Chapter 10 Sadie
ten
Sadie
“Some of us are not professional athletes. Slow down,” Maren whines from behind me.
Turning, I look at her over my shoulder. “If one of us hadn’t made us late, I wouldn’t need to speed walk. Now get moving, you beautiful butterfly, otherwise we’re going to miss it.”
Maren, being overly dramatic, huffs and then says, “You act like we don’t live here. Like. We could do this every night if we wanted to.”
“The clouds are going to be working overtime for us tonight.” I kiss my fingers like I’m a chef. “I told you, my summer goal is to see more sunsets near the water. I didn’t do it nearly enough last year.”
That’s the thing about summer; it slips away before you can adequately get your hands on it. That was something I definitely felt last year, and it hit me much harder than expected.
I had a great season with our summer rec program—growing both the classes and sessions we offered, the volunteers that helped make those possible, and had more kids than we’d ever had.
But I felt empty, burn out singeing my edges.
There were other things going on that I’d tried to push down, but they only play nicely for so long.
When fall crept into Golden Harbor, I made a list of things I wanted to try and do over the next three hundred sixty-five days–it was part of pulling myself out of the hole I hadn’t realized I was in. That may have been the scariest part.
Not knowing how much I was struggling until I was already knee-deep in it.
Something I’ve always been good at is getting through the lows; at finding ways to grow and view them more as an opportunity than a setback.
Not in a toxic positivity way, but more like if I could find a way to spin it in a positive light, then the negativity couldn’t take more from me than it already had.
It works until it doesn’t.
Maren, wanting to support me, made her own list. Honestly, I feel like it’s one of the reasons her flower shop has leveled up the last few months. It’s mostly about consistent marketing, which we know is the key to moving the needle, but knowing and doing are two wildly different things.
She catches up with me, bumping her shoulder into mine. “My summer thing is to eat more ice cream. So, let me know when we’re making my dreams come true this week, ok?”
We make quick work of the walk and I can feel the smile that’s pinching my cheeks. I’m always happiest on the beach—I remember that even from being a kid.
The sun is starting to dip and paint colors across the sky. I’m thankful the beach isn’t crowded, a rare occurrence for warm summer nights in Michigan. I put the blanket on the sand, and Maren and I get situated.
I pull my knees to my chest, clasping my fingers in front. The lake has no business being this dreamy right now. The water looks like that fresh, deep blue as perfect waves tip and crash onto one another, pushing in far enough on the sandy beach.
Each second pulls the sun further and the colors start to show.
Sunsets are all about clouds. Some people think having a clear day would create the best type of sunset, but they’d be wrong.
Clouds are responsible for reflecting back the colors of the sun—which is all of them—and the higher the clouds, the better.
Even the mid-altitude ones will work but once you start getting into the low hanging ones, they’re more of a deterrent than anything.
The sun keeps dipping and even though it was hot today, there wasn’t a ton of humidity—another win. A little humidity is okay, some water droplets not making a ton of difference, but when there's a significant amount, it literally steals the light and the colors. Humidity is a thief.
I watch the sky closely, in complete awe and happiness.
Colors spill across the horizon—lavender fading into apricot, gold edging the blurred streaks of clouds like brushed-on light.
The sun sits low over the lake, a glowing coin sliding as its reflection stretches across the water in a long, glittering path.
The lake catches every shade, rippling with rose, tangerine, and a burst of coral that look almost painted on. There’s no high humidity or fog to blur the edges; everything looks sharper, more substantial.
Maren and I sit in complete silence with a few of the other beachgoers. It’s like an unwritten rule, and everyone seems to keep their conversations hushed and close. The feeling of the beach seems to wrap itself around me and it’s a sensation I’ll chase all summer.
Dusk is quick on the sun’s heels, dropping the temp as soon as it gets the chance. It’s not until then that Maren bumps into me, pointing down the beach.
“Now, I don’t have my glasses on, but I’m wondering if the thing I thought was a rock is actually your almost seven-foot NBA player, moonlighting as a rec league assistant coach.”
I look to where she points. She’s right. Colson. He’s sitting in the water, shoulders rounded with his head tipped down.
Everything about this feels wrong. Seeing him like this. Him feeling whatever it is that’s got him in the lake. It’s like we’re stumbling on a moment that’s private.
We stay put for a few minutes—Colson does pick his head up eventually and look down the beach. His side profile was what I needed to know it was 100% him.
”Well, I’m going to walk back,” Maren announces, standing and wiping sand off anywhere it may cling.
“No, I can drive you.” I stand, pulled out of my wondering why Colson looks like he’s mourning on this beach.
She grabs my hand, squeezes, and replies, “You and I both know you’re not going to leave him like this.”
I squeeze back because she’s right.
Maren is on her way back to town, which is only a few minutes’ walk, as I stand and contemplate what to do next. Do I wait for him to get up and then call it a night? Do I check on him? Fuck, he’d probably hate that.
Before I can convince myself otherwise, I’m walking toward him. The beach is almost empty now, nothing but the sounds of the water’s rhythmic crash and feeling of unease with each step.
I can’t explain it; even though I’m almost sure to be met with classic Colson push-back, it’s not an option to leave him out here alone.
Ditching my shoes, I leave them on the sand as I step into the warmer-than-expected water. Trying to be quiet, I slowly walk through the waves pushing into the beach.
When I’m next to Colson, I slide down, the water now cooler as it kisses my skin. I don’t say anything and I don’t even look at him.
But I can feel him look over to me. A minute of silence passes between us, like waves slowly pushing something to shore.
“It was pretty, wasn't it? The sunset.” I offer something neutral and try to act like the wind hitting my face isn’t about to make me shiver. “Never gets old. No matter how many times I see it.”
I see him nod out of my peripheral vision.
When he doesn’t say anything, I finally look at him. His cheeks are pink from the wind, but also glistening from tears. He didn’t try to wipe them away or hide them, even when I sat down next to him.
His shoulders are rounded and his chin dips almost to his chest. The man looks like he can barely hold himself up. Whatever it is, he’s going through it.
A few more long minutes pass and the darkness continues to creep over the lake–some of the stars eager to show off. “Are you okay?” My words are quiet, barely loud enough to be heard over the water.
This time, Colson turns to me, and his eyes feel like they have the power to break me in half. They’re practically dripping with sadness. “You don’t have to stay here.”
“I know. But, I’m already in the water. Sort of committed.” I try to make a joke as the nervousness wraps around me.
Shaking his head, he pushes back with, “I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“I know you didn’t. But I couldn’t leave you here.”
“Why?” He asks like he already knows the answer. Like I’m not the only person who knows the pain of being left behind, in a way much deeper than this beach visit.
“Because I just couldn’t. I can’t really explain it.”
He nods and finally wipes his tears with his sleeve, eyes facing out to the depths of the lake. I try to see what he’s watching and the push and pull of the lake soothes me. I get why he’s out here–I’ve done similar things when everything has felt impossible.
We sit for a few more minutes and then Colson stands. He offers me a hand, which I take, both our hands chilled from the lake. He helps me up and without another word, we walk back.
The beach is empty besides the two of us. Colson keeps my hand for a beat longer than he needs to, thumb brushing once against my knuckles before he lets go. It sends a surprising flicker of warmth through me, cutting through the lake’s chill.
I pretend I don’t notice the way my hand misses his the second it’s gone.