Singing Sands

Chapter 1

Chapter One

“Hey, knock it off!” I shout into the megaphone, my voice crackling through the static.

The kids in the lake don’t even flinch. They’re too busy dunking each other’s heads underwater, shrieking with laughter as waves crash around them. It’s obvious they’re just messing around, but this kind of play can turn dangerous in an instant. Too many swimmers underestimate the Great Lakes.

I blow hard into the red whistle hanging around my neck. The shrill noise cuts through the muggy air, sharp enough to make a dozen heads swivel toward me. I give the kids a stern glare before raising the megaphone to my mouth.

“Last warning,” I caution.

They just giggle and go back to splashing each other.

I sigh, scrubbing a hand over my sweat-damp face.

Some days, this job feels less like lifeguarding and more like babysitting.

Sure, I’m certified in CPR and first aid, but most days that just surmounts to sticking a Band-Aid on a scraped knee or checking for bee stings.

Not that I’m wishing for anyone to drown—but God, it gets boring.

It’s an unusually hot day for mid-May, and the residents of Claremont Shores are taking advantage of it. As I stand in the lifeguard tower, my eyes scan over the bodies basking below. I can already spot several reddening sunburns in the crowd.

A flock of seagulls gather on the shore, snacking on littered potato chips and sandwich crusts.

The birds screech loudly over the sounds of gleeful children and lapping water.

Colorful picnic blankets and towels decorate the flat canvas of soft sand.

Sailboats and yachts drift across the horizon into the vastness of Lake Michigan.

I rest my elbows on the lifeguard tower’s railing, the sunbaked wood hot against my skin.

My gaze drifts to a pack of teenagers swimming in the distance.

One boy disappears beneath the lake’s surface before resurfacing in a burst of water, shaking his dark hair like a wet dog.

The girl beside him shields her face, her laughter echoing across the beach.

The sight makes my throat sting. A few years ago, I was just like them—a student at Claremont Shores High with lake water in his veins and more energy than he knew what to do with.

I was the captain of the swim team, convinced my talent was my one-way ticket out of my hometown.

Back then, I was full of starry-eyed ambition that has long since been beaten out of me.

I used to scoff at the idea of “peaking in high school,” like it was a cautionary tale for kids who didn’t try hard enough. I never thought it could apply to me. Yet here I am, sitting in this tower like a washed-up cliché. A twenty-one-year-old college dropout turned small-town lifeguard.

My stomach knots. This wasn’t the life I pictured when I was breaking records in the pool, but it’s the one I’ve got.

The rest of my shift drags as I watch the sun crawl across the horizon. On busy summer weekends, the beach always has a lifeguard on duty until sunset. Tonight, that’s me.

No matter how many times I see it, the view never loses its magic. Pink cotton candy clouds fill the sky as the sun sinks into the lake. As the air cools, I tug on my red zip-up hoodie and cross my arms.

Down on the sand, couples curl into each other, bathed in golden light. A pang of jealousy twists in my stomach—not for anyone in particular, but just for the ease of it. The warmth and simple comfort of having someone to lean on.

When the sun finally disappears, the crowd begins drifting toward the parking lot, carrying sandy towels and folding chairs. I gather my belongings and climb down the lifeguard tower, my feet sinking into the cold sand.

I walk to my truck and unlock it. It’s a rusted ’90s red pickup I inherited from my late great-uncle when I was seventeen.

Even now, years later, the cloth interior still carries faint traces of his aftershave and cologne.

I slide behind the wheel and turn the key.

The engine coughs before sputtering to life.

The drive downtown is quiet, the street lamps casting an amber glow over the sidewalks. Brick buildings line the main road, restaurants and tourist shops, most of which are closing up for the night. I park in front of the only bar in town, the Old Harbor Tavern.

Inside, the air hangs heavy with cigarette smoke, baked into the carpet that’s probably been here since the ’80s. I settle onto a barstool with cracked, peeling leather. Neon signs flicker overhead, casting streaks of red and blue across the dusty sports memorabilia crowding the walls.

“Hey, Mason!” shouts the bartender, Luke, as he slaps the bartop. We were buddies in high school, though I wouldn’t go as far as calling us friends. Like most folks around here, he comes from a conservative farming family—his parents own one of the local cherry orchards. “Any drownings today?”

“Only seven,” I joke.

“Nice. Good job, dude,” Luke replies, fist-bumping me.

He pours my usual from the tap and slides the pint down the bar. I take a long sip, the cold beer easing the rasp in my throat after a day spent shouting at roughhousing kids.

“Thanks. Busy day here? The beach was packed.”

“Nonstop,” Luke groans, leaning against the counter. “My feet are killing me.”

I nod and take another swig of my IPA—a local brew with a sharp bite of citrus.

My attention drifts to the boxy television bolted above the bar, playing a hockey game between two West Coast teams I couldn’t care less about.

The sound’s off, but captions scroll across the bottom as the announcers dissect the play.

I half-watch, mostly zoning out, until the camera pans to a player with shoulder-length blond hair.

He’s hot. Big blue eyes, pink lips, sharp cheekbones. When he grins and pumps his fist after scoring a goal, my grip tightens around the sweating beer glass.

Goddamn. I’m practically drooling over some random hockey player. I really need to get laid.

I had my gay awakening three years ago, during my freshman year of college.

Growing up in the small lakeside town of Claremont Shores, I barely knew anyone who was openly queer.

Moving to the city for school was like stepping into a different world—a place bigger, louder, and braver than anything I’d ever known.

Sam, one of my college swim teammates, was openly gay and drop dead gorgeous.

I kissed him once at a party, fueled by tequila and a reckless burst of courage.

That kiss roused a hunger in me I didn’t know existed.

It was like tasting a big, juicy steak for the first time after spending a lifetime surviving on tofu.

I spent the next year making up for lost time—kissing lots of boys, having sex, doing all the things I’d denied myself in high school.

But then shit hit the fan. At the start of my sophomore year, I had to drop out of college and move back to Claremont Shores due to a family emergency.

The “emergency” was that my mom swallowed an entire bottle of painkillers and wound up in the ER.

Her depression had spiraled, and it was obvious she wasn’t fit to be a single parent anymore.

My little sister, Maddie, was only eleven.

Someone had to step up, and with our dad out of the picture, that someone was me.

I’d come out in college—to my teammates, my friends, anyone who asked—but back in Claremont Shores, I was still closeted. Even so, I didn’t hesitate before taking an academic leave of absence and coming home. It was only supposed to be temporary. Just until Mom got better.

But then she didn’t.

Two years later, I’m still here: single, broke, and living in a trailer with my mom and teenage sister. It’s a strange feeling to be an animal shoved back into a cage after having a taste of freedom.

Luke’s voice snaps me out of my spiraling thoughts.

“Hey, dude, do you remember Kelly from high school?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Didn’t you hookup with her before?”

I swallow hard. Vague memories stir of me and Kelly at a party when we were sixteen, one too many beers, making out in someone’s basement.

I don’t like dwelling on my past with girls.

The sex was probably equally as horrible for them as it was for me.

With girls, sex was something for me to endure rather than enjoy.

It was about survival—something to grit my teeth through so I could pass.

Because in this town, if you’re not straight, white, and Christian, you’re an outsider.

“Yeah,” I reply flatly.

“She’s having a party this weekend. We should go!” Luke says, winking suggestively.

I shake my head. “I… can’t.”

Luke rolls his eyes. “Dude, you’re so boring now.”

“I’m not,” I grumble defensively.

“Then come to the party with me.”

“I’m busy this weekend,” I lie, knowing it doesn’t sound convincing at all.

Luke frowns as he wipes the bar top with a rag. “College made you soft, bro. You used to be a legend in high school!” he reminisces. He lowers his voice and leans in across the counter. “You used to get so much pussy! Had girls lining up for you!”

My cheeks heat as I sip my beer. “That was a long time ago, Luke.”

He scoffs. “We’re still young, bro. Loosen up. You gotta live a little.”

I certainly don’t feel young. I feel like I’ve aged a decade over the past two years. Raising a teenager is thankless work, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

I quickly gulp down the rest of my beer and ignore Luke’s pestering.

“Have a good night, dude,” I say, tossing a wad of crumpled cash onto the counter.

I head for the door and slip into the still, quiet night.

***

As my truck turns into the trailer park entrance, the tires crunch over the gravel road. Our family’s home is a single-wide trailer with white siding, though it looks more yellow these days from the layers of dirt clinging to it.

When I was a kid, I never felt ashamed of living here.

Half my classmates lived in the same trailer park, so it just felt normal.

Claremont Shores has always been full of working-class families, scraping by together in a tight-knit community.

I used to love riding my bike through the rows of trailers, racing with the neighbors’ kids.

Our trailer used to feel like a warm, loving home. I remember kneeling in the dirt beside my mom, our hands caked with soil as we planted marigolds in the little garden out front. Back then, the grass was trimmed, the siding shone white, and the place smelled like fresh laundry.

But after my dad walked out of our lives when I was eight, everything changed. Mom started sinking—slowly at first, then all at once. She couldn’t keep up with the house, and just like our family, it fell into disarray.

Now, one of the front windows is cracked and patched with duct tape and cardboard. The rusted gutters sag, stuffed with rotting leaves. The yard, once neat and green, is a jungle of tall grass and weeds that choke out the flowers we planted years ago.

When I walk inside the trailer, I’m greeted by the familiar sight of my mother asleep on the sofa. Her mouth hangs open with loud, nasally breaths exhaling through chapped lips. Her hair spills across the armrest, dull and dry like straw.

I sigh deeply before puttering around the living room, picking up empty beer cans and food wrappers. I toss them in the kitchen garbage and decide to wash the dirty dishes piled up in the sink. Afterwards, I dry my soapy hands on my swim trunks.

The clock on the microwave reads 10:46. Maddie’s definitely still awake, even though I’ve been nagging her to go to bed earlier.

I knock on my sister’s door.

“Come in,” she calls out, her voice muffled through the paper-thin wall.

I open the door and poke my head inside. Maddie is sprawled out on her twin-sized bed, watching a makeup tutorial video on her phone. Her dark blonde hair is tied in a ponytail with a pink scrunchie. Her hand rummages through a half-empty bag of potato chips.

“Is that your dinner?” I ask, nodding at the chips.

“No. I had leftover pizza,” she mutters, her eyes never wavering from her phone screen.

“Did you finish your math homework?”

“Yes,” she replies quickly, her voice cold with annoyance.

I hate being the “responsible” sibling, but if I don’t do the pestering, then nobody will.

“Cool. Goodnight, Mads.”

“Night.”

I shut her door and head to our single shared bathroom. I brush my teeth, rinse, then shuffle into my bedroom—the same one I had growing up. My high school swim medals and trophies adorn the wooden shelves, little gold figures frozen mid-dive as if nothing’s changed.

But everything has.

It’s hot as hell in here. The A/C broke last week, and fixing it isn’t in the budget. I crack open the window to let the cool nighttime air filter inside.

After changing into a clean pair of boxers, I crawl into bed. But as I try to fall asleep, pestering thoughts enter my mind. It’s difficult to shut off my brain.

Rent’s due next week. I hope Mom can sober up enough to pick up a few shifts at the gas station. My lifeguard gig only pays just above minimum wage, and it’s only part-time.

I scrub a tired hand over my face and exhale a weary breath. My thoughts blur with exhaustion, wandering to an alternate version of my life—one where I never left college. I fall asleep pretending I’m him: a guy whose only worries are late-night study sessions and cramming for finals.

In my dreams, he’s laughing too loud at a crowded party, leaning in close to flirt with a boy. He’s swimming laps at the university pool, practicing for his next swim meet. He’s happy, free, and chasing after the future I’ll never have.