He shrugs. “My ex and I—long story—I thought relocating would wipe the slate. Turns out you can’t outrun your own story. It follows you, like sand in your shoes.”
“Yeah. Or like glitter from some party you left early. It shows up in your laundry months later, and you’re never sure who left it there.”
“You know, when I was in finance, everything was about closure. Balancing ledgers, making things add up. But art isn’tlike that. Life isn’t either. It’s messier, and you have to live with the leftovers.”
I study him, the way he’s sketched his own hands on the edge of the paper—quick, sure, but not idealized. “I’m not used to the mess. I used to think if I organized things enough, they couldn’t hurt me.”
“How’s that working?”
“About as well as you’d expect.”
He shifts, drawing one knee up to his chest and wraps his arms around it. The gesture is oddly vulnerable, almost childlike. “You don’t have to be perfect. Not out here. You can let it be ugly. The ocean won’t judge you, and neither will I.”
I want to ask him how. How do you let the world see you messy and uncomposed, when every instinct is to curate, smooth the rough spots, stay ahead of the audit? But the words catch, and all I can do is nod, blinking against the wind.
Nathan seems to sense it, the way good listeners do. He sets his pad aside, pushes his hands into the sand, and stares out at the horizon. “Sometimes I imagine the ocean as a giant etch-a-sketch. Every tide wipes away what came before.”
“Except the plastic,” I say, too quick. “That sticks around forever.”
He laughs, and the sound is like a spark in the gathering dusk. “Fair enough. But you know what I mean.”
I do. And for a second, I let myself believe that maybe it’s possible to reset, to let the constant scrape of the world grind things into something new.
The sun dips lower, the sky turning the color of old peaches. A line of pelicans glides overhead, wingtip to wingtip, perfect in their ugly grace. The wind tugs at my hair, and I tuck it behind my ear, then realize my hand is trembling a little.
“Thank you,” I say, quietly. “For not making it weird.”
Nathan tilts his head, genuine confusion on his face. “Why would I?”
I want to explain, but the words seem less important than the feeling of not being alone on the sand, of not having to curate every molecule of myself.
He opens his pad again, tears off the top page, and folds it in half with careful precision. He hands it to me, the paper still warm from his hands. “Here. In case you need a fresh horizon.”
The drawing is better up close. There are corrections, ghost lines, the suggestion of something erased and tried again. I trace the edge of the cloud bank, the birds skimming just above the waves, and wonder what it would feel like to draw a new line every morning.
When I look up, Nathan is watching me. Not expectant, not searching, just present.
The wind shifts, stronger now, and sand needles at my shins. “I should head back,” I say, even though I don’t want to.
“Okay,” he says, but there’s a reluctance in the way he packs up, careful not to crush the remaining sheets. “Will you be around tomorrow? At home, I mean.”
“Yes. Sara’s teaching Cassie how to make saltwater taffy. Apparently it’s an essential life skill. Why do you ask?”
“I thought, if it’s not too much trouble, I might drop by with some art supplies for Cassie. She seems to enjoy drawing, and I have way too many lying around.”
I smile at the thought of Cassie’s excitement at such a gift. “That would be wonderful. She’d love it.” I stand, brushing sand from the back of my calves, and for a split second, I want to say something brave—invite him to dinner, suggest a future, even a small one. But the thought is too raw, so I just thank him again, tucking the sketch into my notebook.
He watches me go, a solitary figure etched against the breaking surf, and for the first time in a long time, the walk home feels less like a retreat and more like a beginning.
11
Diane
I’m halfway back to the cottage when I hear my name, stretched out like a gull’s cry, carried by the wind. I turn, and there’s Cassie, barreling down the beach like a torpedo. Her sneakers throw clumps of wet sand, and her hair fans out behind her like a victory banner. She moves with a lawless energy, redirecting the world to follow her lead.
She zeroes in on me, arms windmilling, and then skids to a breathless stop. “Mom! You missed it! There were like a million comb jellies on the north side… And Rolo found a skull, a real skull… I think it’s a seagull, but it could be a tern—” She blinks up at me, cheeks ruddy, and I feel a complicated knot in my chest begin to untangle.
“Did you bring it?” I ask, a little wary of what “skull” entails.