My arms are exhausted and my shoulders burn, and when I pull myself out of the salty ocean, I collapse on the sand, taking big, labored breaths that catch in my throat. My skin tingles from the cold water, and the hot afternoon sun sets to drying it. But as my heart rate slows, my upsets come rushing back, oppressive and sharp. So I stand, running back into the ocean and diving under a wave, the hum of the water steadying me.
But even caught in the pull of the ocean, I can’t fully erase my conversation with my dad. And with the thought of him comes the familiar formation of lines and shapes, which makes me so angry that I dive deeper, swim harder.
I stand up, gasping for breath.
“Stop!” I yell into the salty air, punching the water in front of me, but it’s no use.
Ella was wrong. These sketches aren’t a way to reconnect with Des; they’re a curse. A reminder that I’ll never again give her one. That she’ll never yell in excitement. We won’t laugh. And things won’t be okay.