Chapter 2
2
LENA
Dancing With Your Ghost - Sasha Alex Sloan
The cemetery is cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and settles there like a bad memory. I kneel in front of Cruz’s grave, fingers tracing the smooth edges of his name etched into stone. The granite feels foreign—like a stranger that doesn’t belong in my world but somehow lives here now, unmoving and final. I shouldn’t be here again, not this week, not this soon. But I can’t stay away.
The bouquet of sunflowers I brought sits in stark contrast to the muted grays around me. Cruz hated flowers, but he loved the sunflowers I used to tuck behind my ear after a day at the center. I whisper his name, my voice breaking. “I don’t know how to do this without you.”
Tears burn tracks down my face as I pull a worn photograph from my pocket. It’s my favorite: Cruz and I on his bike, his arm wrapped around me, his grin wide enough to light up the whole street. He was always larger than life, and now he’s nothing more than this image frozen in time. I press the photo to my chest, hoping for some kind of sign—anything to tell me he’s still with me, that I’m not as alone as I feel.
The silence answers me.
Sliding into my car, I let out a shaky breath and rest my forehead against the steering wheel for a moment. My phone buzzes in the cupholder, the screen lighting up with a message from Bexley.
Bexley: Hey, you okay? Haven’t heard from you. Want to grab dinner tonight?
I bite my lip, guilt twisting in my stomach. She’s been checking in on me every day, but I haven’t had the energy to respond most of the time. I toss the phone into the passenger seat without answering, the thought of making small talk over food makes my skin itch.
The drive to the ocean rehabilitation center is short, a straight shot through downtown Tampa. The city bustles around me—pedestrians weaving through traffic, the faint hum of live music from a street performer on the corner. I glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror. My black leggings and cropped tank top are clean, but the oversized charcoal hoodie I’ve thrown on feels like armor. It’s Cruz’s, and despite being washed a dozen times since he’s been gone, it still smells like him.
The parking lot at the center is half-empty when I arrive. I tug the hoodie tighter around me as I step out, the heat making the fabric cling to my skin, but I don’t care. The automatic doors slide open, releasing a gust of cool, sterilized air, and I’m greeted by bright smiles at the front desk.
“Morning, Lena!” Ashley chirps, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. Beside her, Dani glances up from her computer and waves.
“Hey,” I reply, trying to muster some enthusiasm.
“You’re just in time,” Dani says, her tone excited. “We got a new rescue last night. A green sea turtle. Poor thing was tangled in fishing line. The boat crew found it in Clearwater and brought it in early this morning.”
I nod, grateful for the distraction. “How bad is it?”
Ashley grimaces. “Not great. Its flipper was cut up pretty badly. Dr. Meyers thinks it’ll heal, but it’s going to take a while.”
The familiar wave of sadness and anger washes over me as the girls at the front desk finish describing the injured turtle brought in last night. No matter how many times I hear stories like this—nets left to drift, trash carelessly discarded, propeller blades carving through the water—it never gets easier.
“I’ll go check on it,” I say softly, my voice barely louder than a whisper, heading toward the back.
The hum of the tanks wraps around me as I step into the main room, a soothing symphony of whirring filters and splashing water. The faint salty tang of the ocean lingers in the air, grounding me in the one place that still feels like home. Soft blue light spills from the tanks, casting gentle ripples on the walls. The rhythm of this space, steady and alive, always has a way of steadying me—until it doesn’t.
Before diving into my usual routine, I make a beeline for the quarantine area where the newest rescue is being held. The tank is smaller than the others, kept separate to ensure the animal’s stress stays as low as possible. I crouch down, peering through the glass at the little green sea turtle resting at the bottom.
“Hey there, little guy,” I murmur, my breath fogging the glass slightly. The turtle doesn’t move much, his dark eyes dull with exhaustion. It’s always heartbreaking to see them like this, battered and bruised by human carelessness. I reach for my clipboard, jotting down notes about his condition. His flipper is wrapped in a bandage, and I can see faint scratches where the net must’ve dug into his soft skin. Since Dr. Meyers has already examined him and is optimistic about his recovery, there’s nothing more for me to do for him besides keep him calm and comfortable.
“I’ll take good care of you,” I whisper. “You’re safe now.”
The hum of the tanks calls me back to the main room. I slip into my routine, finding solace in the motions. Feeding schedules are carefully followed, portions measured and prepared with precision. My hands move with muscle memory, sprinkling food into the tanks, scrubbing away algae that threatens to cloud the glass, jotting notes for Dr. Meyers on the animals’ conditions. Each task feels vital, no matter how small, like I’m doing my part to set things right in a world that feels relentlessly broken.
Mo, the old loggerhead I’ve been working with for months, nudges the side of his tank with his massive shell. I’ve nicknamed him “Mo” after his slow, deliberate movements that remind me of a lazy grandfather. His deep, soulful eyes follow me as I crouch down to check on him.
“What’s up, buddy?” I murmur, reaching out to tap the glass lightly. Mo responds with a gentle splash, drenching my arm. For the briefest moment, a tiny smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. He’s a tough one, surviving a near-fatal collision with a speedboat that left scars across his shell. But even with his injuries, he’s a fighter.
Next is Cleo, a vibrant queen angelfish who was rescued from a damaged coral reef after a storm. Her delicate fins, once torn and frayed, are slowly healing, the bright blue and yellow hues regaining their brilliance. She flits through the tank with cautious energy, weaving between the coral pieces we’ve provided for her. “You’re looking better every day, girl,” I murmur, sprinkling her specialized food into the water. She darts up immediately, her movements sharp and precise, and for a moment, I feel a flicker of pride watching her resilience.
The manta rays are last, their graceful movements hypnotic as they glide through the water. One of them, nicknamed Ray, was rescued after washing ashore tangled in plastic. He’s been here for weeks now, and though his wounds have healed, he still seems skittish. I watch as he circles his tank, the gentle undulation of his fins like poetry.
The ocean has always felt like home to me. Its endless, unpredictable expanse, its ability to soothe and terrify, mirrors everything I’ve ever felt in my own life. Growing up, when the foster homes and the loneliness became too much, I’d run to the shore. The sound of the waves crashing against the sand was the only lullaby I knew. It was Cruz who encouraged me to make it more than just an escape. He used to sit on the rocks with me, listening as I rambled about turtles and coral reefs, telling me I had a heart big enough to hold the whole ocean.
It was one of the few times I felt truly seen.
But now, the ocean is just another reminder of what I’ve lost. As I clean one of the tanks, the memories creep in, uninvited and relentless. Cruz’s laughter echoes in my mind, teasing and warm. I can hear him calling me “Lenny” with that stupid grin of his, as clear as if he were standing beside me.
I try to shake it off, focusing on the task at hand, but it’s like trying to hold back the tide. I finish up for the day, running my fingers along the edges of the tanks as if drawing strength from the creatures within them.
They’ve been through hell, just like me, but they’re still fighting. Maybe I can too.
By the time I step outside, the sun is hanging lower in the sky, painting the world in hues of gold and amber. The warm Tampa Bay air wraps around me, thick with humidity but comforting in its familiarity. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out, glancing at the screen. Bexley. Again.
I don’t bother opening the message. She’s checking in, I’m sure—trying to pull me back into the world I’ve been avoiding since Cruz died. I tuck the phone away, pulling the hood of Cruz’s sweatshirt up over my head.
I take the long way home, winding through side streets with the windows down. The salt-laden breeze feels good against my skin, but it does little to quiet the ache in my chest. By the time I reach my apartment, the sun has dipped below the horizon, and the shadows feel heavier than ever.
My apartment is suffocating.
It’s still the same as it was six months ago, every piece of furniture, every photo, every scrap of Cruz’s life untouched. His helmet sits on the shelf by the door, his jacket slung over the back of a chair. Even the faint scent of his cologne still lingers, clinging to the spaces he used to occupy.
I drop onto the couch, pulling my knees to my chest as I grab my phone. The screen lights up with our last photo together—Cruz’s arm around me, both of us laughing like the world couldn’t touch us. My chest tightens as I scroll through the album, picture after picture ripping open wounds I’ve tried so hard to ignore.
A text from Revel buzzes on the screen.
Revel: Hang out tomorrow? I’ll swing by in the afternoon.
I stare at the message, my stomach sinking. I know exactly what “hanging out” really means. Revel’s going to show up here, take one look around the apartment, and start lecturing me. He’ll tell me again how it’s been almost six months, how I can’t heal if I keep clinging to Cruz’s stuff, how I need to start moving forward. I’ve heard it all before.
And I don’t want to hear it again.
But I also know Revel. If I ignore him, he’ll just show up anyway. He doesn’t take no for an answer, not when it comes to what he thinks is best for me. With a sigh, I shoot back a reply:
Lena: Sure, knock yourself out
The smart-ass tone is half-hearted at best, but I hit send anyway, tossing the phone onto the coffee table before I can second-guess it.
I lean back onto the couch, pulling the sleeves over my hands. The fabric still smells faintly like him, like salt and cedarwood, and it cuts through me as sharply as a knife. The apartment is silent except for the soft hum of the fish tank in the corner.
The glowing water casts ripples across the walls, the colors dancing faintly in the darkness. Cruz had set it up for me when we moved in, saying it would remind me of the ocean when I couldn’t be there.
My gaze drifts to the cracked bedroom door. The bed inside is untouched, the sheets still the same as the day Cruz left for his last race. I haven’t slept there since. The couch has become my refuge, the only place where the grief doesn’t suffocate me completely.
I curl up tighter, pressing my face into the hoodie’s collar. “I can’t do this,” I whisper to the quiet room, my voice breaking.
The fish dart around in their tank, oblivious to the heaviness pressing down on me. I wish I could be like them—unburdened, free to simply exist. But I can’t. The ache is always there, constant and unrelenting, as steady as the tide.
Closing my eyes, I let the exhaustion pull me under, hoping sleep will give me a reprieve from the weight of everything I can’t let go.