Page 27 of Crashing Tides

I freeze up.

I should say no. Should run as far away as I can get. But outside, there’s a storm brewing. A part of my soul yearns for the ocean, and I’m exhausted down to my bones. Every day is an endless grind of exercising, studying, stress.

What if I don’t fight it? What if I just lie down and let the current take me where it will?

I close my notebook and glance to the window, where heavy drops of rain pelt against the glass. “Right now?”

“Sure, why not?”

I look back at her, just to be sure, but she’s scrutinizing me, waiting for an answer. If I say no, she won’t push. She’ll just ask again another day. And another.

There’s no time like the present.

I start gathering my things. “Sure.”

I didn’t know Jane had a car. It’s a dinged-up Subaru more than half our age that grumbles to a start like a snoring old man. We plug down the hillside in the pouring rain, wipers screeching across a cracked windshield. The radio doesn’t work, so Jane pops a Pearl Jam disc into the drive. It skips.

Nausea roils in my stomach. My soul is alight with the promise of the sea—of salt, of water, of life—but my body is terrified and shaking.

I am repeatedly struck with the urge to apologize to my mother, as if her ghost is sitting in the back seat, arms crossed, indignation radiating from her like the stench of death.

Over and over, I’ve made promises. Since I was old enough to remember, I’ve sworn I’ll never go near the ocean.

What if I don’t step into the water? What if Jane and I just walk along the beach like an old married couple and stay far from the tide? I could treat it like exposure therapy. Work my way into water, inching closer each week?

But I already know I’ll fail. Something bone deep pulls me toward the sea. I’m sick of fighting it.

We pull into a parking spot just off the main road. Gravel crunches beneath the tires. The brakes squeal. Jane winces, apologetic.

I have lost the ability to speak.

Before us, green grass pokes out from dark sand. Absently, I wonder if all beaches are so dark, or if it’s just this one. I’m used to the white sandy beaches in commercials, not this gravelly, gray expanse. Is this a volcanic beach? Are there volcanoes around here?

Half a mile of sand, craggy rocks, and swimsuit-clad tourists await. Beyond, a boiling sea, nearly black under the stormy sky.

I think of Prophecy and Prediction, and wince. In my visions, pitiful though they are, I’m always by the cliffs. Night has fallen, and the sea beats against the rocks. There’s a raging storm, but the clouds break to allow the faintest sliver of moonlight.

It gives me the fucking chills.

And even though it’s only mid-afternoon, and the sun is peeking out beyond the hills, the atmosphere is uncomfortably tense. Something nasty claws its way up my spine, lodges between my vertebrae like a parasite.

We stalk through the tall grass and into the sand.

I guess I’m not very well-traveled, because I’ve never walked through sand before. It’s a strange sensation, squishy beneath my feet, but also resistant to every step.

No wonder people jog along the beach every morning. This would make for a great workout.

Buoyed by this discovery, I creep closer to the water. One step, then another, and another. At some point, Jane has kicked off her boots, but I’m still in my sneakers.

Then I sink deeper into the sand, and falter.

It’s waterlogged, I realize. The tide is far off, ebbing and flowing in streaks of pale foam, in no danger of touching my feet. But the sand is another story. If I continue, water will seep into my shoes and then fuck knows what’ll happen. Whatever horrors Mom hoped to prevent will finally come to fruition, and I’ll⁠—

What, exactly? Die? Combust? Turn into an octopus? Grow fifty feet tall and feel compelled to munch on some buildings?

I want to laugh, but I’m completely frozen. Fuck, what if I am a monster?

I’m not ready to find out.