Go

“No,” you say, pushing past her. You exit the bedroom and your eyes lock on the front door. She’s saying something, but you can’t hear. The thundering sound of your own heart, beating faster and louder, fills your heading, drowning out all but the single, pressing directive:

LEAVE.

You slam the door so hard the latch doesn’t catch and it bounces open again. Not your problem, though; not tonight. Your thumb depresses the button on the fob and your car chirps, the locks sliding open. The bag lands heavy on the passenger seat. After one last glance at the sobbing figure in your doorway, you slam the clutch, pound the gearshift into reverse, and peel out.

For twenty minutes, you make a wide, indecisive circle of your neighborhood. Yeah, you could call a friend, but…but then there’d be questions. More sympathetic than hers, but questions all the same. Finally, you decide to just pull over and start walking.

A cool breeze is coming in from the ocean, salty and fresh, as fresh as it gets in LA at least. There, maybe. Maybe there, near the Pacific, walking in the sand, you’ll be able to wrap your head around this. And you start walking, down to the beach, down to the place where the tide laps further and further up the shore before waning, and you walk, south, away from the Pier and the lights and the noise of it all. How the hell could she do this? After all this time, after all the sacrifices you made and all the time you spent working on things together, working on building a life that finally seemed to be taking shape? It just didn’t make any sense…

You can’t say how long you walk. An hour? Two? Three? Playing and replaying the conversation in your head, just trying to—

“You’re lost.”

Your turn your head toward the voice. Atop a rise, a woman stands barefoot in the sand. In the dim light of the night, it’s hard to see much more than that, even if you were looking at her. And you’re not. Your eyes are glued to the big, snarling German Shepherd at the end of her leash.

“I, uh…”

“This is a private beech,” she says.

You look around and find yes, you have wandered that far south. Rows of beachfront homes line the sand, now. In the distance, you can make out the shape of a sign, but cannot read it. It probably does say, “Private Beach.”

“Sorry…” you say, looking around. “I’ll, um…” Which way? “Uh, sorry. Where am I…?”

She takes a few steps closer, her features becoming a bit more visible now. The dog, angry but obedient, waits at the end of its short leash. “You could just go back the way you came,” she says, cautious, but not afraid. “Or you could…” But she stops.

“I could…” you ask, still straining to see her face. Her voice is familiar, too, but the floodlight on the house at the top of the rise backlights her, illuminating your face while obscuring yours.

“I know you…” she says, tilting her head. Then, as she turns slightly, you recognize her. She’s right; you have met. What’s surprising, though, is that she’d remember.

“I—”

“Jesus, Grant!” she says, punching your shoulder. “Why the hell didn’t you say something?”

“I…I didn’t realize it was you.” You say. “Not at first…”