Honk.
Honk.
Honk.
I jump in my seat as a nearby car blares its horn, and I’m close to losing it. I swallow the acid that is rising in my throat, tuck my camera into its padded bag, and turn my key. I cannot get out of this city fast enough. As I drive down the street, I watch as the sun drops slowly, casting sunbeams in every direction while illuminating the city before me.
The buildings start to dwindle and become smaller the closer I get to the beach. I roll down the windows. The air is slightly chilly in late March, and I welcome the refreshing salty scent. Instantly, I feel my anxiety begin to dissipate. Twenty minutes later, I park my car and walk to the small bridge that leads to my favorite spot on the beach. As soon as my feet touch the sand, I take off my heels and wiggle my toes into its gripping sensation.
I exhale the pent-up air in my lungs and embrace the feeling of earth beads massaging the soles of my feet. The sand wedges itself into my toenails, dusts my skin, and coats the bottom of my feet like butter on toast. My stress begins to melt away with just a simple touch from the earth.
I walk along the beach for a moment, saying a thankful prayer that only a few people have gathered here this evening.The wind tugs at the clip in my hair, so I reach up and free my waves. The briny scent grows stronger as I march my way toward the water and enjoy the coldness of the ocean as it rolls upon the shore and onto my feet and legs.
Seagulls chirp above me, and it catches my attention. I watch as one swoops down and snags something, a French fry I suspect, and takes off toward the sky again. A few others follow him closely, squawking in protest, and shove against him. The French fry falls to the ground only for another to dive and clamp its beak against it.
Lately, I have felt like that French fry, certain people in my life swooping in like the birds, nipping pieces of me for their own pleasure, until there is nothing left of me to devour.
It was good for a while, being here. I didn’t have anyone who could hurt me anymore, nor did I give anyone the chance to. But as time goes on, it’s like I can hear myself from far away, begging for permission to come back. I’m beginning to feel incomplete. Restless. As if something very essential is lacking in my life, and I am in a perpetual state of searching for it, even though I don’t know what orwhoit is that I am looking for.
Acting on instinct, I reach for my cell phone and open up Facebook. I type in the nameRyland Quinnand click on his profile. He has it set to private, but I’m able to see his profile photos. I scroll through them for a while until I come upon a few photographs of the two of us together. I pause on an image of him and I sitting on the porch of my grandparents’ home, both of us laughing, his arm around my shoulders as I lean into him. I’m looking toward the camera, but his eyes are glued on me.
My mind always seems to find a way back tohim, especially whenever I am near water. Many of my summers as a teenager were spent with Ryland. Whenever we weren’t at my grandparents’ farm, we were swimming in the lake by his house, jumping off the little wooden dock built by his grandfather, taking rides side by side in a pedal boat, and witnessing breathtaking sunsetstogether in each other’s arms. The ocean may be bigger, sandier, and smell of salt, but the second I hear the crashing waves and feel the water touch my skin, Ryland takes over my thoughts.
Maybe that’s why I love coming here. I have made sure to surround myself with things and people that are the opposite of him in hopes of trying to forget about how he broke my heart all those years ago. The water is the only thing that connects me to him now.
A ping on my phone grabs my attention, and I welcome the distraction, especially when I see it's a message from my best friend, Olivia.
Liv
Good evening. Don’t forget to FaceTime me later for our annual Bridesmaids rewatch. I’m making a homemade pizza and—ouch, my toe. Why did I have to drop my favorite mug onto my toe? Son of a biscuit that hurts. I forgot I was voice texting this, so enjoy this hot mess of a message because I am too lazy to go back and type this out myself. Love you.
I laugh out loud as I walk over to a spot that is far enough from the loud sound of crashing waves so I can call her. I take a seat, not caring that I’m still wet and the sand will stick to me, and hit the green icon to FaceTime her. A wave of relief washes over me as Olivia’s beautiful face appears on the screen.
“My toe is fine, I promise!” She giggles.
Our connection isn’t very clear. She freezes for a few seconds, and I hear the sound of clinking dishes, an opening door, and her feet shuffling. Finally, her face becomes clearer as she makes her way inside her house.
“Wow, you look like crap. Is everything okay?”
She is always one to be honest. “Yeah, I had a crappy day at work, and then some jerk taxi driver gave me an unwanted shower, which sent me spiraling into the darkness of mythoughts and debating all my life decisions. You know, a typical Monday,” I say and cross my legs to get more comfortable.
“I’m sorry, honey,” she says with a sympathetic smile. “What happened at work? Did Mr. Brown-Noser do something today?”
I work for a local magazine company as one of the head marketers in their digital content department.The Rockdale Journalhas grown since I joined years ago. My team and I now have to manage the website, Instagram pages, and a newly developed podcast. Magazines aren’t what they used to be. Everything is slowly becoming digital, and the job keeps me busy.
What drew me to this career was my love for photography. It often feels like that is the only piece of my old self that I decided to keep. Photography has always been my escape, a chance at self-expression, my way of being understood.
Thomas, aka Mr. Brown-Noser, a nickname Olivia chose, wants nothing more than to steal my job. His purpose in life has been to try and outdo me each day, and today, he won.
“My bosses picked his proposal over mine.” I roll my eyes at the reminder.
“What happened with yours?” she asks before lifting a mug to her lips, a tea bag string hanging off the side. I notice it is the mug I sent her as a Christmas gift last year that reads“Distance is just a test to see how far love can travel” and has a picture of Kentucky and Virginia with hearts connecting the two states.
I exhale. “They didn’t understand my idea, I guess. Or didn’t care to. I’m tired of focusing on the corporate businesses in the city. By doing this, we’re hurting the smaller businesses, and I suggested we start highlighting them instead. It feels like—” The rest of my words lodge in my throat.
“Like what?” Olivia asks, bringing the phone closer to her face. I can see the tan freckles across her nose, the flecks of gold within her green eyes, the light scar just below the right side of her jaw where she tripped on the playground in fifth grade and a wood chip stabbedher there.
She’s the one person, besides my grandparents, that I can trust with my whole heart. But saying these words out loud makes it become more real. I swallow against the discomfort before I continue, “Like I’m wasting my time here. My bosses use me for everythingtheyneed, but when it comes to what I want to offer the company, they keep turning me down and going with Thomas’ ideas. When will my work mean something again?”
