***
Miller and Ronan led me down an isolated stretch of beach that grew increasingly difficult to navigate. Cliffs loomed over us, and the path became narrow and strewn with rocks. Water lapped at my boots, ruining them with sand and salt.
Maybe they’re going to murder me and dump my body in the ocean.
After the insanity of the party, I wouldn’t have been too surprised.
Eventually, the path led away from the surf and became easier to navigate. After climbing over a particularly large porous rock, we arrived at a small fisherman’s shack, built against a heavy boulder. It had its own stretch of beach and a bonfire pit that faced the ocean, now a safe distance back. Rocks that had spilled down from the cliffside blocked the way farther east, protecting the shack from interlopers.
I peered inside the small space. Not much to see. Moonlight poured in from a window roughly cut into the wall, illuminating a wooden bench and table.
“Not bad. Could use a few upgrades.”
Ronan lit a bonfire while Miller crashed heavily onto one of the three rocks that ringed the firepit like makeshift chairs. He rummaged in his backpack and poured a few gummies into his palm.
“CBD?” I asked. “Sharing is caring, Stratton.”
“Not CBD. Glucose. I have diabetes.”
I sank down on my own rock chair, the news hitting me surprisingly hard. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Thanks,” he said as Ronan got the fire roaring with a bottle of lighter fluid. “What did you do to piss off River Whitmore?”
I put him on the spot, like an asshole.
“I pissed off a lot of people tonight. You’ll have to be more specific.”
“The quarterback. When you were playing that seven minutes game.”
“Ah yes,” I said and cast my gaze to the black ocean bearded in white froth as it crashed and retreated. “Don’t remember.”
“You sure?”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I was hoping you kicked him in the nuts.”
“Do tell.”
Miller thought about answering for a moment, then shook his head tiredly. “Not tonight.”
“Fair enough,” I said, glad that the subject was dropped.
Ronan went inside the shack and emerged with beer bottles in his hands. I gratefully took one, but Miller passed.
“Still feeling low,” he said and took a bottle of orange juice from his backpack.
Twenty yards away, the ocean crashed and retreated, and the wind was cool and bracing. Calming.
An ocean, I decided, wasn’t like a lake. An ocean was alive and moving—energy flowing through it, rising up and crashing, washing against jagged, broken rock and leaving it smooth.
A lake was sinister. Still. Its cold, black water suffused your every pore, and if it sucked you down, it wouldn’t leave a trace.
I shivered and tried to do what Dr. Lange had always suggested—ground myself in the present moment where the past couldn’t touch me.
“It’s nice here,” I said. “Really fucking nice. Like I can just…breathe.”
Miller nodded. “Same.”
