I place it atop the folded paper.
I’m fairly certain Clay won’t see it—we’ve stopped coming to the resort, we’ve already picked through everything of value.
I step back, also certain that the note is pointless.
No one will ever find it.
This place is abandoned beyond all memory of humans.
And even if someone does come here, will they see the note? And if they read it, will they even understand what it means?
Probably not.
But knowing I’m leaving something behind gives me a small sense of comfort. Evidence that I was here. Still alive.
I leave the hotel, walking back through the jungle, and sink down into the water.
I want to feel weightless. I want to feel nothing.
I float on my back, staring up at the stars, wondering if I really am still alive. Or if I died long ago, drowned at sea, and now I’m stuck in some halfway place between this life and the next.
A fish slips past my feet, sending a chill up my spine. I suddenly feel too naked, too alone in the cove, where anything could pull me under. I swim to the island, climbing up onto the rocks, tiptoeing into the house,where I towel off in the bathroom, then slip back beneath the sheets next to Clay.
His hands reach for me, sliding across my bare hip. My heart stalls, worried he’ll feel the dampness of my skin, smell the sea in my hair, the jungle on my flesh. But he moves closer, until our bodies form a shell against each other, and his strong arms wrap around me, each exhale shivering through my wet hair.
Twelve days drift by, lazily, dreamily, the sun turning us copper.
It starts to feel like we’ll be here forever.
We’ll grow old on this beach, fat and delirious and in love.
Time on our side.
I settle in, I imagine building a little home tucked in the trees, a place for us to sleep sometimes. Our own tiny beach house.
I imagine we’ll never wear clothes or shoes again. My hair will grow long, every inch of our bodies browned and glistening from the sea. We’ll die here, happy.
Happier than anyone has any right to be.
I am a fool.
We don’t even hear it happen.
We don’t witness the beach slipping away behind us.
The air shifts through the open bedroom window—changes direction. This is what wakes me from sleep. What makes me sit up and look to the window. But instead of palm trees, I see only ocean.
“Clay!” I touch his shoulder as I step from bed, crossing to the window.
I can feel the gut-hard loss before I even see it.
The beach, the half-moon cove, the island of swaying palms—it’s all gone. Not even a dot in the distance. No hope of finding a way back.
The ocean has ripped us away at night, when we couldn’t cry out against its cruelty.
I hear Clay’s footsteps across the floor, and we stare out at the endless sea that has become our companion. Intimate and constant. “I’m sorry,” he says, his hand finding my back. “I know ye wanted to stay.”
“The sea decides,” I answer, numb. “Not us.”
