Page 82 of The Clinch
I don’t know how to be wanted like that.
I know how to survive appetite. Manage chemistry. Leave before anything gets expensive.
I don’t know what to do with a man who asks for the whole thing.
Nothing in the room touches it. Not the ocean. Not the dark. Not the house holding still around me.
By the timethe windows start to gray, I’m done pretending lying still counts as rest.
I push off the sofa and slip out of the house barefoot.
The beach is empty. A few gulls skim low over the water. The second my feet hit sand, instinct gives me the only answer it has ever trusted.
Run.
I take off hard along the waterline, chasing the illusion of solid ground.
It lasts maybe five seconds.
The sand gives under every step. My stride won’t lock. My foot strike keeps breaking apart. Everything that usually saves me—rhythm, drive, the certainty of ground that gives back—turns useless in the sand.
I push anyway.
Faster. Harder. Angrier.
The beach gives me nothing back.
My calves burn. My lungs go sharp. What I was trying to outrun stays exactly where it was.
I try to sprint and nearly lose my footing.
That ends it.
I slow to a jog. Then a walk. Then I brace my hands on my knees and drag air in while the ocean keeps doing whatever it wants beside me.
The water is gray and rough under the early light, all motion and no mercy.
I walk straight in.
The cold knocks the air out of me. The next wave makes my legs ache. I keep going anyway, deeper, until it’s at my thighs, then my hips, shoving at me from every angle.
Standing there becomes work.
Not in. Not out.
Halfway.
The worst place to live.
Another wave slams into me and steals more ground. I brace, arms out slightly, fighting just to stay upright while the sand shifts under my feet.
I don’t dive.
I don’t swim.
I don’t go under.
I just stand there in the middle, letting the surf hit me from every direction.
