Slowly in. Slowly out. The tide is high, the loud swoosh of the waves curling in steady, rhythmic sets, like they’ve been waiting for me.

I pause at the edge of the shore, watching the water push forward, then retreat away. Everything about this feels familiar. The scent of the ocean, the sand wrapping around my sinking feet, the sounds around us.

I didn’t realize how many sounds came from being by the ocean until I spent every day there.

The pull and crash of the waves, the hiss of foam sliding back over the sand, gulls crying somewhere in the distance.

There’s always wind too, slipping through dune grass, whistling low.

It’s loud in a quiet kind of way. Wild, but also calm.

Familiar, but not threatening. At least that’s what I keep telling myself over and over as I look out to the blue depths.

Nothing here is going to hurt me this time. I’m in control. Nothing bad is going to happen.

The fear that’s been sitting in my chest for months, the weight of it, the guilt, it’s still there, but when I exhale and take my time to really think about Jared, it’s not as overwhelming. Like the volume’s been turned down. And maybe it’s ready to stop screaming at me.

Foxx’s comes to stand beside me. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t reach for me, he just stands there, shoulder brushing mine, gaze fixed on the same stretch of endless blue ahead.

A dull ache swells in my throat at that.

I don’t have to look at him to know his expression; it’s the same calm I’ve come to recognize.

The same quiet strength he always carries.

He’s a lighthouse in the storm, daring me to find my way home.

I take a step forward. Then another, until I’m right there, a breath away from the water.

With one bigger wave, the water makes it way to me, and I brace.

The cold hits first. It creeps over my ankles and tightens my calves. It sucks all the air from my lungs, but I don’t stop.

You can do this.

I walk until the water pulls at my shins, then my knees, then to my thighs. My jeans are soaked and dragging, but I keep going.

You can do this.

My feet sink into the sand with every step. The resistance feels good; it gives me something else to focus on.

I’ve stood in the ocean in my clothes more times than I can count. But this is the first time I’ve walked into the water since that day. And I hate that.

I hate that I let it become something that scared me. That the thing I used to love the most turned into a thing I couldn’t even look at. I hate that it took this long. But I also know that grieving something takes time, and it wasn’t my time before now to confront this fear.

My hands shake as I stop when the water laps rhythmically against my legs, swaying me. Like I’m waiting to be bowled over, my shoulders tense, but nothing happens. The waves keep moving, steady and uncaring, brushing past me like I’m not even there.

It’s not dramatic or violent… It just is.

I stare out at the horizon, and all I can think about is the last time I was in the water.

I let my mind go there because I have to.

It was the week after the accident, and I was competing again.

I got to the edge and glanced out at the other surfers, and he wasn’t there.

That’s when the panic took over, and everything blurred.

I remember screaming his name, searching for him, even though it was too late.

The accident was a week before, but my mind stayed stuck in that day.

I remember the way my body crumpled to the sand as I screamed his name. My hands dug into the sand, thinking I’d find him. I didn’t. And some part of me has hated myself for that every day since. I wish more than anything I could’ve saved him.

I close my eyes.

I let myself feel it.

The ache. The guilt. The fear. The loss.

All of it.

I let it crawl up my spine like ice, sitting like a boulder on my chest. I let it fill the hollow place I’ve been trying to ignore.

The part of me that still looks for him on every wave, that always will.

The part that still waits to hear his laugh just behind me.

The part that still dreams about what he might’ve become if that wave had passed him by.

I breathe, deep and full, and this time, my lungs don’t fight me. The salt coats my throat as I whisper his name, just to hear it in the air. It matters to say it out loud. It matters that I remember him, always.

The first tears fall, hot against my cold skin, running in rivulets down my face. Another follows, then another, slow and soundless. I let them track down the hollows of my cheeks, down my neck, and the wind carries them away.

I cry because I miss him. Because I couldn’t save him. Because I don’t know who I am without that part of me that used to belong to the ocean. I cry for the future we lost. For the version of me that didn’t get to exist. For the things I never said.

And I cry because I’ve held it in for too long.

Then, as I look out at the water, the memory hits me as clear as day. Him catching that wave, riding it clean, winning his first heat. I see the joy on his face, the way he lit up like nothing else mattered. And I can’t stop the smile that breaks through, even now.

I stand there until my legs go numb, until the cold seeps into my bones. And then I finally turn back, moving through the water. Every step is slow, not because I’m tired, but because I’m not scared to stay anymore.

I’m not scared anymore. I let the realization sink in.

When I reach the dry sand, my jeans are ruined, and there’s sand clinging to me. But Foxx is still there. I hadn’t looked back to check, but I knew he hadn’t left.

He holds out a towel, and I take it, rubbing the cotton over my face, then wrapping it around my waist and removing my jeans. I can’t walk in them anymore.

“I was thinking…” He begins walking to stand in front of me. Taking my jeans from my hands, he pulls me into his body, wiping a lingering tear from my cheek. “I saw a sign for fried calamari. What do you say we get changed, warm up, and eat our body weight in seafood?”

That makes my stomach growl. “That sounds perfect.”

He releases my waist and nudges my chin up with a finger, eyes boring into me. Then he leans in to press his lips against my forehead, and I want to fold into his arms and stay there. “Good. Let’s go, baby.”

We walk back up the beach, side by side. I look ridiculous with a towel wrapped around my waist, shaking from the cold. I know I’ll feel this in my body for hours, but I feel lighter than I have in a long time.

I finally let myself feel it and didn’t break.

It’s still with me. But I’m still here too.

And that’s something.