Page 122 of Beautiful Place By the Sea

“No. I mean for the rest of the summer.”

All the air leaves my lungs. “What?”

Laurel shakes her head. “I’m spending all my time working anyway; we’ve hardly spent any time together. And honestly, the way things have been going, I think maybe I need some distance.” She considers the shock on my face, then adds gently, “And maybe you do, too.”

I want to yell that I don’t need space; that I’m going home for a couple of days, anyway, so she doesn’t need to feel like she has to run away and hide. I want to ask her what I even did wrong; why she’s so upset with me for sharing a truth that someone else hid, many decades ago. I could have approached it differently, sure. But I didn’t write the reality she’s been so hesitant to acknowledge.

Deep in my gut, I know I don’t have the energy to fight this battle, though. So after pinching my eyes shut for a moment, I just say, “Okay.”

And then I stand up and stride out of the room before the tears can fall.

As I’m shoving clothes angrily into an overnight bag on Wednesday evening, I’m overcome by the urge to cry, but it’s like my soul is too exhausted to muster the energy. Beach Haven’s quiet; Laurel left this morning. Oliver had to take his dad to several medical appointments today, so I ran the shop alone for 12 hours straight. And, though we’d talked about getting together tonight, I have a horrendous migraine. I’m thinking of telling him I just need to go to bed.

So much for my restorative vacation. So much for finding hope, and clarity, and regaining the sense of joy the beach used to bring me. Things started off auspiciously enough this summer, but they’ve quickly devolved into a ruinous mess largely of my own creation. The worst part is that it’s somehow managed to sweep up everyone I care about and make things harder for them, too.

I end up falling asleep before texting Oliver, so I wake up to a series of increasingly worried texts the next morning. I’m so sorry, I reply as soon as I blink in a few hits of the daylight. I passed out after I finished packing.

No worries, he shoots back a few minutes later. An image of Oliver standing behind the counter at Shoreline breaches my mind’s best defenses, and I’m torn between giving in to guilt or sorrow. He’s probably just finished opening the shop all on his own, mentally spent already after a long day of caretaking.

I’m sure he’s working through my impending departure in his own way. I hate myself more than a little bit for running scared right when I should probably be staying, so we can deal with the hurt together. It’s the least I should do, really. But for some reason, I just can’t.

My drive back to Brookline almost doesn’t happen, because my Toyota Corolla, which has been parked in the driveway of Beach Haven for several weeks in the hot sun, resists my request for transport. After several attempts to turn the engine over, throughout which I try desperately to remember everything my dad ever taught me about flooding engines with gasoline, the car finally starts up.

“Thanks,” I whisper to it, like it’s a person doing me a favor. I truly think I’m going a little bit insane.

It’s an hour into my trip before I even remember to turn on the radio. I’m so distracted by all the noise in my head that it doesn’t occur to me to add more sensory input. Flipping the station to find anything other than ads, I can’t help but wonder if I’m focused enough to drive safely right now. But given the choice between pressing on and stopping to have a panic attack at a rest stop, I settle on the former.

An oldies channel playing Van Morrison stops my restless spinning of the frequency dial. It takes a few bars of sultry brass for me to realize it’s “Days Like This.” My heart is exceptionally needy right now, but I’m quite certain the last thing it needs is a very poignant reminder of romantic moments with Oliver.

Angrily, I turn the radio off. And I spend the rest of the drive filling the silence with increasingly despondent thoughts.

I’m almost at full panic attack level by the time I get back to my condo. I’ve managed to work myself up beyond the point I can box breathe my way down from, but I don’t want to take any of the benzos my doctor gave me for moments like this. Ironically, I’m too anxious about getting addicted to them to benefit from their use.

I don’t think I should be alone right now. I don’t want to be alone right now.

I don’t want to be alone, period.

That’s at the crux of this whole issue, really. Taking a deep breath, I back out of my parking space before I’ve even gone inside to see how my fiddle leaf fig fared during my absence, then I make a sharp left and head toward my parents’ house.

It occurs to me all at once that it isn’t my parents’ house anymore. Not really. But I manage to block the panic that sad fact almost adds to my current rolling boil before it cascades over.

It’s about a half hour to the Dover house. My heart’s cheered more than a little bit to see how little has changed here. It looks like Mom has swapped out some of her petunias for mums, but otherwise, the exterior of the house looks exactly as it did the last time I saw it.

Taking a deep breath, I smooth my hair in the rearview. I force myself to make eye contact with panicked Ivy in the mirror; it’s a trick I learned from my mother. Sometimes, seeing the terror in my eyes as if it’s happening to someone else is all it takes to break the hold my anxiety has on me, if only momentarily. I realize it’s a strange concept, needing to humanize yourself; to separate you from what’s happening inside your body. But that’s the effect it often has on me. And, thankfully, it works this time, too.

I grab my purse and head for the front door. Ringing the bell, I’m puzzled to hear muffled voices inside. One is a male voice, from the sounds of it. Oh, God. Is my mother dating someone?

Mom answers the door, her face slipping from surprise to joy to concern in a matter of seconds. “Ivy!” She wraps me in a tight hug. “I wasn’t expecting you. Is everything okay?”

It’s there, wrapped in the arms of the person who’s always kept me safe, where I finally let go. Tears fall, and my shoulders are wracked by sobs. I don’t even know where to begin explaining why I’m here; what’s happened to lead me to this place of utter heartbreak. But that’s the beautiful thing about finding solace with your safe person—you don’t have to say anything. Even when you’ve pushed them away, time and time again, they’re standing by, ready to offer a warm hug whenever you need one.

“Why don’t you come inside?” Mom pulls me into the foyer and shuts the door behind me. She casts a furtive glance over her shoulder.

“Who is it, Rach?”

My brain screeches to a halt. “Dad?”

He comes into view behind my mother. “Hey there, Ivy Bean.”