Cassidy tried to smile, but it felt more like a twitch.
They grabbed their boards from the roof, and she clipped the dry bag containing Reeve’s remains around her waist with a nylon strap. Then the two of them walked down the steps to the cold sand. None of the surfers at Ocean Beach wore booties or gloves, even in February. It was some sort of code of toughness, and Cassidy felt the need to comply, for Reeve, even though she couldn’t explain why it was important. The icy water froze her toes instantly, and the heavy water pushed and pulled at her as she waded in quickly, eyeing the incoming waves. When a break came, she hopped on her board and began paddling hard; in her periphery, she saw Quinn do the same. The dry bag rolled side to side on her arched back as she sprinted.
Ocean Beach’s main challenge was the relentless number of waves a surfer had to dive under to get outside the breakers. Another challenge resulted from the currents, which were some of the strongest on Earth. Her first duck dive froze her cheeks and forehead, and Reeve’s dry bag resisted submersion so that she almost didn’t get under the wave. Quinn popped up too, and they stroked and dove under six, seven, ten waves, until she lost count and the effort took over her whole being. It seemed to take an hour, or maybe longer, but when they finally surfaced to see unbroken, shifting ocean, her entire body shuddered with relief.
“I’ll never understand why you think this is fun,” Quinn said to her between heaving breaths. Even though a fit runner and something of a fitness geek, paddling a surfboard in stormy surf was no small feat.
“Sometimes it’s not fun,” she replied. Her shoulder muscles throbbed with a pleasant ache, and her core felt warmed by the battle. “It’s necessary.” She knew he understood this because he ran marathons.
They sat on their boards for a moment, catching their breath. Cassidy paid attention to their position and the incoming waves, making sure they were safe.
“Shall we do this and get out of here before we get clobbered?” Quinn said, his wet eyelashes looking thick and dark against his pale, freckled cheeks.
Cassidy unclipped the dry bag and opened it, breathing hard with the strain of staying afloat on her short board while her hands reached in and removed a plastic bag. It felt surprisingly heavy. Quinn held the bag while Cassidy re-clipped the dry bag to her waist, her frozen fingers fumbling with the clasp.
“Well, Reeve,” Quinn said, eyeing Cassidy. “Here’s to a happy afterlife.” He handed the bag to Cassidy.
She looked at the gray ashes. “I’m sorry,” she said as the sadness dropped through her like a stone. “I never gave you a second chance. And I wasn’t there for you.”
“Hey,” Quinn said. “You’re here now, okay? Quit beating yourself up. Reeve wouldn’t want that.”
Cassidy looked at him, and then at the blue expanse. “But if I had taken his call, maybe I could have done something.”
Quinn shook his head. “You were going through hell when he called. And you were in Eugene. What could you have done?”
Cassidy’s logical mind wanted to believe him, but her emotions felt stuck.
“You tried, Cass,” he said. “And it almost cost you your life.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “I think it’s safe to say you did your best. It’s okay to let him go.”
Cassidy took a deep breath and tore open the bag. Gritty ash spilled into the ocean, some of it sinking, some of it floating off on the swift current. Quinn reached for her hand, and the two of them watched it all disappear.
Cassidy wheeled her suitcase up the cracked walkway to her house. Though gone for only four days in California, it felt longer. Quinn had offered to take some time off and come with her, but she had declined. She needed to get back to her life.
She unlocked her door and stepped inside, and the emptiness enveloped her like a cold draft. After removing her shoes, parking her suitcase by the couch, and turning on the heat, she poured herself a glass of water from the kitchen sink. The stove light shone over the empty range, with a welcome home note from her neighbor, a retired schoolteacher whom Cassidy had asked to collect her mail. The previous tenants must have spent a lot of money ordering clothes and electronics because every day her mailbox was stuffed full of catalogues. She had heard of a phone number she could call to stop this ridiculous waste of paper, but somehow she never took the time to look it up.
Cassidy scooped up the bundle and headed for the recycle bin when the yellow edge of a manila envelope flashed among the colorful glossies. The returns stamp read Library of Congress in Washington D.C. In a flash, the memory of when she had placed the request for all of Pete’s articles returned.
Months ago, she had woken in the middle of the night, but not by her usual nightmare of Mel’s face hovering over hers, his eyes soft and sad as they watched her drift away. Instead, she had dreamed that she, Pete, and Reeve were part of a crowd of people who were all flowing into a giant stadium. Pete carried a tray of food and beers, protecting it by hunching his body and extending his elbows. “That story you did about the Hernandez family,” Reeve was saying. “How did you know all that stuff?”
Pete had worked on that story nonstop for weeks, staying up late, fielding calls from his editor at all hours of the day and night. He had piles of notes—hand scribbled, scraps of pages he had printed, lime green sticky notes affixed to it all like giant confetti. It hadn’t struck her as particularly odd
