The happiest times of my life were on that deck, the cool breeze flowing in through the curtained doors and mosquito nets, the grainy feeling of sand between my toes. Sand everywhere, clutching to my scalp near my hairline, shoved under my fingernails, hidden in the folds and seams of my clothes. Sand filing down the callouses on my hands and feet as we wandered across the beaches near sunset, holding hands, a perfectly romantic kiss, a short dance in the ankle high waves, laughing and tripping over each other as we listened to music only we could hear.
We spent the days on the beach, and the nights on the deck. Your family members huddled around a small footrest, or clustered at the end of the table in the middle. There were cards in the middle, or otherwise held in hands, tilted slightly towards the owner so as to avoid the gaze of wandering eyes. Each person had a drink in their hand, or by their feet, or on the table, and it was inevitable that someone would rise up onto their feet too quickly in celebration or anger. Their hand would hit the cup, sending the drink toppling across the table, the sweet sticky smell of alcohol and fruit juice wafting across the room. There was always music playing in the background, a carefully cultivated playlist that had been added to and revised for the duration of many more summers than I had known you. It was perfect. Sometimes a song would come up, and my body, hazy and warm and loose from the drinking, would start to move almost of its own accord, start to sway. I sang often, those nights, bouncing along to the music and singing in a way that would have been awkward anywhere else, out of place. On that deck I sang to the music like I was performing for a crowd, and people would nod along, listening. More than once your uncle would exclaim something along the lines of, “she’s a fantastic singer, just beautiful!” in his old Irish accent, and I would feel myself blush, a wave of joy spreading quickly from inside my chest.
The games had complicated rules, but I caught on quickly, watching you get annoyed as I began to win more often. As we played we would talk, and drink, and after we finished playing we would drink and talk some more. It was late one of those nights that I finally got the courage to ask your father what I should refer to him as. I made a joke about how it was far too late into our relationship for this conversation, but I was feeling confident that night. He laughed out loud then, a chuckle of surprise and amusement. He waved me off with his hand. Don’t worry about it. “Just call me Ricardo”, he answered, laughing some more.
Ricardo. I wish he had said Just call me dad.
There was so much love in that house, on that deck, in the laughs and the smiles and gentle nudges passed between the aunts and grandparents and daughters and nephews. I felt so lucky to be included into the pack, added onto the family by my relation to you, by the sheer coincidence that you had picked me. So much love, so much security and comfort and understanding. I was a better version of myself on that beach, in that house, on that deck. Kinder, softer, more welcoming. We talked deep into the night, me and you, your brother, sister, father, aunts. We joked and laughed and drank, we admitted and regretted and repented.
You cried one night, at the end, when we were laying in bed and talking quietly into the darkness, our own continuation of the party downstairs. It was over something silly. I had told you that you needed to appreciate your family more, to show them you love them. You didn’t even say thank you when your mother brought you food, a new book, a hug. You told me that you felt ungrateful for how lucky you were, and that you were worried about losing them because you couldn’t show your appreciation. You turned yourself into the victim. I told you it was okay, that I hadn’t meant to make you feel bad. We went to sleep, cradled in each other’s arms, conflict resolved.
I lay in the dark and thought about how selfish and stupid and ungrateful you were. In that moment, I hated you.
When the sun rose the next morning, I loved you again.
And so it went.
There was more love in that family than I even could have dreamed I deserved. Your mother remembered that I loved to read, and she bought me books often, hardcover best sellers. Your father would set up the bikes so that we could go out riding, when I finally convinced you to get out of the house and spend some time moving around outside. Your brother remembered my favorite movie, and got me the comic book for my birthday. They took me to Broadway shows, restaurants, concerts. I experienced things I had only ever dreamed of before. And of course, you were there, complaining about the temperature or the acting or the food, taking it all for granted as I stood by your side, squeezing your hand, grateful to be part of the experience.
“Do you really need a coffee?” you said to me one morning, looking over skeptically at my tired face, at the bags under my eyes. I’ve always had trouble sleeping, chronic insomnia, but I managed to keep it together most days, function like a regular human being might. But after a long night I was exhausted, I asked you to get me a cup of coffee from the shop just a few minutes down the street. I don’t know whether you balked at the price ($3.50) or the request. I guess I don’t need the coffee. I’ll get it myself later.
We were playing cards again. I made a joke at your expense, harmless, everyone laughed good naturedly. You blew up once we were alone in our room, accusing me of embarrassing you on purpose. I don’t even remember what it was about. I apologized and we moved on.
Hiking, exploring abandoned naval bases, seeing the most beautiful sunsets I had ever laid eyes on streak orange and pink across the clouds. Talking to your mom about her upbringing, learning about Ricardo’s childhood.
Me picking out presents for your brother’s birthday, scouring the web for his favorite board games, adding on a special dark chocolate I knew he liked. You signed your name at the bottom, presented the gift as yours during the celebration dinner. I stayed silent, smiled. It was the polite thing to do.
More yelling, this time because I had asked you to look for new clothes with me, to dress a little bit nicer for special occasions. I asked why you never bought me gifts for my birthday. Why you stopped having hobbies besides video games and drinking. I should love you just the way you are, you said. I shouldn’t expect anything more.
You didn’t plan a single date in 3 years.
One afternoon, there was a moth on the couch. I don’t like bugs, but I was going over with a cup and a paper towel, intent on catching it and releasing it outside. I’m a vegetarian, a true animal lover in every sense of the word, you knew that. Before I could get to it, you crushed it beneath your hands, leaving smeared moth guts all over the back of the sofa. You made fun of me for crying.
Bike rides on the bike trail, chocolate stuffed croissants for breakfast, wandering old used bookstores and antique shops. Sitting and reading on the old armchair. Laying my head in your lap during movie nights, your hands working their way through the knots in my hair. The bruises you had left on my arms covered up by a long-sleeved sweater.
I should be grateful I was even here, even with you all. You told me often, and I never forgot. You told me in the dead of night, when everyone else had gone to sleep. When your touch turned rough and angry, when I wanted to cry out in pain but had to bite my tongue because there were people sleeping in the next room. I didn’t want to ruin everything. I didn’t want to ruin the picture of us. I wanted to stay in that beach house for as long as I could.
On the last Saturday of the last trip I went for a run, I planned it to be an easy six miles in a loop around the bike trail. You and your family had gone swimming, but I needed to clear my head, needed to take some time to myself and think. It was a beautiful day, warm and sunny, no humidity. I turned on the app I used to track my runs. My feet hit the pavement, over and over again, and I thought of you. I thought of what life would be like after the trip was over, after we had left the safety of the group and returned to our small and cramped apartment. Our apartment that stank of beer and grease no matter how often I cleaned. I would spend each day holding on to the hope of being invited to your parent’s house for dinner, or a movie, or a game night. You were always on your best behavior in front of them.
Time passed, and I was back. I took a quick shower, relishing the peace and quiet of the empty house. Putting on my prettiest yellow sundress, I checked your location on my phone, then left mine on the couch. A swipe of mascara, a dash of lipstick. I put my sneakers back on and set out, crouching as I ducked beneath the leafy foliage and avoided tree roots on my way to the beach. When I reached the overlook, I sat in the bushes and watched. I watched you laughing with your sister, playing frisbee with your brother for a while. Finally, you excused yourself from the group and walked towards me, joint in hand, desperate for a smoke break. You took out your phone and shot off a quick text before I waved you over, the sudden movement catching your eye.
“What are you doing here?”, you asked, an undercurrent of annoyance audible in your question.
Annoyance quickly turned to amusement and pleasure as I began to slip the straps of my dress off my shoulders, pulling you towards me, farther away from the beachgoers. Closer toward the cliff’s edge. We decided to smoke a bit first. Or rather, you decided to. I declined. Suddenly your hands were in my hair and on my waist and it was too rough, too aggressive. I pushed you away, hard.
I must have been panicked, underestimated my own strength. Your foot caught on a tree root, you stumbled, and I didn’t catch you. You were surprised, discombobulated from the weed. Your body flailed for a millisecond before falling over the ledge of the cliff, making a sickening thud once you reached the bottom. You didn’t move. The tide would come in soon.
It took a while for the police to come. They questioned me, of course they did, but my phone showed that I had gone on a run and then took a nap at the house, just like I told them. Once I talked to your family and realized you were nowhere to be found, there were frantic texts, calls, tearful voicemails begging you to answer me, to come home.
Your body was found a week later, washed up a bit farther along the coastline. You must have gotten confused and fallen off the ledge while looking for a place to smoke. An accident. Tragic.
Your parents invited me to stay at their house, the grieving girlfriend. I stayed, and they never told me to leave. I helped make dinner, I cleaned, walked the dogs, always said thank you. I started calling your parents “mom” and “dad”. Soon after, your brother admitted that he’s always had feelings for me. Everyone was surprisingly overjoyed. We’re getting married in July. Soon, I’ll be an official part of the family. I can’t wait to feel the sand on my bare feet again, the wind in my hair, surrounded by the people that I love and that love me so much.
I’ve always wanted a beach wedding.