“Thanks for dinner,” I say, flashing a quick smile at Mom. “It was great.”
“Thanks, honey,” she says softly, smiling back. But I sense the sadness in it.
So I quickly look away.
“You’re coming when Darren visits?” Dad asks as I reach the door.
I nod, pulling the door open and trying not to make my movements look too eager. “Yeah.”
“Good.” His hands slide into his pockets as he watches me with that quiet, searching look he’s been wearing all afternoon.
I need to get the fuck out of here.
“Ok, well… talk soon,” I say, stepping outside.
“Love you,” Mom calls after me, and I wince as those words cut deep inside me.
I pause and glance back to see them both standing in the doorway, watching me with the worry they probably think they’re hiding.
I swallow hard, trying to summon something, anything, to say that would make this feel normal, honest, and real.
I love them. Ireallydo. But that feeling lives with everything else, behind a wall I can’t seem to break through. I know it’s there, but I can’t reach it, and I can’t feel it the way I should.
All I can do is nod and force a smile.
Then I turn and get in my car, put it in drive, and leave without looking back.
But I don’t take the exit to Fredericton.
Instead, I head south on Highway 114 and drive until I reach Hopewell Rocks Provincial Park.
The parking lot is mostly empty since it’s Sunday evening, and the air is cool now that the sun is going down. I park and reach under the passenger’s seat, pulling out a half-empty bottle of rum.
I slip it into the front pocket of my hoodie and get out of my car, shoving my hands into my jeans pockets as I walk the path towards the shore. The cool breeze coming off the water grows stronger the closer I get, cutting through my clothes and pulling a shiver from me. But I keep walking.
I take the first side trail that opens up into a clearing, and step out into a wide view of the rocks.
Massive stone formations rise from the sand below, carved by time and tide into towering shapes that look almost otherworldly. Their bases have been narrowed by centuries of water wearing them down, the long, slow erosion leaving them standing like ancient sentinels on delicate legs.
Above them, the setting sun casts a warm, low light across their upper edges, with soft gold and dusky pink catching on the rock, casting long shadows across the wet sand. The sky above the Bay of Fundy is painted in layers with lavender near the horizon, deepening into cooler blues as it stretches upward. Flecks of orange burn along the scattered clouds, reflected back in fractured streaks across the water.
The tide is quickly coming in, lapping at the bases of the rocks, covering more with each passing minute.
I sit on the damp grass and pull the bottle out of my pocket to unscrew the cap. I take a long drink, letting the rum burn aline down my throat, then another until the fire sinks into my chest. Then I let the bottle hang loosely from my fingers between my knees as I watch the tide creep in, slowly swallowing the towering rocks.
And isn’t that the perfect fucking representation of my life.
Being swallowed whole by the rushing monotony of it all. Emails, deadlines, perky, overachieving coworkers who speak in buzzwords and think productivity is a personality. The pressure to stay ahead, to respond, engage, and attend meetings I don't care about.
Talking to my family as if I’m still in the room with them, even though I left a long time ago. And watching the flicker of hurt in their eyes every time I shut them out. I know that I’m doing it… and I hate that I am.
But I keep doing it anyway.
I just keep chipping away at the base of everything that holds me up. The people, the structure, the version of myself I built so I could pass for fine.
Letting the tide wear it down, again and again, is easier than swimming back against it.
I take another long drink and let the warmth spread through me before I lie back in the grass and stare up at the branches above me. Buds dot the limbs as they tremble slightly in the wind, and I catch myself wondering what kind of tree it is.
