Page 47 of Then Came the Fall
“You’remyperson.”
I remember feeling honored. “You’re my person, too, Mommy,” I replied.
My person now is Jess.
I wish it was Matt.
But then we wouldn’t be here.
Chapter sixteen
15 Years Ago
Several of the most important moments of my life happened at the camp beach. I always thought it was interesting how it didn’t look the way you’d expect a beach to look: pristine sand, big, blue waves. Not our beach; instead of sand, we had rocks. When splashed by water, they would shine in brilliant natural tones, ranging from tiny pink quartz to larger, sparkly black and gray sedimentary rocks. When the tide went out and they dried off, the muted colors still danced in the light of the sun. The pebbles lived in long bands, each one stretching anywhere from a foot to a mile in striations across the shoreline. To the kids who took classes in the Science Center, they were a research laboratory. To the kids who loved to swim, the stones were a hindrance, the only obstacle keeping them from running into the water with barefoot abandon. But throughout my childhood, the gravel of the coast served a sole purpose, to hide the richest treasure of the Long Island Sound: beach glass.
I found my first piece of beach glass during my first summer at Sound Hollow. Despite being a damp morning, swim class had not been canceled, so I donned my one-piece rainbow bathing suit and wrapped myself in a polka dot beach towel when the bugle blew for first period. On the beach, I spread out my towel and waited for thelifeguards to decide if the water was too cold for us to swim in. I absent-mindedly picked up fistfuls of pebbles, enjoying the way they felt as they ran through my fingers, until I noticed a flash of emerald green. I dug through the small pile of rocks I’d just released and found its source, a triangle-shaped piece of frosted glass with soft, rounded edges. I rubbed it between my thumb and forefinger, appreciating its smooth texture.
Over the years, beach glass became one of my favorite things about camp. I could comb the coastline for hours, searching for pieces in brown, clear, and every shade of green imaginable. On a good day, I’d stumble across a piece in light aqua, but my favorite was royal blue, the rarest color of all. Sound Hollow legend had it that if you found a piece of blue beach glass, good luck would come your way. By the summer following my 16th birthday, I had a 32-ounce mason jar filled almost to the top with bits of beach glass. It was mine and Matt’s combined, and it sat on the window ledge above my twin-size bed in Cabin Three, where I was a junior counselor. Whenever we visited the beach, whether alone or together, we’d stop to pick up whatever gifts the Sound had deposited for us that day. Matt would come to co-eds or to hang out after Taps with a pocketful of beach glass mixed with lint from his shorts and offer it to me, smiling as my eyes widened, examining each piece. Then, before changing for bed, I’d empty out my pockets into the mason jar. To me, the jar represented our relationship, a beautiful tapestry of moments big and small, some smooth and polished, others raw, with edges that still felt a bit sharp or jagged.
One night, we agreed to meet at the cliff after the campers went to bed. Junior counselors had a curfew of midnight, but they had to stay in their cabins with their kids until Taps. After the bugle, the staff exodus began, everyone congregating at the Lodge. A small handful ofsenior counselors were assigned to do cabin patrol on a rotating basis to keep watch over the kids. Senior counselors didn’t have to report back to their cabins until one in the morning, when the camp director began the final round of night patrol.
I got to the cliff before Matt that night, since it was on girls’ side and the walk was much shorter for me than it was for him. I waited for him in the gazebo. The cliff was a large expanse of lush green grass with a short picket fence keeping campers and staff from the edge, a steep drop of easily 200 feet blanketed by the thick greenery of the woods and further down, by a giant hill of ever-eroding sand. To one side, there was a small cabin called Soundview that was used for the silk-screening class, and on the other side of the great lawn was a walkway that led to the beach stairs.
Matt arrived sweaty and out of breath from having jogged the whole way, certainly over a mile, probably closer to two. “Am I late?” he gasped.
I offered him a sip from my bottle of water. Grateful, he took a swig and handed it back to me. “You’re good. Take a breath.”
“Sorry. The kids were all hyped up. They wanted to sleep on the rec field.”
“For the meteor shower?”
“Yeah. Me and Scott told them they wouldn’t even be able to see the shooting stars from there because there’s too many lights. But they wouldn’t shut up about it.”
“My girls were pretty excited too, but not like that.”
“I think they thought it was like those movies,Don’t Look UpandArmageddon, where, like, the comets are going to come crashing into Earth or whatever.”
“Idiots.” I laughed.
“Anyway,” Matt continued, “I brought the stuff. I think I remembered everything.” He took off his backpack and set it on the bench along the gazebo wall. He pulled out a flashlight to inspect the contents of the bag. “Towels, snacks, iPod, travel speaker, and an extra sweatshirt for you.”
“You’re the best.” I draped my arms around his neck. He looked up and I kissed him. He closed his eyes. When I pulled away, he licked his lips.
“Mm,” he whispered. “Strawberry.”
We lingered there for a moment, foreheads touching, gazing into each other’s eyes. “You didn’t even ask me what I brought,” I said, breaking the silence.
“It better be something good if it’s important enough to interrupt this,” Matt joked.
“Forget it, you brat. Now I’m not telling you.” I smirked, pulling out of his embrace and swatting his chest.
“You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?”
“Yup,” I retorted, grinning. I began walking towards the beach stairs.
“Hey, wait up!” Matt called out, gathering up his things. Matt turned on an oversized flashlight and jogged up beside me.
“You go first,” I said.
