Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
PRESENT DAY
Madeline
Maybe some people get one big love, and Adam was mine. I’m hit with a longing so fierce—for the boy I loved, for the life we could have had together—it threatens to knock me over.
“Madeline?” Josie’s voice cuts into my thoughts. “Did you hear me?”
I drag my gaze to my sister’s face on the phone screen.
“Of course I heard you.” How could I have missed her telling me that Adam died, he’s dead.
She practically yelled it, and even if she’d been whispering, the words would have ricocheted around my heart.
And then she followed that shot with, You need to find a way to finally dig yourself out of the past and move on.
“Maybe you’re right,” I say to appease her. “Maybe I need to move on from Adam for good.”
Josie tilts her head to study me, and I shift the phone so she doesn’t see me wipe away another tear.
“Madeline…” she begins, but I cut her off.
“I’ll think about what you said, I promise.” I sit up and force my lips to curve into a smile. “But right now, I’m starving. I should go find some dinner.”
She hesitates for a moment before finally nodding. “I’ll call you soon.”
The 76 th Street lifeguard stand isn’t far from where I’m staying, so after I hang up my call with Josie, I head down to the beach carrying a book and a beach chair I borrowed from the motel.
Just as my feet hit the sand, the lifeguards blow their whistles and hop off their stand, signaling that it’s five o’clock and they’re off duty for the day.
Some people on the beach will choose to go back in the water after they leave, but usually at this time, the ocean turns into the surfers’ domain.
I set up my chair in a spot directly between the dunes and the water and gaze out at the Atlantic.
I know from my trips to visit my sister that West Coast beaches tend to offer more drama than this, with their rocky cliffs jutting out over the Pacific.
Josie took me for a drive along Highway 1 through Big Sur the last time I visited her.
But I’ve always loved the rolling dunes covered in beach grasses and the expanse of pale sand meandering gently into the green-blue sea.
Especially at this time of day as the sun slants west and the cool breeze blows in from the ocean.
I settle into my chair and close my eyes, relishing the warmth on my face and the soft sand between my toes.
At this moment, I can’t quite remember why I vowed to never come back here.
Kids scurry by carrying beach toys and kicking up sand, their parents following more slowly, laden down with chairs and umbrellas and coolers.
I vividly recall being a kid on this beach, feeling like the hours couldn’t stretch long enough to build all the sandcastles and jump in all the waves I wanted.
And then going home at night and collapsing, sun-kissed and exhausted, into bed to do it all again the next day .
Behind me, I hear a deep male voice call to the lifeguards as they haul their stand back toward the dune.
By the familiarity of their greeting, whoever the voice belongs to must be well acquainted with the lifeguards, which would likely make him a local.
I’m about to turn around in my chair when a shadow crosses over me and moves toward the water.
I look up at the now-retreating back of a tall, broad-shouldered man in a black wetsuit with a surfboard under his arm.
My heart stutters and I sit up straighter in my chair.
I can’t see his face, but I take in his dark hair waving at the nape of his neck.
It’s slightly unruly, so similar to the way I remember Adam’s.
He always waited a few weeks too long to go in for a cut.
The man’s frame is more solid than Adam’s was, with more muscle, but ten years have gone by.
Most people change between their teenage years and adulthood.
But the man has the same height that Adam did, and the same broadness in his shoulders.
Could this be the guy I’m looking for?
The man stops about twenty feet in front of me and drops his board in the sand.
He props his hands on his narrow hips and looks out to the ocean as a young woman with long brown hair, also in a wetsuit, rides a wave in.
When she’s landed gracefully on the shore, he pumps his fist in the air and calls out, “Niiiice.”
I stare at his movements, the curve of his arm, the way his feet shift, waiting to feel something. A certainty. A sense of recognition. Should I stand and approach him? What would I even say?
The man zips up his wetsuit and bends to pick up his board. As he straightens, tucking it under his arm, his face shifts in my direction. When he catches me staring, his lips slowly curve into a grin.
An unfamiliar grin.
My shoulders droop, and I sink back in the chair.
There’s no doubt that his dark hair and certain parts of his build resemble what I remember of Adam’s, and his blue eyes are almost an exact match in color, but this man isn’t him.
I force a smile in return, and he gives me a nod and heads into the water.
My emotions crash inside me like the waves on the shore.
Was this the surfer I saw in the video, and I told myself he was Adam?
Was my mind really just playing tricks on me, just like Jason implied?
Unexpected tears prick the back of my eyes.
I didn’t realize until this moment how much I was hoping the surfer was really Adam.
That somehow, against all odds, he’d survived the crash and made it to Sandy Harbor.
But sitting here, hundreds of miles from home, watching this dark-haired, blue-eyed stranger hop on his surfboard and ride it to shore, the realization of just how far-fetched that notion was rushes in like the tide.
It was a complete fantasy that Adam could have disappeared without anyone knowing, and even more that he’d ever make it back home to me.
My bag vibrates, and I pull out my phone to find Jason’s name on my screen. I knew we’d talk eventually, we have too many years of history not to. But I assumed it would be after he got back from Mexico and we had a little distance from the fight that ended our relationship.
I answer cautiously. “Jason?”
“Hi, Maddie.” The sound of his familiar tenor calling me by my nickname soothes some of my ragged emotions. “I just wanted to call and let you know I got here okay. And—” He clears his throat. “I guess I wanted to hear your voice.”
My heart tugs as his words echo my own thoughts.
In my shock over the video of the surfer and everything that followed, I lost sight of the fact that Jason has been my best friend for the past decade.
No matter what happens, he’ll always be important to me.
I hate how things ended, and this call gives me hope that maybe we can salvage our friendship from this wreckage. “I’m glad you called.”
“Yeah?” His tone brightens. “I’m glad I called, too.”
A seagull flies low overhead, screeching at me in the hopes I’ll throw it some food. A wave crashes on the sand in front of me as the tide slowly moves closer to my chair.
“What is all that background noise?” Jason asks. “You’re at the beach, aren’t you?” His voice deflates. “You’re looking for that guy who looks like Adam.”
“I am at the beach,” I admit. “But I don’t think I’m going to find the guy who looks like Adam. I think you were right about it all being in my imagination.”
“What changed your mind?”
I look out to the water, catching another glimpse of the dark-haired surfer in the waves. “We saw Adam’s car go over the cliff, and we were both up to our necks in that freezing river. I know there’s no way Adam survived it.”
“So, if you’re not searching for the surfer from the video, then what are you doing at the beach?”
“I’m at the Jersey Shore, on Sandy Harbor Island.”
“The place where you grew up?”
“Yeah. It’s really beautiful, and I haven’t been back in ages, and I guess I just wanted to hang out and feel the sun on my face…” I trail off. The truth is that I don’t really know what I’m doing here anymore.
“You always said you didn’t want to go back there.”
“I didn’t think I did.” But as I gaze around at the familiar expanse of sand, the cedar-shingled houses set back behind the dunes, and the gulls swooping overhead, I don’t regret that I’m here.
Maybe I needed to get away, to gain some perspective.
Coming back to where I grew up reminds me that I had all these dreams when I was a kid, like living in a place like this.
The real question is what I’m going to do now, and I don’t have an answer yet .
“How is Mexico?” I ask, hoping to change the subject to something safer.
“Amazing. We went to this little hole-in-the-wall for dinner after we landed yesterday, and I had the best tamales of my life. Layla said they’re just like her grandmother used to make.”
“Layla is there?” Jason didn’t tell me that Layla would be going to Mexico. I guess he didn’t specifically mention anyone was going, and I assumed it was a solo trip.
“Yeah, she came along to sit in on some of our meetings.”
The image of him and Layla straightening the couch cushions briefly crosses my mind, but I shake it off like the bits of sand clinging to my feet.
“So, how long are you staying on Sandy Harbor?” Jason asks.
“I’m just here for a day or two. I’ll be home on Monday.”
“Listen, Maddie,” Jason says, his voice tentative. “I’m sorry for the way I blew up at you. I was upset that you were chasing after that surfer, but it sounds like you came to your senses. Can we just put all this behind us?”
I gaze out at the horizon. It would be so easy to say yes and continue the way we’ve always been.
But I don’t think I can. Because if I’ve learned anything in the last couple days, it’s that I’m clearly not over the trauma of losing Adam, I haven’t moved on, and I wonder if I ever will. “Jason, this isn’t a good idea?—”
He cuts me off. “I know I was a dick, and I’m sorry.”
“It’s not about how you acted.” Not really. I get that he was hurt and upset. “In a way, I’m glad you said what you did. It forced me to think about what I really want. And maybe you were right about Adam in the sense that when he died, I got stuck.”
“Stuck with me,” Jason mutters bitterly.
“I never felt stuck with you.” I sit up in my chair. “But I went from grieving Adam to a relationship with you, and I never gave myself a moment in between to think about what’s best for me.”
“ I’m what’s best for you, Maddie.” Jason’s voice takes on a pleading tone. “You’ll be home in a couple of days, let me prove it to you. I can do better.”
“I’m sorry,” I say with real regret. I wish I could be happy marrying Jason. But something has changed in me, like a light flipping on, and I can’t go back. I don’t want to go back. “I hope someday we can be friends.”
“Friends,” he scoffs. “I don’t think so.”
There’s not much left to say after that, and we hang up.
I still can’t believe I’m blowing up my entire life, but when I breathe the salt air into my lungs and take stock of my emotions, I realize that what I’m feeling is relief.
I’ve been going through the motions for so long.
Jason was there for me, and I mistook the feeling of safety and comfort for love.
And now I need to figure out who I am and what I want on my own.
I tug my wide-brimmed beach hat on my head in the hopes of fighting off the worst of the freckles and hop out of my chair.
When I reach the edge of the water, I wade in up to my ankles, sucking in a breath as the cold permeates my skin.
But the sun is warm on my face, and the sand soft beneath my feet, and I long to reclaim a tiny bit of the unfettered joy and freedom of my childhood on this island.
A gust of wind blows up, lifting my hat from my head and dropping it a dozen feet from shore.
Sighing, I sidestep a tangle of seaweed and wade out, tugging at the hem of my sundress to keep it from dragging through the water.
I step gingerly, gasping when an icy wave hits my calves and splashes higher.
As it recedes, my hat bobs farther out to sea.
I consider leaving it as an offering to the ocean gods, but I have another day on Sandy Harbor, and I learned before I could walk that people with my complexion can’t take their chances with sunburn.
I move farther out, and despite the warmth from the sun, I shiver.
I forgot how numbing the Atlantic Ocean is in June.
I forgot how much I dread that icy bite against my skin.
I was like a fish growing up here, eagerly diving into the swells long after the summer temperatures dipped into fall.
But ever since Adam’s car plunged into the icy river, and I futilely jumped in after it, I’ve been cautious around large bodies of water.
As the memories of that night close around me—the sting of icy rain pellets on my face, the frigid water seeping into my clothes—I suddenly remember why I’ve stuck to the safety of my apartment complex pool.
A wave rolls in, and I wobble on bare feet, dropping the hem of my dress into the white-capped froth.
The gauzy fabric absorbs the brine like a sponge and clings to my thighs after the water recedes. I shiver as the cold seeps higher.
Maybe I don’t need my hat after all. Maybe this was all a terrible idea.
Heart pounding, I gasp for a breath that will sustain me long enough to turn for the shore, but I can’t seem to pull enough air into my lungs.
I press a hand to my chest. Is this what a panic attack feels like?
If I can just get back to my chair in the sand, I’ll be fine.
But the next wave rolls in, carrying me back to that half-solid river where I’m clambering over the rocks toward the slowly sinking taillights, chanting Adam’s name like a prayer.