When I was a kid, I never felt ashamed of living here. Half my classmates lived in the same trailer park, so it just felt normal. Claremont Shores has always been full of working-class families, scraping by together in a tight-knit community. I used to love riding my bike through the rows of trailers, racing with the neighbors’ kids.
Our trailer used to feel like a warm, loving home. I remember kneeling in the dirt beside my mom, our hands caked with soil as we planted marigolds in the little garden out front. Back then, the grass was trimmed, the siding shone white, and the place smelled like fresh laundry.
But after my dad walked out of our lives when I was eight, everything changed. Mom started sinking—slowly at first, then all at once. She couldn’t keep up with the house, and just like our family, it fell into disarray.
Now, one of the front windows is cracked and patched with duct tape and cardboard. The rusted gutters sag, stuffed with rotting leaves. The yard, once neat and green, is a jungle of tall grass and weeds that choke out the flowers we planted years ago.
When I walk inside the trailer, I’m greeted by the familiar sight of my mother asleep on the sofa. Her mouth hangs open with loud, nasally breaths exhaling through chapped lips. Her hair spills across the armrest, dull and dry like straw.
I sigh deeply before puttering around the living room, picking up empty beer cans and food wrappers. I toss them in the kitchen garbage and decide to wash the dirty dishes piled up in the sink. Afterwards, I dry my soapy hands on my swim trunks.
The clock on the microwave reads 10:46. Maddie’s definitely still awake, even though I’ve been nagging her to go to bed earlier.
I knock on my sister’s door.
“Come in,” she calls out, her voice muffled through the paper-thin wall.
I open the door and poke my head inside. Maddie is sprawled out on her twin-sized bed, watching a makeup tutorial video on her phone. Her dark blonde hair is tied in a ponytail with a pink scrunchie. Her hand rummages through a half-empty bag of potato chips.
“Is that your dinner?” I ask, nodding at the chips.
“No. I had leftover pizza,” she mutters, her eyes never wavering from her phone screen.
“Did you finish your math homework?”
“Yes,” she replies quickly, her voice cold with annoyance.
I hate being the “responsible” sibling, but if I don’t do the pestering, then nobody will.
“Cool. Goodnight, Mads.”
“Night.”
I shut her door and head to our single shared bathroom. I brush my teeth, rinse, then shuffle into my bedroom—the same one I had growing up. My high school swim medals and trophies adorn the wooden shelves, little gold figures frozen mid-dive as if nothing’s changed.
But everything has.
It’s hot as hell in here. The A/C broke last week, and fixing it isn’t in the budget. I crack open the window to let the cool nighttime air filter inside.
After changing into a clean pair of boxers, I crawl into bed. But as I try to fall asleep, pestering thoughts enter my mind. It’s difficult to shut off my brain.
Rent’s due next week. I hope Mom can sober up enough to pick up a few shifts at the gas station. My lifeguard gig only pays just above minimum wage, and it’s only part-time.
I scrub a tired hand over my face and exhale a weary breath. My thoughts blur with exhaustion, wandering to an alternate version of my life—one where I never left college. I fall asleep pretending I’m him: a guy whose only worries are late-night study sessions and cramming for finals.
In my dreams, he’s laughing too loud at a crowded party, leaning in close to flirt with a boy. He’s swimming laps at the university pool, practicing for his next swim meet. He’s happy, free, and chasing after the future I’ll never have.
Chapter Two
A man is definitely about to propose to his girlfriend on the beach. It’s painfully obvious.
He twitches nervously as he walks along the shoreline, holding hands with his freshly-manicured girlfriend. She’s wearing a blue sundress that bellows in the breeze, and based on her camera-ready appearance, I’m guessing she knows exactly what’s coming.
In my experience, men suck at keeping secrets.
From my perch in the lifeguard tower, shaded by a pair of cheap plastic sunglasses, I watch his free hand fidget in his pocket like he’s afraid the ring box might vanish. The Claremont Shores beach is practically designed for proposals—clear water, smooth sand, the red lighthouse in the distance like something off a postcard. Lucky for them, it’s early afternoon and the beach isn’t too crowded. Their pictures will turn out perfect.
My suspicions are confirmed when I spot a photographer crouched in the dune grass with a camera strap around her neck.
