I sit, staring out the darkened hotel window, wondering what the hell I’m doing here. Only a couple days ago I got a call from a journalist, and now I’m in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean on a cluster of islands I never had any thought of visiting. Maybe I need to slow down, call one of my colleagues from graduate school who I still keep in touch with. Maybe I need to talk this through. My actions the past few days have been hasty, irresponsible. I’ve canceled all my appointments for the next week on a whim. If I were talking to a client, I’d tell them that maybe they need to take a pause, write down what they’re feeling, and really examine if they’re making decisions from their emotions, from a place of panic, instead of clear objective reasoning.
I know what I’m doing doesn’t make sense, but I’m not ready to give up.
I shower, put on pajamas, then dig through my suitcase until I find the wool scarf. Folded inside is the small locket. It’s the only real thing that connects me to the island—a piece of evidence that’s hard to ignore. But now I hold it in my palm, the empty locket with the inscription cut into the metal:For AL, until the seas take us away.Maybe this is the thread of my past that will lead me to the truth.
I unclasp the chain from around my neck—the necklace with the small shell that Nana gave me when I moved out years ago—and I slide the locket onto the chain. I don’t know why I do it—the locket doesn’t belong to me—but I’ve kept it safe after all these years, my pilfered treasure, and now, suddenly, I want to feel it close. Against my skin, like I’m afraid to lose it.
I squeeze the locket in my palm—summoning some unknowable fate from its smooth veneer—then clasp the chain back around my neck. I need to find something out here on these islands. Somethingthat will either prove my story true… or not. And if I find nothing, I’ll finally let it go.
For good.
Three days pass like this: I leave the hotel in the morning, doing my best to avoid the journalists, photographers, and reporters who gather in the lobby, hands braced around paper cups of coffee before heading out into the gray air, all in search of the same elusive thing. But by the fourth day, the crowd of journalists has thinned. Only a handful remain—the determined few who won’t give up just yet. But they look tired, doubtful, and I hear them talking on their phones, chatting together in the lobby; they’re discussing other leads, other more tangible news stories. They’re already plotting where they’ll go next.
James calls me three times, but I don’t pick up. If I tell him where I am, I’m afraid he’ll insist on flying out here. He likes to be the hero, come to my rescue, but I don’t need saving right now. And I don’t think I can stomach seeing him, or the thorny-edged question in his eyes:Why aren’t you wearing the ring? Have you already decided?
By morning, I find the hotel lobby crowded with luggage and hard black cases likely packed with camera gear—people checking out and waiting for their shuttle back to the airport. I walk down to the waterfront, keeping close to town, and as I stand on the pebbled shore, the damp air clinging to my skin, my hair turning wavy in the humidity, I look out at the sea, and I make a decision: It’s time to go home.
I’ve chased this fairy tale long enough.
There’s no hidden doorway, no prince waiting in a high castle, no proof that the island was ever real. Or more than just a hoax. A false memory told by a twelve-year-old girl.
It’s time to go back to Seattle, water my poor houseplants, call James, see my clients who I’ve abandoned for some distant childhood story. I am a reasonable woman, thoughtful, careful, I’m not someone who deserts her life on a whim. Time to grow up.
I return to the hotel and find the small cotton pouch tucked in mysuitcase. I slide the gold engagement ring onto my left ring finger, tilting my hand in the lamplight. It’s pretty, a single diamond in a square setting, and several smaller stones around the band—opal, I think. Simple, but nice.
Nice. Fuck, am I that hard to please?
I grab my phone. James has texted several times already this morning.
Are you ok?
Please call me, it’s been almost a week, I just need to know you’re ok.
We don’t have to get married. We can wait.
Went by your place, got your mail.
Call me, but no rush. Take your time.
Miss you.
The guilt slides over me like a dark, heavy blanket. I’ve been cruel to him. I glance at the ring again—it’s better than nice, it’s a life with a man I love. It’s a future without complications. And I do love him. It’s my head that’s all tangled up, trying to make sense of a moment in the past that feels unfinished. But maybe I just need to leave it alone. Stop picking at it.
Stop making it bleed.
True or not, what happened that night is long gone.
I’m sorry, I text back.I got caught up chasing the past. Coming home tomorrow. I’m wearing the ring. I love you. Meet tomorrow for dinner at my place?
I will return to Seattle and I will kiss him and tell him yes. I will stop running from a life that is good and safe and decent. I will marry James and we will move in together, buy a house, adopt a dog, talk about kids. We will build something so sturdy that I will forget why I was ever afraid.
I will be smart, rational; I will do this because it’s what I deserve. And I will let go of that damn island for good. I slide my phone into my back pocket, feeling relieved, braced by this new determination. I placemy suitcase on the bed, but hunger pings at me. The hotel was nearly deserted when I walked through it earlier, the lobby restaurant just as empty, so I ride the elevator down two flights and find a seat at the bar counter. I order a glass of house red and their special, a roasted vegetable lasagna with a side of tomato soup.
I’m staring at my phone, checking flights back to Seattle, when someone settles onto the stool beside me. I don’t lift my gaze, but hear the woman order a glass of brandy. “Not the cheap stuff,” she tells the bartender, then her posture seems to angle in my direction. “Sure got quiet around here today.”
I give her a quick glance, nodding.
Her drink arrives and she sips it slowly, but I can feel her eyes flicking back to me. “You on vacation?” she asks, circling her glass on the bar, the brandy swirling in a tiny cyclone.
