8
Cold, foamy water crawls over the slippery rocks.
Sal shrieks and laughs and runs through the shallow waves, stumbling over the rocky sands—
Serena chases him.
Her smile is bright, her laughter sincere, and I see her in it, through the light illusion of only her nose and hair.
Mine is just as light, and I have a baseball cap pulled over my face, and a hood drawn over my head, just in case.
But I doubt anyone in this little seaside town will recognise us.
I hate this town.
This beach of rocks and boulders and seaweed. The grey waters with thick clouds above, the cold air and the drizzle that dampens my cheeks.
I wrap my arms around my shins and drop my chin to my knees.
My mood is a heavy, grey cloud of its own.
It doesn’t hang over Serena and Sal as they run and splash and kick their way through the cold water.
Their joy is sincere—it’s true.
And it makes my mouth purse.
How Serena can enjoy this wintery, remote beach, when we have both experienced the white sands of tropics is inconceivable to me.
This is no French Riviera.
This is not the Amalfi Coast.
This is the rocky, windy coast of British Columbia.
And it is cold.
I hug myself tighter. My knees creak in the chill.
My glower is lifted to the waters, following Serena’s bright smile through the drizzle.
She doesn’t chase Sal anymore.
Her hands clasp his little ones and she wades through the water, dangling him with her steps.
I hate how happy she is.
There is nothing joyful about the rain just hanging in the air, the cloudy skies, the misery of this beach—
And for my birthday, of all days.
It’s the second last day of February.
All the aristos kids are born in the same few weeks. Serena’s birthday is just three days away.
And this is how we celebrate. Taking the hour available to us—while our clothes spin around in the laundromat washing machine—at a rocky, cold beach.
I drop my forehead to my knees.
It isn’t comfortable.
But none of it is. Nothing has been comfortable since the day we left.
If I was home, I would be celebrating my birthday in style. With all the comforts around me. Probably in the jet, flying off to my new favourite destination, which changed every other year. Oliver would have new watches. I would have a new animal to add to my collection.
But I would be married, too.
To Dray.
Maybe I would already have children of my own. But I would have a team of nannies for them.
I certainly wouldn’t be doing my own laundry and sitting out in the rain, the car parked just up the rocky hill.
We’re on the move again.
Sofía called to give us a head’s up just a few days ago, that the shield was being touched, that trackers were closing in—and that’s our cue to leave. To move on to the next town, states away.
But I do it unwillingly now.
It’s a chore to leave.
Sometimes, I just wish they would catch me already. Instead, we get away every time—and that leaves me doing laundry on my birthday.
I was stupid to chase this little life.