ANA

Some reasonable part of me argues that Aiden is innocent. He couldn't have known. There was no way he was aware of what Quincy Beach means to me, or how many ghosts and memories will follow me around if we stay here, even if it's just for a day.

Another part of me- the bigger part- is angry. Angry because I'm crying in front of him, angry because he forced me to come along today when he knew I'd rather be doing anything else.

And for what? A stupid essay?

"Why did you make me come here?" I say, my voice bitter. I wipe away my tears and sniff, trying desperately to stop crying.

"I thought..." Aiden bites his lip and looks at me, for once at loss for words. Fancy that. He's all about language, and now here he sits, speechless.

"I hate it here. I hate your dingy little car and I hate English essays!" Part of that is actually a lie. I love his car. It's an ancient blue Jeep with a few scratches and dents here and there. The seats are worn but comfy and I find the uneven sounds its engine makes oddly comforting. But I'm not about to tell him that.

His eyes, which had been soft and concerned, harden a little bit now. "Listen, Ana. I'm not sure why you don't like Quincy Beach. If you told me, maybe that would help. But I drove all this way in the hopes that you would like it here and be enthusiastic enough to complete your essay. I'm just trying to do my job. What are you trying to accomplish?"

I'm trying to get myself expelled, I think. I'm trying to be my own person for once in my life. But he'd never understand if I told him that. I sigh heavily and turn away from him, drying off the last of my tears with my sleeve.

"Alrighty then," he says. "We're going to have a picnic on the beach and we're going to work on your essay. Let's go."

I don't reply, but I get out of the car and walk over onto the sidewalk, waiting for him to fetch my backpack. He can carry it. I don't want to aid this little excursion in any way. He takes it out of the trunk along with his own pack and slings them both on either side of his broad shoulders, then he starts walking without waiting to see if I'm following.

The air smells like salt and sea. As I trail him sullenly, I notice for the first time that he's wearing flipflops, shorts and a t-shirt. I look down at my own outfit and grimace. He should have told me where we were headed. I don't have a swimsuit and heels are not what I would have picked for the beach. I hadn't wanted to feel so short next to him, but now I'm regretting wearing them.

The beach houses on our right range in colour, some bright and colourful, painted in pastels, and others neutral in greys or whites. All too soon, though, there's sand next to me instead of houses as we get closer to wherever it is Aiden wants to set up the picnic.

If he thinks he can get one word out of me for that essay, he's got another thing coming.

I try not to, but as I follow Aiden barefoot onto the sand after pulling off my heels, I remember the last time I set foot on this beach. I was eleven. Mother and father and I had been here for the weekend. It had been a dream- getting baked in the hot sun all day while I made sandcastles and then walking over to my friend Sally's house to play some more. I had had an ice cream as the sun set and I strolled with my parents, the water lapping at our feet. It had been almost perfect...and then mother and father had had a big fight just before we were about to leave for home.

"I don't know how much more I can take, Charlie," I remember my mom saying.

I guess that finally, she really hadn't been able to take anymore. An unwelcome flash of her on the restaurant floor surrounded by people plays in my mind. I shiver.

Aiden is laying out a blanket, humming to himself softly. He hasn't said a word since we left the car. Can he tell how crazy this place is making me already? For some reason, I suddenly have an incredible urge to tell him how I feel. To tell him about days on the beach with the younger versions of my parents. To tell him that it hurts to be here, the way I thought it would, but that it would help if I just had someone to talk to about it all...

"I love the ocean," I hear the sound of my own voice saying. "Just...not this particular ocean."

I almost immediately regret saying anything. I shake my head at myself. Stupid girl. You don't know this man. Don't talk to him about oceans. Why are you even talking about oceans?

"You know," Aiden smiles at me gently, "almost all oceans are connected to each other. They flow into each other and from one another and mix together."

My heart clenches, but all I respond with is, "Whatever."

He kicks off his flipflops and digs his toes into the sand. "I once felt like coming back to somewhere where both something miraculously good and something indescribably bad happened would tear me apart. But it didn't. I'm still here today."

I frown at him. It's like he's reading my mind. "Yeah, well, what would you know about losing someone and then returning to the place where you'd had the greatest moments with them?" The words are out before I can stop them.

He concentrates on laying out the picnic things. "A lot more than you'd think," he says, quietly.

I drop my eyes. Could he have lost someone as important to him as my mother was to me? "My mother died," I tell him, not knowing why I'm telling him. I sit down on the blanket across from where he's standing, folding my legs beneath me. "She could have told me she was going to die, though. She knew. We could have come here together, one last time. I still don't know why she denied me that." My voice cracks with those last words.

He's silent for a moment, before sitting down as well and stretching his long legs out before him. "I'm sorry about your mom. I truly am." The way he looks at me is deep with compassion and I swallow back the tears that are threatening to return. "Ana, sometimes people can't bring themselves to say what they're supposed to say. And then, before they know it, it's too late. I know that all too well."

I wait for him to elaborate, but when he doesn't, I decide that it's not for me to know. "It sucks," I say. "It really sucks, and if she'd cared enough, she'd have told me."

He cocks his head, his blue eyes fathomless. "Is it really your mom that you're mad at, or someone else?" He waits for me to reply, but I look past him at the roaring waves and don't answer. Then he continues. "Do you know if she loved you?"

I have no doubts about that, at least. "Yes," I say.

"Then maybe she didn't have to say anything. Maybe she just showed you instead, and maybe her actions were enough to tell you that she cared."

Why do I feel this way? As if his words are exactly what I need to hear right now? I decide it's time to change the subject. "Are we going to get started on that essay or not?

~ ~ ~

  AIDEN

Ana is hurting, and I know exactly what kind of hurt she's feeling. It's a mixture of regret, bitterness, and loss. It's also anger and a deep, deep sorrow that doesn't just go away by itself.

But I can also tell that she's done talking about it for today.

I suggest to her that we eat first, and we do, not really saying much as we chew on our sandwiches and then drink from little fruit juice boxes. When the quiet becomes overwhelming, my mind wanders back to the fall I spent as a sixteen-year-old. With Emma. We'd had a picnic then as well, and it was one of the first times we were really ourselves around each other. We'd gone hiking, then she'd fallen on the way back, and I-

No, I couldn't think about that right now. It's strange and terrible how the good memories are the most painful.

"Where'd you go just now?" Ana pulls me from my thoughts, and I look at her. "Seems like you were far away."

"Oh," I say, dismissively. "Nowhere. I was just thinking that it might be nice to take a walk before we get to work."

She raises an eyebrow untrustingly. "I'm beginning to wonder if we really did come all the way out here to work on that essay?"

"I just think that a walk will help clear our heads," I say, and shrug.

She shrugs as well. "Okay."

We take a long walk, the only the sounds between us and around us those of seagulls and crashing waves. But I doubt either of us can hear any of it above the loudness of our thoughts anyways.

Later, when we're driving back to Cambridge, I put some music on again, and Ana sings, sounding more carefree than earlier. I glance down at the notebook in her lap, the one she adds another sentence to now and then with the pen she's holding. It's her essay. We didn't really get very far, but when I read the title she's written down, I feel a small sense of pride. I think I accomplished what I came out here to do. I think I made her see me as more than just a boring, bossy English tutor and her situation more than just a terrible mess.

Maybe.

She's entitled the essay What I Would Say to You If I Still Could. Just below the heading, there's a name in cursive.

Mom.

~ ~ ~

I get home very late after dropping Ana off and then going out for dinner by myself. Although I'm happy about the progress I made with Ana today, I feel almost jetlagged, and so tired. As if I took a trip to the past and came back worse for wear.

I shower for longer than I normally do, finding the water that streams down my back comforting. It's been a long time since I've allowed myself to think about Emma as much as I have today.

Something about Ana reminds me of her- but other than the shared trait of headstrongness, they couldn't be more different. Emma had been quieter, more reserved. She'd had sad eyes. Her spirit was firm, but also calm. She'd been secretive, a beautiful mystery.

Ana is a fighter, a noise maker, she doesn't like to stand down. She wants truth from people and then she wants them to listen to her truths. Her eyes are always filled with fire and she is determined.

What are you doing? I ask myself, as I change into pajamas and then sit on my bed with my head in my hands. Comparing them like this will only make things worse.

Why am I even comparing them?

My hope is that the essay helps to provide closure for Ana as well as helping me do my job. That's the only reason I'm thinking about both of them at the same time, because I need closure when it comes to memories of Emma and Ana needs closure because she misses her mom. It must be the reason.

There would be so many things I'd want to write down about Emma, if only I could promise myself I wouldn't ruin the paper I write on by drenching it in tears.

But I can't.