And then one time last summer—I think this was maybe the second-to-last week before school started—there was this girl who fell asleep on her floaty. It was one of those big ones that you could fit like three people on, you know?”

I nod.

“It was neon pink. I remember she was wearing an orange bikini because it clashed so bad.”

“What happened to her?”

“She got pulled way out,” Cherry says. She points one perfectly manicured finger toward the horizon. It stretches just above the Gulf: a long, thin blue line, bracing itself for the sun. At least, I think it’s there. I can see maybe five feet before everything turns into a bright haze. “Past the second sandbar.”

She blows a bubble, which pops almost immediately. I’ve only known her this one day, but I can definitively say that Cherry Lawler doesn’t know how to blow bubbles. I haven’t seen one last longer than a second, and Cherry chews gum and attempts to blows bubbles nonstop. It’s strange. These little almost-bubbles will—there! She just did it again. She stuck her tongue out, with the gum on the tip, just like anyone would. She closed her mouth and…I don’t get it. Does she not know how to blow a bubble? I guess the answer is “obviously not,” but is it a matter of not understanding it academically, or is it a matter of bad coordination?

“It took me like ten minutes to swim to her,” Cherry continues. “I was exhausted.”

“That’s a long time.”

“I know. My arms were like noodles.” Cherry shakes her tan, toned arms like noodles.

“Where were her parents?”

“Hmmm? No, she was like twenty or something.”

“And she couldn’t get in by herself?”

Cherry shakes her head. “She was freaking out.”

“What was she doing?”

“You know, crying and stuff. She was really scared.”

Cherry stretches her arms over her head and sighs. “And that was the most exciting thing that happened last summer.” I try to ignore the way her boobs almost come out of her bathing suit. The girl is straight out of Baywatch—the old TV show, not the new movie, which I haven’t seen: blonde hair, big red lips, double Ds.

I, on the other hand…well, I fill out my red one-piece okay. It’s more how our lives compare that threatens to drown me in despair. Cherry is twenty-three. She’s probably going to go to grad school—she’s been accepted already—or law school—she passed her LSAT with flying colors. She’ll become an English professor or a lawyer or a school administrator or something. She’ll get married on the beach, and she and her husband will settle some place like Tallahassee, and have two point whatever the number is now kids. Maybe they’ll get divorced. Maybe she won’t get married at all; she’ll join the Peace Corps or travel the world. Or maybe her Instagram account will finally reach thirty thousand followers—she’s been close “for like weeks”— and she’ll become one of those people who somehow live off social media.

Or she’ll be a lifeguard for the rest of her life. I really don’t know. All I know is she’s young, she has options. Her whole life is ahead of her.

I am a divorced 33-year-old who lives with my parents and has no idea what I want to do with my life. The short amount of it left.

And I know I’m being stupid. I’m still young…ish. Relative to how old I will probably be one day. But I feel old. Way too old to have HOT BEACH emblazoned across my chest in white font. Much, much older than the other girls.

They’re all nice. I met them at orientation last Friday. But, they’re young. Like really young: eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Cherry is one of the oldest. And yes, maybe you noticed, all the lifeguards are girls. And the company name is Hot Beach.

It’s hard not to feel like an objective failure in the life department. Especially since my parents got me this job. My dad thought I needed to get out of the house and into the sunlight.

He actually said that—“You just need some sunlight”—which is the most Florida dad thing to say ever.

I wish that was all I needed. I really do. But my life…I don’t even know what it is any more. And I never—I just never even imagined it would go like this.

I lived all the way on the other side of the country. I had a job. I had friends. A husband—

I squeeze my eyes shut, so tight they feel like they’re going to pop.

“Are you okay?”

I snap them open. Cherry is concerned, and my shame deepens. “Yeah, I, um, I think I got sand in my eye.” I stick my finger in the corner of my right eye and pretend like I’m trying to get something out.

“You know you’re allowed to wear sunglasses, right?” Cherry asks. She’s wearing stylish shades with thick, white frames.

“I don’t like them. They hurt my ears.”

“Have you tried Costas?”

“I’ve tried everything.”

Cherry considers this for a second before shrugging. “I guess you’re used to it.”

Not really. There was never this much sun in Seattle. I squint at the Gulf, and yeah, I probably do need to get some shades, ‘cause I can’t see anything.

It was never anywhere near this hot in Seattle either.

And it’s only May…

This is what hell feels like.

“Oh, it’s almost one,” Cherry says. “Let’s go ahead and do the walk.”

Okay, this is what hell feels like. “The walk” is a company policy; we have to walk our beach. We’re at Sea Sings, one of the original Longview resorts, but we don’t actually work for Sea Sings. We work for Hot Beach, LLC, a company that provides chairs, umbrellas, and lifeguards to all of the resorts in Longview, Florida.

“Remind me why we have to do this again?” I grumble as I follow Cherry down the lifeguard tower ramp and onto the hot sand.

“If they see us, they think they need us,” Cherry says.

“So claims the amazing Tripp Anders,” I mutter as I glare at a man who has been looking a little too long.

Cherry groans. “Bobby. You don’t even know him.”

His name might have already come up. “I know him,” I say defensively. “You know—I know about him.”

Everyone in Longview knows about Tripp Anders. He’s a real hometown hero: a surfing prodigy who was consistently ranked as the number one surfer in the world before a career-ending injuring about four years ago.

He spent a couple of years on the party scene—the international one—before moving back to Longview and opening Hot Beach.

“He’s not like the rumors,” she says.

“I’m sure.”

Cherry laughs. “Are you sure he didn’t do you bad in high school?”

“I’m sure,” I say evenly. I don’t want to remind Cherry that when I was in high school, Tripp was ten.

“Then what is it?”

I shrug. “I don’t know.” Cherry’s right: I don’t know him. “I’m sure he’s nice.”

“You sound sure.”

We’ve reached the border between Sea Sings and Down by the Dunes, the community of small, thatch-roofed bungalows beside it.

I turn back to our line of umbrellas and frown at the old men. Literally seventy percent of this beach right now is old men in Speedos. I don’t know if they leave their wives in their rooms or maybe they don’t have wives, but it’s a real-close-to-expiration sausage fest on the beach today.

“Why does he only hire girl lifeguards?”

“Why do you care?”

“It seems creepy.”

Cherry rolls her eyes. At least, I think I see them rolling behind her dark lenses. “If he was forty and fat and bald, I might see your point, but he’s Tripp Anders.” I shudder. “He doesn’t need to creep.”

“Men being creeps isn’t about whether or not they ‘need to be.’”

“I know, I know,” Cherry says, in a tone I used to use with my mom. “And the real reason is that the first year he only had like three hotels, so he only hired me, Kiki, Jen, and Christina. And then last year he had twelve, and we got all of our friends hired. And this year there are actually two guy lifeguards.”

“He has to have someone to model his trunks,” I grumble.

“What?”

“Nothing.” I am of the opinion that the real reason for the walk is free advertising for the other arm of Tripp’s business. This year he started selling bathing suits—the very same suits that Cherry and I are wearing—and trunks for men. He’s clearly using his staff as free advertising—he even has a contest right now for a hundred dollar gift card to the lifeguard who gets the most Instagram likes in a Hot Beach swimsuit. It’s exploitative, at best. And I don’t care what Cherry says, having like twenty female employees to a few men is definitely creepy.

“You’re never going to see him,” Cherry says. “He’s all about growing his brand now.”

“Growing his brand.” From what I’ve seen of his social media presence—and yeah, I looked—his “brand” is being attractive, rich, and douchey. Lots of posturing in expensive things: clothes, cars, hotel rooms. “I hope he sticks to it.”

* * *

I drop my bag on top of the two-tiered cubby just inside the door to my parents’ guesthouse. The cubby is lilac and sticks out like a sore thumb against the beige walls. The decent-sized living/dining area, kitchenette, bathroom, and bedroom are all shades of pale, with lots of coastal blue and green accents. The cubby is one of the few pieces of furniture I brought with me. It’s something I owned from before Kevin…before we moved in together.

At this point I’m not sure why I kept it. All it ever does is make me think of him.

Fuck. I need to think about something else. Something that doesn’t remind me of him. Something like…the beach! No, Hot Beach. No. Cherry? No, fuck. Blowing bubbles. Bath bubbles. Babies. Fuck!

I grab my cell phone—No. Mom and Dad are on vacation. I can call, but I shouldn’t. They left Friday, and it was pretty obvious they were leaving to get away from me.

And that’s fine. It is. They’ve been incredible. Mom practically lived with me during the divorce, and they let me move here after—

Fuck, I’m thinking about it. I’m fucking thinking about it.

I need something. Something on TV, maybe.

What time is it? 5:07 p.m.

I’m not going to let that depress me. I’ve got shows waiting for me. Netflix and Hulu. And I’ve got wine. Wine and Xanax.

I turn on the TV, click on the Netflix app, and peel my Hot Beach one-piece off. I need a shower, probably. Or maybe a dip in the pool.

I open the double-doors that lead to the backyard. It’s pretty big for a beachfront property: big enough for a pool and a little bit of grass on either side. The main house is built kind of like an “L” from the perspective of the road. Three bedrooms and a long hallway with floor-to-ceiling windows shield the south end of the yard from the neighbors. The guesthouse has me covered on the north. And I also kind of don’t care if the neighbors see me.

The pool deck is concrete, which my parents installed seven or eight years ago. When I was growing up, it was wood, which was pressurized and treated and still did terrible because Florida. The pool itself is just the same as when I was younger.

Mom and Dad built this house when I was twelve. Even though I didn’t spend most of my childhood here, it still feels very much like my childhood home. I guess so much happens when you’re a teenager, everything before that gets compressed.

I’ve got a lot of memories in this pool. Even some naked ones.

I dive in—a shallow dive, because I’m at the shallow end. The water feels amazing. The shade from the tall palms keeps the water from getting too hot, and right now, it’s perfect.

I swim to the deep end, take a deep breath, submerge myself beneath the water, and push off against the wall. I swim to the other side, and then back, before I have to surface for air. And when I do, my first thought is Kevin.

Fuck.

I pop out of the water and dash back to the guest house. I skip the shower, dress in cotton shorts and a ratty T-shirt, and grab my bottle of wine from the counter.

If my parents were home, I’d be at their place for the rest of the night. But they aren’t, and I don’t know what to do. They’ve been gone for three days—only three days—and I feel like I’m losing it. Being alone—I used to think I was fine with it, but now, it’s just too much. Maybe it’s the difference between alone by choice and alone because I have no friends, no husband, no—no anything.

All I have left is wine. Red wine, which I didn’t even drink before moving home. Anything white…I don’t know why, but it reminds me too much of Kevin.

I unscrew my shiraz—I thought I recognized someone at the liquor store, panicked, and grabbed the first red bottle I saw—and take a few gulps before dragging myself off the couch and into the kitchenette.

My Xanax is in the medicine drawer.

I stare at the bottle before shaking a single blue pill into my hand.

I cross my legs on the couch and acknowledge the true breadth of my misery with an objectivity that comes from knowing I’m not going to feel it soon.

I’m pretty miserable.

I swallow my Xanax with a several gulps and savor my moment of victory.