High Tide was most easily accessed via a series of paths between homes. Sprawling three-story vacation rentals sat side by side with older beach bungalows and converted trailers, overgrown grass and sand-packed gaps between the property lines. We had to cross only one paved road that locals called a highway but looked nothing like any highway I’d seen on the mainland. There wasn’t even a light, or a crosswalk—just long gaps in the traffic when you could dart across the street, at will.
The restaurant was situated at the edge of the sound, jutting out over the water. The current was calmer here, a gentle lapping against the underside of the dock, but with an eerie haze that often hung over the sea at dawn and dusk. We’d spent many nights here over the years, and I recognized the hostess from every year past.
She must’ve recognized us too. As we stepped inside, her face changed immediately, deep grooves forming in her tan skin as her smile stretched wider. “I knew there were a few faces missing,” she said in a gravelly voice. Then she looked behind us, as if expecting more.
I couldn’t remember her name, but Hollis pulled it out of her memory instantly. “Hi, Joanie,” she said.
Joanie grabbed two laminated menus and led us toward a long table in the corner, at the intersection of two walls of glass, sea and sky stretching outward in every direction.
There were two pitchers of beer in the center of the table, along with an assortment of fried appetizers, everyone eating like we were still in college. I took the empty seat beside Grace, facing the wall of windows, the blaze of an orange sunset reflecting off the sound.
Across the table, Oliver pulled out the chair beside him. “Hey, Hollis,” he said as she sat. “Missed seeing you when we all got in.”
Hollis started piling some of the coconut shrimp onto the plate in front of her, catching up with Oliver, while I scanned the rest of the faces at the table.
“Where’s Amaya?” I asked.
Josh stopped chewing for a second, then swallowed. “She said she wasn’t hungry.”
“She’s gone,” I said, with a pointed look at Josh.
He shrugged, before grabbing a handful of nachos. “Cooling off, I guess.”
“No, I mean, her bag is gone. Her car is gone.”
The table fell momentarily silent, before Brody picked up a pitcher of beer, refilling his glass. “She’ll be back, I’m sure,” he said. Then he reached over to fill my glass as well.
“This has to be a record,” Josh said, rolling his eyes. “What, she made it three hours this time?”
I wasn’t the only one who gave him a look this time, though he didn’t seem to notice.
I placed my phone on the table, frowning. Thinking I should find that number from her text earlier in the day and check in.
“I’ll send her a message,” Grace said, as if understanding the need to put the rest of us at ease.
Amaya had disappeared on us before. Ironic, considering she was the one who made sure we would all be here. Yet she had more trouble than any of us in staying put. She’d leave for a walk and say she lost track of time. She’d take her car for groceries and then check into the campground down the road for the night, before coming back the next day with breakfast. Like she could feel it too—the way any place could become a trap—and needed to prove to herself that she could escape.
Grace pressed her lips together, then raised her eyes from her phone. “She’s fine. Says she just needs a little space.”
“Is she coming back tonight?” I asked.
But Grace put her cell away, shrugged, then rested her hand on my arm. “Give her some time. You know how it can be.” Grace and Amaya had formed a bond over the years in a way that others hadn’t. From the way Grace spoke of Amaya, part of me wondered if Amaya wasn’t a patient of hers too.
“What’s the over-under on how long it takes her to come back?” Josh asked, like this was all a joke.
Right then my phone lit up with a text, but it was Russ’s name on the display: Made it okay?
I texted back: Yes, just settling in. Talk soon.
“Seeing someone, I take it?” Brody asked, peering over my shoulder to see what I was typing.
I smiled at him, placing my phone back in my purse. I didn’t want to share this part of my life with them. My past might have been irreversibly bound to them, but my future didn’t have to be.
“Is it serious?” he asked, teasing, dimple forming as he leaned his elbow on the table and propped his chin in his hand, facing me.
“Not quite,” I said, shaking my head, acknowledging the truth to myself even as I said it. I’d already told the first big lie to Russ—that I had to be on-site to cover for a colleague on a last-minute work trip—and it was only a matter of time before I told the second, and the third, burying myself in details I’d have to keep straight; a burden I wanted no part of.
This was self-sabotage, I knew, but I’d already set it in motion with the very first lie.
It was a shame. Things with Russ had been easy, until now. He generally didn’t ask too many questions that required a lie or a pivot. He was four years older than me, and had a tendency to focus on the future. We’d met at our mutual favorite bar in the neighborhood, eyes catching immediately when he walked in; we liked the same things—from the appetizers on the menu to the songs playing overhead—and had a similar sense of humor. Do you believe in fate? he’d asked at the end of that first night—and I did, I do. And over the course of the last few months, I’d come to believe that, in a room full of people, I would be the one he chose to save. My misguided interpretation of love.
But he was too trusting, and now I knew it. It was only a matter of time.
“Ah, well,” Grace said, gesturing to my full beer. “Have a drink, lovely.”
I supposed no one was too surprised. Every year was pretty much the same.
Over the last decade, I’d had a series of failed relationships, in which I was either too attached or too aloof. It was an active process to fight for the middle—my hopes of an average life, an average existence—and I thought I might’ve hit it right with Russ. But now I was starting to think that there was no middle, that we were all just a set of extremes, balancing each other out.
I couldn’t stop constantly reassessing, seeing myself from an aerial view. I knew too many hard truths about myself by now. I supposed that was the main problem with all of us.
“What about you, Brody? Did you set a date yet?” I asked, in an attempt to turn the focus away from me.
Brody lifted one shoulder in an exaggerated shrug. “Didn’t work out,” he said, pulling out his phone. “But I get this guy every other weekend.” He turned the screen our way, and we leaned closer to see. Brody’s son would be turning one at the end of this week, though the baby in the photo was tiny, swaddled in a white blanket, tucked up in Brody’s arm.
“Adorable,” I said, and it was. Both the baby and Brody, which was probably what he was going for. Even Hollis smiled warmly at him.
It was a comfort, at least, that no one else here seemed any better at maintaining long relationships than I was.
I drained the beer quickly, poured myself another. Found myself shaking off the initial resistance, sliding into it again—this place, the people. My second round quickly turned into a third, though I assumed others were further along. There was no point keeping count anymore. This was the way to get through day one.
At some point Oliver handed over his credit card to Joanie, and no one else complained or offered. There was no use pretending here.
I could see the rest of the night playing out, with a familiar comfort. Half of us would retreat to our rooms immediately, welcoming the sleep. The other half would sit out back around the fire pit, terrified of the quiet and the stillness. I hoped Amaya would be there, cooled off, flipping on the outside lights, watching for our return.
We walked home together in a cloud of alcohol and laughter that verged on hysteria. In an uncharacteristic misstep, Hollis tripped on a curb and Oliver caught her around the waist, and everyone started up again. I found myself leaning into Grace as we walked, felt Brody’s proximity as he circled around us, making sure we all heard him tell the story of some bar fight he’d started, or ended—I couldn’t tell. It was happening to all of us, the process of sloughing off our reservations. Stripping one another down again.
We stumbled up the porch steps in the dark. We hadn’t bothered locking the door. There were only the isolated vacation homes that had been here forever, and the residents of the bungalows that had been here for even longer.
The inside felt alive and thrumming, waiting for us. We kicked off our shoes and filled up the downstairs with our laughter, some calls of good night, and Brody asking who was in for one more by the fire.
“Calling it,” I said, feeling the pull of the bed. I was the first one up the stairs, eager for sleep. Ready to tick off the day, so I could get to the next, counting them down.
It took until I was in my bedroom—alone—to realize that Amaya had not yet returned. But then, my concern was dulled with alcohol. Besides, it would not be the first time she’d spent a night away. I removed my necklace, changed into pajamas.
The air felt humid, so I opened the balcony doors, letting in the night breeze. I remembered the water-logged phone I’d left outside, and went to retrieve it from the corner spot, a shadow on the deck railing. It was now cold to the touch, but at least felt dry.
Brody’s laughter echoed from the patio as I closed myself inside again. I brought the damaged phone to the charger beside the dresser and plugged it in. Nothing happened, but maybe leaving it overnight would bring it back to life.
Then I curled up in the bed closest to the window with my own cell, scrolling through my messages. There was a note from my mom, asking if I could make it to my dad’s birthday next month—her subtle way of checking in on me. And a text from my boss, Jillian. I’d sent her a note in a rush that I was heading out of town for a family emergency but would be working remotely, if a little off-hours. Even though she encouraged the rest of us to stay offline outside of work hours, she rarely did. She’d responded just a few moments before: Take whatever time you need, and take care.
Jillian was a great boss, flexible as long as I hit my deadlines, which I always did. I worked part-time for her company in corporate events, which generally allowed me to work from home with the exception of the events themselves. And the job played to my strengths. I confirmed and reconfirmed details, and then acted like it wasn’t a big deal when a client requested a change of venue after a deposit was sent, or a last-minute menu add, or an edit to the already printed programs. It was high stress but low stakes. And then, when the event finally arrived, my job was to disappear into the background, become unnoticeable. I made sure everyone was where they were supposed to be, checked each item off a list, then slipped out of the room. Wiping my fingerprints, erasing my trail. As if I had never been there.
I adjusted my hours as needed, and I freelanced on my own for smaller, local things. Like Russ, who taught math part-time at a local college as needed, but tutored for double that hourly pay on his own. The self-drive and hustle were just other things we had in common.
I scrolled to Russ’s name, before deciding against calling him. He was too far away now. This was always the true danger here. The way these anniversaries became all-consuming, as if nothing else existed but us, and this place.
I heard a creak outside on my balcony, slid from bed, and stepped into the night again. “Amaya?” I whispered, thinking she’d want to avoid Josh when she returned. But the deck was empty.
Another creak, this time from above. Either Josh outside his bedroom, or someone visiting him.
I retreated inside, locked the balcony doors behind me, then wondered if I should leave them open, for her. I had this image of her sitting on the beach now, waiting for everyone to go to sleep, before climbing the steps, sneaking inside.
Amaya once told me—in the dark, in this very room—that sometimes, for no reason at all, she would become stuck. Like even the decision to move had become too much. Frozen by the responsibility of choice, in every moment of her life. She probably regretted telling me that.
But now I couldn’t help picturing her stuck out there somewhere, unable to bring herself back. Maybe parked in the public access lot for the beach. Or outside the lobby of the nearest motel. Unsure what to do, or where to go.
I scrolled back through my texts, to the one from earlier today. To the unknown number I assumed was Amaya, asking if I had heard, and then sending the obituary. Bringing me here.
I stared at the open thread, my response the last message sent: On my way—showing delivered.
Now I sent another text: Where are you??
A buzz came from across the room, and I bolted upright in bed. It sounded like the vibration of a phone.
Maybe that damaged phone I’d plugged in, miraculously coming back to life after all.
But I sat very still, held my breath.
I looked back at the unknown number and pressed call.
I jolted as the phone vibrated again on the dresser. I could feel it thrum across every inch of my skin, a cold sweat, a rise of goose bumps. I had assumed this was Amaya’s number, but that couldn’t be her phone—I’d seen her at the house, just before finding it on the beach.
Which meant that someone else had texted me this morning. Someone else had wanted me here.
The buzzing continued, relentless. An engine droning around a curve in the road. A rumble of thunder in the distance. A portent.
Then, just like now, a warning that rattled deep in my bones.