Page 145 of How You See Me
But it’s still there when I finally pull into a beachside parking lot in Long Beach, California. A calm trickles through the van, but I can’t find the same peace in my thoughts.
Josie’s scent lingers in here—faint traces of strawberry and lavender lotion in the upholstery, on the sheets, in the air. If I were to lie down on the bed, I’d feel the phantom weight of her curled into my side, like she’s still here.
I need that. Exhaustion clings to me like a second skin but there's no time for sleeping. Not when I have somewhere else to be and dwindling time. Not while Josie’s absence hollows me out.
The first light of dawn breaks behind the city skyline, and the Pacific mirrors the cotton candy colors in slow ripples. It’s beautiful and everything Ava would have loved.
I step out into the crisp stillness, my boots crunching over the gravel and sand. At the edge of the lot, I snap a quick photo—for Ava, for Josie. My hands shake enough to make me retake it twice.
I can picture Ava sprinting across the pristine sand, her laughter echoing over the surf. Josie would have sat down with her sketchpad, capturing the moment in bold, sweeping strokes, or maybe taken a hundred pictures to paint later.
And I would have been lost in it with them, running alongside Ava or taking in the peaceful view with Josie. They both have a way of drawing me into their worlds and making everything else disappear.
Back in the van, I grab my duffle bag, unzipping it with the single focus of a man holding it together by sheer will. Then, my salvation comes in the form of a scrap of paper, torn from Josie’s sketchbook, sitting on top of my clothes.
In loopy, cursive letters, she wrote,I miss you already.
Tiny doodles surround the words—fragments of our journey together—and my heart plunges into my stomach. A little van. A desert cactus. A rollercoaster. A dinosaur. A sketch of me wearing the ridiculous cowboy hat, baring all my teeth in a goofy smile.
It’s simple. It’s Josie. And it’s everything I need to hold myself together.
I press my thumb over the ink, tracing her handwriting, before tucking the note in the side pocket to keep it safe. Then, I change into my swim trunks and head toward the shore.
Halfway to the water, I stop.
How do I capture this moment the wayAva wants—alone?
I try balancing my phone against a water bottle, but it keeps tipping over. Frustrated, I drop to my knees, staring at the ocean for the answer. It just continues to roll, relentless and indifferent.
“Need some help?” a voice calls out, startling me.
I squint into the sunlight to find a woman in running shorts and a tank top standing nearby, her hands on her hips as she levels her breathing.
“Yes, I do,” I admit, rising. “Thanks.”
“What are you trying to do?”
“My little sister wants a photo of me diving into the ocean.”
“Sounds easy enough.” She extends her hand, and I place my phone on her palm.
When she’s ready, I take off for the surf and dive in.
For a moment, I let the waves bear the weight of it all—my body, my thoughts, my sadness—until I’m gasping for air.
I swim back to shore and shake the water from my hands and hair.
It’s done.
“Got a bunch,” the woman says and passes me the phone. “Hope she likes them.”
She jogs off, and I stand frozen where I am, staring out over the horizon.
This should feel like closure, an accomplishment, or a milestone. But it’s charged in a different way. More like staring through an open door to unknown territory, knowing I must enter whether I’m ready or not.
Ava is still fighting a battle I can’t win for her. Josie and I are starting a long-distance relationship with too many unanswered questions. I’m standing between the two worlds, trying to remember how to be the man they both need me to be.
Setting the thought aside because I can’t solve that problem either, I search the sand for a rock and seashells to add to Ava’s collection. I’m kicking myself for not grabbing one in Vegas. I left too fast, my brain too frayed to remember.
