Page 15 of Letting Go

By the "mess with Claire," she means when Steven Miller tried to take vengeance on Finn Colton and went after Claire and nearly killed her.

"He showed up, Chloe. They all did. Even Jackson. When Finn was laid up they all pitched in. Especially Bryce."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean you know anything about him."

"Finn's great and he's great for Claire and he's been great for the community. Finn and Bryce have been talking about winter and making Saturday night a Burger and Dip thing where you just get a hamburger or veggie burger and a drink for a few bucks and then you go jump in the ocean."

"Ah, thus the 'dip.' Sounds freezing."

"Bryce is right there along with him. Bryce, Nic, and Finn all go way back. They trust each other with their lives. And Jackson is a puppy. Young and sweet."

"Why don’t you date one of them if they're all that great."

She opens her mouth to say something, decides against it, and then shifts her answer. "Bryce isn't my type. Too big. Jackson's a puppy, and Nic? Too metrosexual. He's too perfect."

"Doesn't mean I can trust Bryce with my heart." Immediately, blood rushes to my cheeks. I'm not used to sharing personal thoughts and certainly not thoughts about my heart with anyone. Devon is the one who found me, who wrote to me, who encouraged me to come back to the family fold, who told me to love, and who told me to trust in the love of others.

I can tell by her eyes I've hurt her.

But asking me to trust Bryce is something I can't do yet.

Devon set the last bottle of wine on the shelf. "We all have secrets," she says, not looking at me. "We all have a past. And sometimes you just have to let go."

"I don’t even know what that means."

She sighs and leans against the counter. "It means you have to take risks."

Suddenly, my default button is pushed and I'm angry all over again. Take risks? She has no idea of the risks I take. Every single day. I can’t even go into town without looking over my shoulder and it’s going to be that way forever. That's my life. Maybe not her definition of risk, but the danger I face is just as real as hers.

I have to go for a walk. I have to get out of here before I say something I'll regret.

One of my favorite places to go as a kid was Rock Island. Just beyond, on the shoreline was the entrance to the bay's namesake: Echo Caves. Locals took down the sign years ago directing tourists toward the gaping tunnels. People who could read the tide charts, wouldn't, and then they'd get trapped in the caves by rising water. There are always a handful of tourists who don't understand how tides work or don’t care, but when the tide is twelve to fourteen feet, the entire landscape changes. So does where and when you can walk. If you're not used to reading the timetables you're in trouble. People can program television shows, games, their virtual life to turn on when they want and I guess they think the sea operates the same way: at their convenience.

Instead, we tell tourists that Echo Bay is so narrow that if you stand on one side and yell your name, it will rebound and echo back. The application works especially well on Rock Island, with sounds bouncing off knobby, scraggly crops of white-orange granite and quartz jetting out to the sea like arrogant chins. I love the stubble of trees and low growing blueberry bushes lining a slender trail winding along the perimeter.

We played here as kids, hiked the trail, swam in the water-filled quarry—Travis called it "sweet water" because it was rain and spring-fed, not saltwater.

Now, it's as if I've rediscovered the place, reacquainting myself with the blue herons and mallard ducks that nest here just yards from a crashing sea. Chickadees, woodpeckers, crows, and seagulls all share the same space with the occasional osprey. Laurel explained eagles are returning.

Walking along the perimeter taking in the salt air, I'm content.

Alone and content and happy. I have a project out there that's all mine and though it feels odd to claim it, I'm working on it. The sun is warm on my back and the breeze tugs at my hair. I can taste salt and there's a small release in my chest, a small little chink let's go.

I am home, I remind myself.

Then, just as I step from the bushes to the white beach sand, I catch a movement. Someone in the bushes just behind me set my heart trilling in my throat, as painful as it did in town, and I try not to panic. I simply lengthen my stride and walk with more purpose toward the causeway, pretend to look at a watch on my wrist, and then reach into my pocket and mime taking out a cell phone as if talking to someone.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm gonna be home soon. Gotcha. I don't know. Terrible connection, don't worry. Give me five minutes… Okay, bye."

I continue to walk fast, the hair on the back of my neck up, every single nerve in my body electrified, ready to run if I need to. It's just kids, I tell myself. Could be teenagers smoking dope. Could be anyone, I think. What I fear is it's someone, a deputy, from Everlast.

Matt Gutten or Mike Mitchell. M&M's were what we all called them.

There's thrashing behind me, twigs snap, but I refuse to turn around. I just keep walking and with another scramble up and over, The Inn is in sight. I track it and start jogging, waving to a few families dotting the beach, as if I'm connected to them. As if I have someone waiting for me.

I suck in air in long raspy pulls and focus on not hyperventilating.

I finally slow down at the causeway and dare to turn around. There, behind me, shoving each other and laughing, are two teenage boys. Both lanky, one black, one white, their swim trunks ballooning around their thighs, they're shoving each other and messing around.