2. Alex
Chapter two
Alex
I t was only yesterday.
After procrastinating all day, I'd walked down to the beach alone in the late afternoon. I didn't bring much—only my journal, a postcard, my pen, and the pouch that held Marissa's ashes.
The entire package was biodegradable and compostable. She would've insisted on it. It was her version of a green burial.
The ocean was quiet, just past the peak heat of the day. I saw no one else on the sand. It was only the birds and me.
I waded into the surf, barefoot, until the water kissed my ankles. Next, I untied the pouch and let go.
The ashes scattered quickly with a light breeze carrying them out into the waves. Afterward, I stood still to let the silence come. I thought it would feel like a release.
It didn't. All I saw was the last remnants of her vanishing.
Marissa was no longer there, not in the water or the sky. She was… gone. The part of me that had been holding on—tightly, quietly, without even realizing it—let go, too.
I didn't cry or collapse. I stood there, hollowed out and emptied.
That's when I sensed him.
I didn't hear him come up behind me, but I felt his presence at the edge of my awareness. He didn't speak and didn't crowd me.
He was classically handsome—symmetrical face and a heavy brow. He had broad shoulders under a thin gray t-shirt. His build was athletic in a way that looked lived-in, not cultivated. And he was tired—bone-deep exhaustion judging by the circles under his eyes.
I didn't tell him about Marissa, and he didn't tell me what brought him to Tahiti.
When I looked at him again, I saw grace in how he held his body. His face was expressive, and the lines around his eyes said he smiled easily when he chose to, when he wasn't so tired.
And none of that should've mattered.
But it did.
And in that moment, something unraveled in me. The silence wasn't merely comfortable. It was forgiving.
I kissed him.
It wasn't planned, but I'm not sure I had a choice. In between heartbeats, my lips landed on his.
"I didn't come here for this," I said, barely audible over the waves.
He looked at me, direct and unflinching. "Neither did I."
That was yesterday. Now, in the quiet morning light, I realized I hadn't slept much.
Even after Michael and I crossed that last invisible threshold—skin against skin, breath tangled with breath—I lay there awake for hours, staring at the dark ceiling, listening to the soft rush of waves against the stilts beneath the bungalow.
I wasn't used to another man's body beside mine. And I definitely wasn't used to this… feeling. Not peace or resolution. It was a crack in the surface of the part of me I'd kept sealed for too long.
With the sun fully risen and Michael still asleep, I slipped quietly from the bed and padded out to the deck.
The planks were warm beneath my feet. The bungalow sat over the water like something out of a fantasy, but its beauty wasn't fake. It was earned—weathered wood and rust on the hardware.
I caught my reflection in the glass door—my body thinner than it used to be. Eighteen months of grief had stripped away whatever softness I'd carried. I ran a hand through my hair, noting how much longer I'd let it grow between haircuts.
I didn't bother with it often anymore. I didn't bother with a lot of things.
Marissa used to say I looked like someone who thought too much—brow constantly slightly furrowed and eyes that never quite settled. "Even your face is analyzing something," she'd laugh.
I wanted to know if that's what Michael saw yesterday. Did he see a man lost in thought?
I carried my journal out with me and sat on the low bench built into the railing. Toward the end—after Marissa's mother died—we had started talking about what if.
Not in a maudlin way. Only practical matters. That's where she always focused.
She said if anything happened to her, she wanted her ashes scattered here. "Not because I believe in paradise, but it was the one place where I could fully breathe."
She told me to use something biodegradable. No fanfare. No poems. "You'll know when it's time."
I didn't realize until now that I'd taken that conversation as a command and made a promise.
I had the postcard tucked inside the back cover of my journal. It bore a vintage-style illustration, sun-faded palm trees against a watercolor sky. I'd picked it up two days ago in a moment of impulse, unsure whether I'd ever fill it out.
Now, I slid it free.
My pen shook slightly as I clicked it open. You'd hate what this place has become. Too curated. Too indulgent. Too plastic. But you'd love that I came.
I stopped there, pen hovering.
Marissa would've hated the resort, yes. Still, she would've loved the stubbornness that brought me here—the ritual and the follow-through.
I remembered every word of her request and didn't try to make it poetic. I just did it.
She hated sentimentality but respected grief that didn't apologize for itself.
I picked up the pen again, trying to finish the sentence. I stared at the words until the ink started to blur. You'd love that I came. You'd love that I kept my promise. You'd love— You'd—
My hand stopped. That's what broke me.
It wasn't the ashes or the ocean. Sleeping in bed with a man didn't do it either.
It was the moment I realized I was still writing to someone who couldn't write back.
I was waiting for her to respond like she always did—scratching a line in the margin and teasing me for being too dramatic. She would ask whether I meant what I wrote.
I pressed the postcard flat against my chest, fingers trembling. "I don't know who I am without you."
We never had kids. We told ourselves we didn't need to. We had students, books, plans, and conversations that stretched long into the night. That was enough—until it wasn't. We'd started to talk about maybe trying or adopting, and then the accident stole that entire chapter before it even began.
It was a car crash in the middle of the day. Marissa was driving home from a conference outside Tacoma.
I didn't even hear her voicemail that she was on the way until after the police had already been to the hospital. A doctor tried to soften the news, like that would help. Nothing softens that kind of trauma.
Everyone kept saying how sorry they were. They cheered how strong I was and how lucky we'd been to have each other.
None of it meant anything. Not then.
And maybe still not now.
Indulging in personal therapy, I taught a six-week grief theory course sponsored by a local funeral home. We read literature soaked in it.
None of it helps when fate smashes your heart into pieces.
Kubler-Ross can go to hell.
I once made a bingo card during a grief therapy group session. I didn't show it to anyone, but I kept it tucked in the back of my journal. "Everything happens for a reason,""She's in a better place,"and "At least you had time to say goodbye" were among the choices.
I never hit bingo, but I came close.
The grief didn't leave me when I met Michael, but it shifted slightly. It was like tectonic plates rubbing, promising something new would rise someday—even if it wasn't there yet.
A seagull screeched overhead, sudden and sharp. I flinched more than I should have. The beach was still empty. Still quiet. But for a second, I had the strange sense I wasn't alone, probably only nerves firing in a new situation.
My thoughts returned to Michael and what our connection meant.
I'd always known I was bisexual.
It wasn't something I struggled with or repressed. It was a quiet fact of my interior geography—like being left-handed or knowing I hated cilantro.
I'd fallen in love with Marissa, and that had been real. Full. True.
It didn't mean I hadn't noticed how certain men moved through the world. It was just that I'd never followed that thread. There wasn't a reason.
Until now.
Until him.
I don't know what changed. Maybe it wasn't a change at all. Perhaps it was the right season or the right time.
Maybe grief finally tore a hole in me big enough for something else to slip through. Or, through random luck, Michael appeared at the right moment, standing there like a question I hadn't let myself ask.
I didn't have a plan, not even now.
There was no thunderbolt of awakening. It was the way he looked at me—direct and unflinching.
It wasn't about gender. It was about his presence. Yes—there was attraction. It was strong enough to rattle me.
It was there last night in every touch and every breathless second between our few words.
The surprising part was how safe he made me feel. It was like the grief and guilt could live inside the same space as my attraction to Michael.
I'd expected to feel shame.
Instead, I felt whole.
Not healed. It was too soon for that, but I was alive.
For the first time in months, I wasn't merely moving through my life. I was inhabiting it.
That terrified me because if I let myself want something again—if I let myself have something—then I was admitting that the part of me that had died with Marissa hadn't stayed dead. And if that were true… what did it mean for everything else?
The sun had climbed higher by the time I stepped back inside. The shadows had shifted, and the air in the bungalow felt warmer. I moved quietly, careful not to break the silence that lingered in the room.
Michael was still in bed but not sleeping. He lay on his back, one arm bent behind his head and the other resting on his chest. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling.
He didn't jump when I came in. He turned his head slightly, met my gaze, and waited.
"Morning," he said
"Morning." I paused at the foot of the bed. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't. I've been up."
Silence stretched between us, but it wasn't uncomfortable.
"Second thoughts?" he asked finally.
I considered the question. "No. Not about last night."
"But about something."
It wasn't a question. He'd read me already and seen me shifting my weight back and forth.
"It's about what happens after this and what we're doing."
Michael nodded slowly. "We don't have to figure it all out right now."
I crossed the room slowly and slipped out of my shirt. Then, I slid back beneath the sheet.
Michael's body was warm, and his breathing was steady. I didn't reach for him, but I settled close enough that our arms touched.
He turned his head to face me. His lips parted like he was about to say something, but he decided not to.
There would be time for words. Maybe not today. Perhaps not even tomorrow, but I wasn't ready to walk away from whatever strange and fragile thing we'd begun to build.
Not when the ache inside me had finally shifted into something I could feel without drowning.
Outside, I heard the distinctive click of a camera shutter, so faint I might have imagined it. Our bungalow was away from areas frequented by other tourists. A chill raced up my spine despite the tropical heat. Perhaps paradise had eyes.