The First Day, Part 2

The sun inched higher, burning off the last of the mist over the water. Laura sat with her knees drawn up, cheek pressed to her folded arms, watching the horizon flicker with light. Andy was beside her, hands braced behind him, head tipped back to drink in the sky.

After a while, Laura said, “I’m sorry, you know. For not trusting you.” Her voice was raw, but she **** herself to meet his gaze. “I should have believed you. I just—” She trailed off, unable to name the feeling.

Andy’s mouth twisted, part regret, part affection. “I should have figured out how I felt about you long before then,” he said. “I should have told you. I should have said it a thousand times.”

She nudged his ankle with her toe, and he smiled, sheepish. “You do now,” she said. “That’s enough.”

He grinned, then grew thoughtful. “You’re different, but also… not,” he said, looking at her. “You still make that face when you’re about to say something mean.”

“I do not,” Laura protested, but she could feel her nose scrunching up just as it always had.

“You so do.” Andy waggled a finger at her, then ducked as she threw a handful of sand in his direction.

She let her gaze travel over him, really looking for the first time since waking up. His hands were big, veins roped along the backs. The cut above his knuckle was already scabbing, a slice of red against the tan. His arms were solid, his shoulders broad enough to make her wonder how he ever fit into the shirts he wore as a kid. His voice was deeper, but when he laughed, it sounded exactly the same.

She reached for his hand, turning it palm up, and traced a finger along the lines. “Your hands are huge,” she said, half-admiring, half-mocking. “Were you always this—” She searched for the word, found it: “dad-like?”

Andy snorted. “I hope not.”

She smirked. “You’re practically a cartoon now. All jaw and muscle.”

He flexed, deliberately ridiculous, and Laura giggled. “If you’re so grown-up, are you still terrified of spiders?”

“Not terrified,” Andy said. “Respectful. Very respectful of spiders.”

They both laughed, the sound tumbling over the waves.

Laura settled back, letting the warmth soak into her skin. She ran her fingers through her hair—so much longer, so much heavier than she’d ever worn it before—and found herself absently twirling a strand, just to keep her hands busy. She stretched out her legs, digging her toes into the sand, flexing her calves and marveling at the lean strength there.

“Feels weird,” she said. “Like my body grew up without me.”

Andy looked her over, slow and deliberate. “You look beautiful,” he said, and this time there was no hesitation, no apology in his voice.

She blushed, too old for it but too new to herself not to. “You’re supposed to say that,” she muttered, but couldn’t stop the smile that spilled out.

“Not supposed to,” Andy said. “Just… can’t not.”

She glanced down at her chest, which was as unfamiliar as the rest of her, and then at him, eyebrows raised. “So these are weird,” she said, gesturing at her own boobs. “I mean, I kind of always wanted them, but now—” She poked experimentally at one. “They’re very… there.”

Andy coughed, ears going red. “Uh, yeah. I noticed.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Do you approve?”

He ducked his head, voice gone sheepish. “Yeah.”

She grinned, enjoying his discomfort. “Good. Because I’m still figuring out what to do with them.”

They sat in companionable silence, the tide creeping up to tickle their heels. Andy watched her as she tested her reach, rolling her shoulders, stretching her arms overhead. She dug her feet into the sand, then stood, brushing off her shorts, legs wobbly but strong.

She turned to Andy, who scrambled up beside her, and then—without thinking—slipped her arm around his waist, tucking herself into his side. He hesitated for a heartbeat, then draped his arm over her shoulder, and the fit was so natural it felt like they’d been made this way.

“You’re really short,” Andy observed.

She poked his ribs. “You’re really tall.”

“Perfect,” he said.

“Perfect,” Laura agreed.

They walked along the edge of the surf, side by side, her head tucked under his arm, the horizon endless in front of them.

The sand grew warmer as the sun climbed, burning off the last haze and leaving only the glint of water and the bright curve of beach. Laura’s laughter faded, replaced by a comfortable quiet, and then by something heavier. She glanced sideways at Andy, searching for a way to say what had been growing in her chest since they left the Suite.

“Andy?”

He looked up, eyes clear and bright. “Yeah?”

She hesitated, picking at a thread on her sleeve. “I was wondering. What happened, after?” She felt her breath catch, but **** herself to go on. “After the river. After… me.”

The question hung in the space between them, silent and enormous, and for a moment Andy just looked out to sea, his jaw working, shoulders squared against the memory. He didn’t dodge it. Instead, he rubbed his palms over his jeans, wiped the sand from his hands, and gestured for Laura to follow him up the slight rise to where the rocks jutted into the surf. They made for the shelter of a tide pool, and he sat, drawing his knees to his chest, his gaze distant and calm.

He started quietly, as if narrating a story for someone else. “I don’t remember the hospital,” he said. “Not that day, and not much of the week after. They told me you pulled me out, that if you hadn’t, I’d have gone under too. They said you were already gone by the time someone got to us, and that the river was so cold you—” He broke off, biting down on the words. “Doesn’t matter. It was fast, they said. I don’t remember any of it. My parents said I was in and out for three days. I guess they had me so full of painkillers I mostly slept.”

Laura’s hand rested on the stone, knuckles whitened, but she didn’t speak.

Andy drew a deep breath, steadying himself. “By the time I woke up, you were gone. And nobody really wanted to talk about it. My parents didn’t know how. Yours… I didn’t see them visiting.”

Laura set her chin on her knees, eyes fixed on a point just past Andy’s shoulder. “I remember the river,” she whispered. “I remember how angry it looked, and how fast it actually moved. Like you could step in and it would be nothing, but then there was just…” She gestured, as if the motion could convey the rush and **** of the water. “I wanted to find the bottom. I wanted to stand up. But everything kept moving and it was so cold and dark. I tried to grab you, but you slipped away.” She shivered, hugging herself tighter. “I guess I did, too.”

Andy reached over, his palm warm against the back of her hand. He didn’t squeeze, just let it rest there, grounding her.

He went on, voice steadier now, like he’d told this part a thousand times. “Your funeral was brutal. Nobody our age had ever died before, not really. There was this photo of you at the front—remember the one from the zoo, where the snow leopard jumped on the glass and you made that face?” He mimicked her old, exaggerated pout, and Laura snorted, a real, ugly laugh. “That was the picture they picked. They used it for the obituary, too. I always thought it was perfect.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “I hated that photo. My hair looked like a puffball.”

He grinned. “You loved it and you know it.”

She huffed, but let it stand. After a moment: “What was the funeral like?”

He looked skyward, collecting the fragments. “Your mom picked a dress—white, lacey, totally not you. You would have thrown a fit. But everyone said it was beautiful and innocent and all that. I wore a suit that didn’t fit, and my tie was crooked the whole time. Dad couldn’t figure out how to tie it right, because he was a wreck.” He looked at her sidelong. “Nobody talked about why we were at the river, just that it was a ‘tragic accident.’ Nobody wanted to say that it was about me and you seeing each other. They just pretended it was random.”

Laura’s jaw clenched. “That’s so stupid. I hated that everyone lied.”

Andy nodded, sympathetic. “I know. But people needed it to be nobody’s fault. It’s the only way anyone got through.”

She picked at the edge of a barnacle, thinking. “Did anyone say anything about me? At the funeral?”

He nodded slowly. “There was a line out the door at the church. Your teachers, our neighbors, even Mrs. Ko from the bakery. She brought lemon bars because she thought you would want there to be snacks.” He smiled, bittersweet. “Everyone talked about how you were ‘full of life.’ How you ‘marched to your own drum.’ How you were always the first to volunteer for dumb shit—like the time you organized the Halloween prank where we filled all the lockers with packing peanuts.”

Laura snorted. “That was your idea.”

He shot her a mischievous glance. “But you did all the work. I just wanted to see if you could pull it off.”

She snickered, but then her face softened. “Did anyone… from school? Did they come?”

Andy nodded. “A lot. Riley came with her parents, even though it wrecked her. She was pale the whole time, and she wouldn’t look at me. Chloe came too. She just sat in the back and cried.”

Laura was quiet, letting the picture bloom in her mind. After a minute, she asked, “What about Emi?”

Andy’s eyes flickered, surprise and then understanding. “She was at the funeral. She cried the whole time. She left a paper crane on your coffin.” He grew sad, a little, at the memory. “Your **** broke her. She stopped really living, after that. For years, she was an extra in her own life.”

Laura pressed her palm to her face, trying to smother the sound that wanted to escape.

Andy went on. “After that, it was just… empty. I kept waiting for you to show up at my window, or at school. I even tried to dream about you. And I visited the footbridge often. I hoped perhaps you would come to me there, but you never did. And life was never the same.”

She let him talk, the words filling in the gaps left by sixteen years of silence.

“My parents visit your grave twice every year,” he said. “On your birthday, and the anniversary. They bring flowers, and sometimes cake. Mom always bakes a cake for you.”

Laura blinked, and the tears slipped free. “She does?”

Andy nodded. “She used to say you were the daughter she never had.”

Laura laughed, a wet, unsteady sound. “She used to say I was a menace.”

“She loved you,” Andy said. “She loved you so much. She wanted us to get married, when we got older, you know.”

They let the words settle, the ocean a steady pulse behind them.

“I visited every year, too,” Andy said. “I brought a present each time.”

Laura looked at him, confused. “A present?”

He smiled, a little embarrassed. “I’ll tell you later.” He shrugged. “I guess I wanted you to know I was still thinking about you.”

When he shrugged, something on his wrist drew her attention, a simple bead bracelet of white and faded green. She reached for his wrist, her fingers brushing the edge of the bracelet, and she gasped. She recognized it. She’d made for him as a kid. It was the last gift she had ever given him. The colors were faded, the threads almost worn through, but it was still there. “You kept it,” she said, voice cracking.

“I kept it safe for years. It came here with me, and since I arrived, I’ve never taken it off,” Andy said. “Not once.”

Laura’s tears came faster now, but she didn’t try to hide them. She let the ache roll through her, cleansing and sharp. She looked at Andy, and saw the lines grief had drawn on his face, the strength it had built in him.

He smiled, but it was sad and soft. “I had your old house torn down, you know. Your parents left town, a few years ago. Didn't leave a forwarding address, didn't tell anyone where they were going. The house was left empty. It went up for sale, I bought it, and I said—” He glanced at her, as if asking permission. “I said you would have wanted it gone.”

Laura wiped her nose on her sleeve. “I did. I really did.”

He nodded. “Figured as much.”

They sat together, watching the tide crawl closer. Laura leaned into Andy, resting her head on his shoulder, and he let her.

After a while, Andy said, "You want to hear something dumb?"

She snorted, the last of her tears drying on her cheeks. "Always."

He smiled. "I started a company. Built an app. It's called Aural." He looked at her, sheepish. "It's an anagram of your name."

She stared at him, disbelief fighting with pride. "Seriously?"

He nodded. "It's a safety app. It listens for danger and calls for help if you're in trouble. It's saved a few lives, I think. I made it so no one else would ever…" He trailed off, but Laura knew.

Her throat tightened. All those years she'd been gone, and he'd carried her with him like this—not just in memory but in purpose. Something of her had lived on, had saved people. Her name had become a shield for strangers who would never know her.

"That's not dumb," she whispered, voice breaking. "That's the most beautiful thing anyone's ever done for me."

Andy's eyes glistened as he watched her face. "I thought it might help."

She turned his wrist with trembling fingers, running them over the bracelet. "You named it after me?" The question came out small, reverent, as if touching something too precious to believe.

He nodded, silent.

Laura pressed her face into his shoulder, her tears soaking through the fabric to his skin. Her chest heaved with sobs that felt like they were tearing something loose inside her, something that had been trapped for sixteen years. "Thank you," she choked out, fingers clutching at his shirt so tightly her knuckles went white.

"For what?" Andy whispered, his voice breaking as he cradled the back of her head.

"For not forgetting me," Laura said, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, her face flushed and glistening. "When everyone else moved on, you carried me with you. You made me matter."

He pulled her against him with such fierce protectiveness that it knocked the breath from her lungs, and she surrendered to a fresh wave of tears—not the bitter salt of grief this time, but something that burned and cleansed and felt, impossibly, like coming home.