It isn’t very warm out, but I can feel the sun on my cheeks and my neck. We could gather more shells and begin to decorate, but I am starting to tire of the building, and putting our focus there. When the last tower is complete, I suggest we wander for a little while.
“Are you pleased with our creation?” he asks.
And I say, “Very.”
We head to the water to wash off our hands. Justin stares back at the beach, back at our castle, and seems lost for a moment. Lost, but in a good place.
“What is it?” I ask.
He looks at me, eyes so kind, and says, “Thank you.”
I am sure he has said these two words to me before, but never like this, never in a way that would make me want to remember them.
“For what?” I ask. What I mean is: Why now? Why finally?
“For this,” he says. “For all of it.”
I want so much to trust it. I want so much to think we’ve finally shifted to the place I always thought we could get to. But it’s too simple. It feels too simple.
“It’s okay,” he tells me. “It’s okay to be happy.”
I have wanted this for so long. This is not how I pictured it, but nothing ever is. I am overwhelmed by how much I love him. I don’t hate him at all. There’s not a single part of me that hates him. There is only love. And it isn’t terrifying. It is the opposite of terrifying.
I am crying because I’m happy and I’m crying because I don’t think I ever realized how much I was expecting to be unhappy. I am crying because, for the first time in a long time, life makes sense.
He sees me crying and doesn’t make fun of it. He doesn’t get defensive, asking what he did this time. He doesn’t tell me he warned me. He doesn’t tell me to stop. No, he wraps his arms around me and holds me and takes these things that are only words and makes them into something more than words. Comfort. He gives me something I can actually feel—his presence, his hold.
“I’m happy,” I say, afraid he thinks I’m crying for a reason besides that. “Really, I am.”
The wind, the beach, the sun—everything else wraps around us, but our embrace is the one that matters. I am holding on to him now as much as he is holding on to me. We have reached that perfect balance, where each of us is strong and each of us is weak, each taking, each giving.
“What’s happening?” I ask.
“Shhh,” he says. “Don’t question it.”
I don’t feel any questions—only answers. No fear, only fullness. I kiss him and continue our perfect balance there, let our separate breaths become one breath. I close my eyes and feel the familiar press of his lips, the familiar taste of his mouth. But something is different now. We are not just kissing with our whole bodies, but with something that is bigger than our bodies, that is who we are and who we will be. We are kissing from a deeper part of our selves, and we are finding a deeper part of each other. It feels like electricity hitting water, fire reaching paper, the brightest light finding our eyes. I run my hands down his back, down his front, as if I need to know that he’s really here, that this is really happening. I linger on the back of his neck. He lingers on the side of my hip. I slip below his belt, but he leads me back up, kissing my neck. I kiss beneath his ear. I kiss his smile. He traces my laugh.
Enjoying this. We are enjoying this.
I have no idea what time it is, what day it is. I have nothing but now. Nothing but here. And it is more than enough.
Eventually my hand slides down his arm and holds his hand. We stand there for a few seconds, or maybe a few minutes, hand in hand, forehead on forehead, lips gently on lips, drained entirely of longing, because everything’s been found.
Then we pull away, keeping our hands together. We begin to walk down the beach, like couples do. Time comes back, but not in a scary way.
“This is amazing,” I say. And then I cringe despite myself, because this is what Justin would usually call an obvious statement. But of course, on this day, in this place, all he does is nod in agreement. He looks at the sun, which is coming closer to the horizon. I think I can see a boat offshore, but it could just be driftwood, or a mirage.
I want every day to be like this. I don’t understand why it can’t be.
“We should do this every Monday,” I say. “And Tuesday. And Wednesday. And Thursday. And Friday.”
I’m joking. But not really.
“We’d only get tired of it,” Justin says. “It’s best to have it just once.”
Once? I don’t know what he means. I don’t know how he could say that.
“Never again?” I ask. I don’t want to be wrong here. I really don’t want to be wrong.
He smiles. “Well, never say never.”
“I’d never say never,” I promise him.
Company. There are other couples on the beach now. Only a few, all of them older than us. Nobody asks us why we aren’t in school. Nobody asks us what we’re doing here. Instead, they seem happy to see us. It makes me feel like we belong here, that we are right to be doing what we’re doing.
This is how it’s going to be, I tell myself. And then I look at Justin and think, Tell me this is how it’s going to be.
I don’t want to ask him. I don’t want to have to ask. Too often, it’s my questions that push things off course.
I don’t want this to be fragile, but I still treat it like it is.
I’m starting to get a little cold. I have to remind myself that it isn’t summer. When I shiver, Justin puts his arm around me. I suggest we go back to the car and get the make-out blanket he keeps in his trunk. So we turn around, head back to where we started. Our castle is still there, still standing, even as the ocean comes closer.