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Claire
Breathe, Claire.
I grip the edge of the countertop until my knuckles turn white, focusing on the cold marble under my touch. It’s solid, holding me up in the face of all the relentless anxiety threatening to pull the rug out from under my feet.
Five things.
I groan. It’s been years since I’ve had to resort to coping techniques to keep from falling apart… years since I’ve felt this gnawing inside me like a rodent trying to chew its way out from under my ribcage. I did so good for so long—right up until this moment, holding back tears in the work bathroom because I’m too proud to let my best friend see them.
Five things.
I let a slow breath free from my chest and keep my eyes down as I turn, trying not to catch a glimpse of myself. I don’t want to describe what I see when I look in the mirror; It definitely won’t help lessen my situation.
The small bathroom is surprisingly posh: a gold-framed oil painting a la Renaissance, flameless candles adorning the countertop, red painted walls done in broad strokes, a collection of soaps and perfumes cluttering the shelf in the corner, and a crystal chandelier glinting with its own light.
Good. Now what can you touch?
I brush my hair off my face, letting silky strands fall through my fingers before twirling the ring on my right hand in a circle with my thumb. Wiggling my toes in my shoes, I stretch, casting off the jittery feeling in each of my limbs.
Already starting to feel calmer, having taken a step away from the proverbial ledge, I close my eyes and focus on what I can hear. The slow cadence of the broken faucet drip-drip-drips water in the porcelain sink behind me. Laughter carries through the heavy wood door as footfalls sound on the other side, retreating just as quickly as they approached.
I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of berries from my lotion.
Taste. What do you taste?
The taste of wine lingers on my tongue, but it’s burdened by the taste of something else—something that’s creeping in around me.
Darkness.
I’m only supposed to describe physical sensations, but it’s the only word that comes to mind. Sometimes darkness tastes like blood from biting your own lip trying not to cry, or like a sore throat from screaming for the pain to stop. Sometimes it tastes like anticipation, like knowing that the ground is going to fall out from beneath your feet, but not knowing when. It’s a bitter taste on the back of my tongue that I’ve been swallowing down for the last month, and it’s starting to choke me, which is exactly why I’m presently struggling to center myself in a freaking bathroom.
The first few weeks of summer went too fast, and now I’m spiraling as I try to hold tight to what’s left.
As it always does, summer fell away like petals in the breeze. That’s the thing I love most about my time at the shore—or the thing I used to love. The days come on fast, and they go by even faster, each sunset melting into a bonfire under the stars. The waves that crash on the sand fear no man, and no man has any fear of something more than an empty beer bottle. This town is insulated from the rest of the world, a little piece of heaven… my paradise. Bad things don’t happen here, and I can generally forget that they happen at all.
This is my third summer at the shore, and though I am by many accounts different from the majority of tanned, toned, trust-fund kids who call Cove Harbor home, I am an honorary member of their club.
My best friend is their queen.
On the surface, the locals appear to have it all. I know they aren't perfect, but that has never mattered. I don't need perfect. I don't need to feel important or desired, or beloved by all. I don't need extra money in the bank or to be the talk of the town. Rhea thrives on the adoration of our peers, on making friends, and on living her life on her own terms. I don’t need all that. All I’ve wanted for as long as I can remember is simply to be loved.
And I have been since I met my best friend. She’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to family, the only person who has ever made me feel that I matter to them no matter what. I let her carry me until I learned to float. But now I can’t float anymore. Senior year is looming, and all the old insecurities are knocking on my door. Soon it will be time to sink or swim. Cvc
But not tonight. Not this last, perfect summer. I’ve had so many things taken from me in life, but this, I won’t give up.
Taste, I remind myself. The fruity flavor of Mama’s homemade wine still lingers on my tongue. It’s light and bubbly, the antithesis of how I feel, but it’s the perfect embodiment of these enchanting stays at the shore, and I need more.
Taking one last slow breath, I let go of the insecurity that’s plagued me my whole life, locking it away to be dealt with another day. Once I’ve assured myself that I don’t look like I just had a mental breakdown, I rake a hand through my hair and flip the light off before heading back to my table.
Not known for her subtlety, I hear Rhea from across the room before she even comes into view. "Brava, Mama,” She plants a loud kiss on Mama’s cheek. "That piccata is a work of art."
Mama beams as she clears the counter of our plates and swats my hand away when I reach out to help her, tsking her tongue disapprovingly. "If you won't eat anything else, have some more wine." She demands, pushing the glass pitcher across the table. I’m pretty sure she topped it off since I went to the bathroom; A bit of it nearly sloshes over the side. "It's made special."
I roll my eyes at Rhea, but neither of us can help the conspiratorial grin we share. She knows exactly what I’m thinking without speaking a single word.
Mama is always shoving food at us. I gained a few pounds my freshman year, but by the time Rhea introduced me to Mama, she'd claimed I was still too skinny. She makes it her mission to fluff us up every summer, right in the middle of swimsuit season. I gladly trade her gourmet meals for a few pounds on the scale without hesitation. When we go back to university (and eating like college students) I always lose it so that when we return the next summer, Mama shakes her head while she mutters to herself in Italian and restarts her mission of trying to fatten us up all over again.
But when it comes to her wine, I need no further invitation. Neither does Rhea, who pours us both another glass and then tips hers toward me in a salute. There’s a lot to enjoy about summers at the shore, but this is my absolute favorite part. When the shop closes for the night, Gus locks the doors and starts cleaning up while Mama doles out all the new dishes she's been experimenting with. She’s a creative chef, and despite the classic Italian comfort food she serves daily, she experiments with all sorts of interesting and delicious recipes, throwing ingredients together and producing magic every time without fail. After every shift, we eat dinner under the twinkling lights on the deck, enjoying the breeze coming off the water and listening to the partygoers yelling and laughing down the beach.
