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Miles might be demoralized, but I refuse to believe we’re doomed. We can’t both be pessimists, and we don’t have plans the rest of the day. All we have is a whole lot of nothing, stretched ahead of us like an opportunity or a curse.
“Okay,” Miles says, and before he can change his mind, I take the exit.
With the grayest sky pressing down on us, we pass tourist shop after seaside tourist shop, until I pull into the parking lot of an inn, hoping this will give us a chance to unwind. I summon all my journalistic confidence when I ask the front desk to give us their best room.
A welcome laugh bursts from my chest when we unlock the room on the eleventh floor. The whole thing is covered with rose petals—the floor, the dresser, the hall leading to the bathroom. Probably the bathtub, too. And then there’s the petal-draped bed, the single, solitary bed in this room I assumed would have two, with its wrought-iron headboard and its come-hither scarlet sheets.
“Looks like their best room was the honeymoon suite,” I say, trying to lighten the mood, snip some of that tension from the room.
Turns out, I’m only carrying a pair of kids’ safety scissors. And they’re broken.
Miles drops his backpack, surveying the sex suite. “Should we ask for a different room?”
“Nah. It’s not like we’ll be sleeping much anyway.”
A blush attacks his cheeks with such fervor that you’d have thought I just suggested he jump into bed with me.
Oh. I kind of did.
“I mean,” I say, feeling my own face grow warm, “we’re not going to be hanging out in here. This is just in case we get tired later and don’t want to drive back. Though I guess there’s no point in driving back, huh….”
I wish he’d cut me off, keep me from rambling, but he doesn’t. And he remains distant well into early evening, as we explore the boardwalk and buy saltwater taffy and eat fried food. No matter how many jokes I make, he’s lost somewhere in his head.
After dinner, we go for a walk along the darkened beach. The rain has let up, and there’s a haunting serenity to this clear, windy night. The only sounds are the sky and the waves, a few other people daring one another to step into the water. The wind whips our hair around our faces, and my light coat probably won’t be warm enough.
It’s cruel how beautiful Miles looks pinned against the dusk, hair wild, eyes matching the sky. It’s the kind of image that makes me wish I were an artist, if only for tonight. That’s what I should have spent all these loops doing—it’s so clear now. Learning to paint, so I could capture this moment.
It’s easier, thinking about the past than about our future.
“Well this is flat-out wrong,” I say, gesturing to the sign that says WORLD’S LONGEST BEACH. “I remember googling it the first time I was here, just to make sure, and being extremely disappointed. And yet.”
Miles only offers up a slight smile. If there’s any way I can help him through this the way he’s helped me, I have to try. We’re not alone, and whether that’s by design or simply by accident, there’s a connection here. A point where two things weren’t supposed to touch, but did anyway.
“Okay, enough pity smiles,” I say gently. I stop walking, clutching my thin rain jacket tighter around me. “Tell me what’s going through that impressive brain of yours.”
“Everything,” he finally says, and allows himself a self-deprecating laugh.
“Oh, is that it?” I grimace. “Sorry. Less joking. I’m thinking about everything, too.” I throw my arms wide toward the ocean. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and find a connection point right here. Or the universe will decide we’ve learned something and that we’re ready to move on.” Somehow, saying these things out loud makes them sound equally improbable.
“Or any number of other possibilities,” Miles says. “But Dr. Devereux isn’t actually what’s been weighing on me the most.”
“I’m a good listener too,” I say, remembering how he helped me open up. “When I’m not being combative.”
Miles scuffs the sand with one of his dark green Adidas, hands jammed in his puffer coat pockets. He’s dressed more appropriately for this weather than I am, but I don’t mind the cold. I’d mind it a lot less if I could press up next to him, tuck my head against his shoulder, but I digress.
“I feel like I’m being torn between two extremes,” he starts, speaking more to the sand than to me. “Sometimes I can’t think about anything but what happens if we never get out. And other times… I feel so fucking lucky.”
This stuns me, both the profanity, because he doesn’t swear as often as I do, and the word choice. Lucky. Not a word I’d have ever used to describe our situation.
Before I can say anything, he continues, “For the longest time, I’ve felt like I didn’t really know how to have fun. I realize that must sound ridiculous. I’m eighteen, living in a major city in a world with every conceivable comfort. And yet… I was so scared, I think, of going down Max’s path, so set on being the perfect son, that I just closed myself off to any of it. I made myself be so careful, so safe, and I probably missed out on all these ‘regular’ teen experiences as a result.” His gaze meets mine, honest and searching, and it draws out the ache in my chest. “I tried to prove I’d be his opposite by being only this one thing: the studious person, the person who turned down any chance at life because there was a risk that came with it, and I couldn’t afford to risk anything. These extra days… sometimes they felt like the universe telling me to lighten the hell up.”
Personifying the universe, I want to say, but I don’t. “You did,” I say quietly, reaching out to graze his coat sleeve. The briefest touch, and then I’m back to hugging my jacket again. “You have.”
Miles acknowledges this with a slight nod, as though unable to accept the degree to which he’s lightened the hell up. Then he glances down at the spot I just touched. Brushes it with a fingertip. “The idea of letting go of control, of not knowing what’s going to happen—that’s daunting. It’s part of why I love science. Everything needs to be reproduced about a thousand times before arriving at an answer.” He takes a few steps closer to the ocean. “I had all these hopes of college being different. But even with the freedom we have, sometimes I’ve felt more isolated than ever before. You said you couldn’t believe I’d spent two months in a library. And until you got stuck too, I didn’t realize how badly I wanted to get out. Not just out of the loop—out of this self-imposed prison I’ve been in.” Now he pauses and faces me again, his lovely features in full focus. “When we were talking about living life to the fullest? I couldn’t even come up with anything.”
“Our definitions of fullest don’t have to be the same.”
“But that’s exactly it. I’m not sure I even had a definition. Truthfully, I didn’t know if I was capable of the kind of fun we’ve had. Adopting fifteen dogs? Creating an illegal ball pit? Getting half a tattoo? That doesn’t sound like something any version of myself would do.”
