Yes, I know I’m not alone here, but Crew’s usually the silent type. Except right now, that is.
Once again, he’s usually quiet. Yet, he’s a chatterbox when he’s nervous. I’m learning so much already.
Crew and I reach the end of the steep path leading towards the beach, and I lead him towards a pile of large, smooth rocks. I climb up the shortest and flattest one.
“We’re here,” I announce, gesturing to the beach in front of us. Since we’re nearing the end of winter, the weather is starting to warm up, but the cold lingers. That’s why I switched out my sneakers for sandals but kept my favorite jacket and orange top with spaghetti straps paired with black leggings.
I remove my jacket and lay it down on the somewhat smooth stone, creating a place for me to sit. As I remove my sandals, Crew approaches.
“Why are we here?”
I scoff, gesturing to the view. The sun is on the horizon, and the light is glistening off the Pacific Ocean. What’s even better is the lack of people here—only surfers who are racing against the waves and wiping out before they hit the shore.
East Pointe is known by locals to be pretty barren and for having the best waves to ride. Since I don’t know how to surf and have a mild case of thalassophobia—fear of the sea—I just stick to relaxing on the sand.
“This is where I go to clear my head,” I explain softly. “When things become too much to handle. I figured that you needed something like this.”
He shakes his head and sits down. “I shouldn’t even be surprised.”
“Don’t be,” I tell him, digging my toes into the sand. “I’m not here to ask about what’s got your brain twisted—”
“It's better if you don’t,” he interjects.
I lift my chin to meet his eyes. Even though we’re sitting down, his posture is straighter than mine. “Fine, then I won’t. We can just sit here in silence.”
So we do. I’m glad that Crew needed something like this because I did as well. After re-creating the end scene for my film, I managed to splice everything together and submit the final product this morning.
And now? I wait, my nerves on high drive, and glad Crew doesn’t want to talk about anything because I don’t think I have the mental capacity to talk about my feelings.
Normally, I would pull out my film camera and take candid pictures of the beautiful view in front of me. Occasionally, some will give me their contact information—mostly emails, but I did get a phone number from a sweet old lady once—to send the final results. I’m not alone today, and I left my camera in the car.
So, my next best option would be Crew. I slowly turn my head towards my right and follow Crew’s gaze directly to the waves. What is this guy thinking? I barely know him, but I can’t help but be intrigued by how he operates.
Like a hyper-fixation that doesn’t let up until I get my fix before moving on to the next one. I could ask question after question andstillnot be satisfied with the responses.
He glances in my direction, raising a brow. “Take a picture; it’ll last longer,” he mutters sarcastically.
“Hm.” I glance back at the ocean. “Lucky for you, I left my camera in the car. Though I wish I had it to capture this.” I gesture to the view and the few surfers riding the waves. “I’ve taken pictures of so many people here.”
“Even the people you bring?”
I turn to face him. “You’re actually the first person I’ve ever brought here.”
His dark brown eyes widen slightly. “Not even Ali?”
I shake my head. “Not even my brother,” I add. Carson doesn’t know about this place, and that I’m here when I’ve either reached my lowest point or when I’m about to.
My mental health has spikes due to having ADHD, which is laced with both anxiety and depression as the leading symptoms. It starts high before dropping dramatically, and…well, it’s not good. So I don’t tell him about it because I don’t need him to worry about me.
I try not to let my mental health affect my directing style, but sometimes…it can get in the way.
“Then why did you bring me?” He asks, resting his chin on his knees.
I sigh. “Because you looked like you needed some air.” When I found Crew, he looked on the verge of a panic attack with the way his fingers dug into the palm of his free hand and how he was breathing. “What’s fresher than the outdoors?”
“It helps,” he admits. “A little. You just come here and think?”
“Pretty much.” I shrug, leaning back and placing a good chunk of my weight onto my arms, not adding more to my answer. I didn’t come here because I have problems—even though I do—but because I’m not the only one who needed it.
