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Hannah pops the trunk, revealing beach chairs, towels, an umbrella, and a cooler.

“Yes. Grab your bathing suit. We’re getting you out of the house.”

“I like it better inside.”

“No kidding,” Dylan says. “You’re as pale as a ghost. You need some vitamin D. Get your shit and get in the car.”

“Fine.” I’m too drained and sad to argue, and I do love the beach. “I’ll come with you, but we’re not talking about it. Deal?”

“Of course.” Hazel is the first to agree. No surprise. She hates drama. “We just wanted a beach day. You can talk or not talk.”

I nod warily, still unsure if this is a friendly day out or an intervention. Upstairs, I grab a suit and throw some sunscreen and a hat into a bag. Then we’re off.

On the drive to the coast, my sisters talk about everything under the sun except my relationship with Luke, which is a relief, even if it’s the elephant in the room.

We wind down through Santa Monica Canyon to a secret parking spot that’s probably not so secret, based on all the cars there today. It’s where our grandparents always took us as kids for a day at the beach, and I open the car trunk and see that someone has thought to bring an umbrella, beach chairs, and a cooler.

Lugging everything down the two blocks and crossing underneath Pacific Coast Highway is part of the tradition, and the chatter about yoga pants and pickleball and a new ice cream shop continues until we have everything set up on the sand. The beach chairs sit under the umbrella in a half-circle so we can all see the ocean while still reaching the cooler, set up on a towel in the middle.

Hannah hands out bottles of water, and Hazel opens a tub of watermelon slices.

Maybe it’s the unexpected reminder of that day at the pool with Luke when Scout was slurping down squares of watermelon with such delight, but all of a sudden, tears are streaming down my face. I’m wearing sunglasses, so no one notices at first. Then one by one, my sisters stop talking and turn to look at me.

“I’m a mess, you guys. I don’t know what to do.”

Hazel drags my chair closer to her, which is no easy feat in the dry sand. She dabs at my tears with a corner of her towel. “That’s what we’re here for. Breathe. Look at the ocean. And let’s figure it out.”

I start with the breathing part, which gets easier with each clean inhale of ocean air.

For an hour, no one talks about Luke or Willow Springs or the fact that I keep bursting into tears for seemingly no reason. “I’m just happy to see you all,” I keep saying. They keep nodding with plastic smiles that say I’m full of it.

Eventually, I give in and pick up a slab of watermelon. It’s still cold from the ice in the cooler, and the sweet juice gives me a welcome little sugar rush.

Without explaining myself, I stand up and walk down the dry sand until it gives way to a flat, wet expanse of beach at low tide. The waves are gentle, sliding toward me every so often and covering my feet before receding again. The water is chilly, but it feels nice compared with the warm air.

Facing the horizon, I search for the usual feeling of freedom I feel when I look west. The beach has always been my happy place, where I could stand at the coastline and know that anything troublesome was behind me. Literally.

But now, I feel like my troubles are here. My troubles are me.

When I walk back to the beach towels, I see that my sisters have rearranged the chairs into a square. When I sit down, I have no choice but to face the three of them. I nod and sit down. There’s no fight left in me. I’m ready for all their older sister wisdom. I want them to tell me where I went wrong and how to turn things around.

I need to be the younger sister and let them tell me what I don’t know.

“Okay, I’m ready. Tell me all the things,” I say, sinking into a chair and feeling my lower lip quiver.

Before anyone says anything, each sister gets up and hugs me. By the time they’re done, I can no longer hide my tears behind my sunglasses, but I don’t care.

“We love you, and we’re here for you,” Hazel says.

“Yes, always,” Dylan agrees. “Now, pack your bags and get the hell out of LA. Follow your heart.”

I start to protest with all the ammo I usually use to prove that stability gives me the ick. I talk about feeling trapped. I practically have this speech memorized.

They let me finish. They nod as though they understand. “Yeah, that narrative isn’t working for you anymore,” Hannah says. “Because you bolted and you’re miserable. Sure, you’re free, but that’s a lonely road.”

It’s that one word, “lonely,” that breaks me.

Somewhere along the way, my great quest for freedom stopped feeling like a ticket to fun. It became a habit. A rationalization. An excuse.