My arms cut through the water with practiced strokes, carrying me beyond the break. Out here, the white sandy shore is almost out of sight and the swells crest high overhead. Ten feet, maybe more if the wind picks up.

I catch a few waves and paddle back out, farther and farther after each ride, half-hoping for a current to grab me in its clutches and drag me under. My eyes move over the horizon, that endless stretch of Pacific Ocean I’ve spent the past six months staring at with bleak eyes. The sun is a ball of fire, sinking ever lower in the sky, turning the sea into a gleaming orange-pink mirror. Behind me, mist-shrouded cliffs jut up into the sky like jagged green knives.

Arguably the prettiest time of day to surf — and also the most dangerous. On more than one occasion, I’ve spotted sleek gray fins cutting a lethal path along the reef as I wait for waves in the twilight.

Feeding time.

Most of the other surfers were smart enough to head in already, but I make no move to follow. Maybe there’s a part of me that likes it: the thought of death swimming slow circles around me as I bob here on the surface. Maybe it’s the only thing that makes me feel anything at all, these days. Because despite the eighty degree water, despite the sunshine-drenched days and hot-as-hell nights… the block of ice that’s been sitting inside my chest for nearly two years hasn’t thawed. Not a single fucking drop.

There’s a splash in the water behind me — a pod of dolphins breaching. I don’t bother turning to look. The bottle-nosed little fuckers are never far away, their happy faces and playful air-flips a glaring contrast to the goddamned misery eating its way through me. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear they enjoy rubbing their glee in my face, trilling and squeaking as they swim in mated pairs, their babies shooting after them like streaks of gray lightning.

I’ve been out here for so many hours, my fingers are prunes, my lips cracked with dehydration. I know I should paddle back toward the beach, but I can’t. Not until I’m so exhausted, I’ll collapse into my bed in dreamless sleep, so deep even memories can’t stir me awake. Until I’m so drained of energy, my mind can’t conjure the ghost that visits me every night — her face beside mine on the pillow, her hair spilling out in the moonlight. Flashing gold eyes and a careful half-smile.

Asleep or awake, there is no respite. I see her beauty in every sunrise, hear her voice in the wind that stirs the trees. I am haunted by a dream I’ll never possess again.

I am living a nightmare I’ll never escape.

When my arms are deadweight at my sides, burning from hours of paddling, I catch one final wave, a perfect pipeline that surrounds me in an aqua tunnel as I ride it all the way into the shallows. The sun has nearly set by the time I hit the sand, unstrapping the velcro leash from my ankle and tucking my board beneath one arm.

I’m surprised to see another car pulled off on the dirt shoulder next to the jacked-up Jeep Wrangler that came with the house I’ve been staying at. This bay is off the beaten track, an unspoiled haven for locals looking to escape from the beach chairs and sand castles, the beer coolers and boom boxes blaring bad music that have ruined the more popular sandy stretches of coastline.

As I approach, two teenage girls pile out of their blue hatchback and start snapping pictures of the sunset over the water while their mother waits behind the wheel, enjoying the crisp air-conditioning and a respite from the constant chatter spewing from her daughters. Tourists on a Hawaiian vacation, judging by their thick midwestern accents and sun-scorched skin. I wonder how they found this beach; most visitors stick to the bustling hub of Waikiki, never wandering into the more authentic corners of Oahu.

I’ll have to find a new spot, if this one starts getting popular.

Damn tourists.

I don’t make eye contact as I toss my board into the back of the open-sided Jeep and grab a faded t-shirt from the bottom of the trunk. It smells like salt and sweat, but I tug it over my damp torso anyway, shaking water droplets from my overgrown hair like a dog after a bath. It’s been half a year since I bothered cutting it — the ends stir against my shoulders in the breeze off the ocean.

I look nothing like myself. Nothing like the man I used to be, when my face dominated every tabloid magazine and my drunken antics filled every police blotter. Which is why I’m so surprised to find the two teenage girls suddenly standing in my path, their bright eyes locked on my heavily-bearded face with curiosity and excitement.

“Oh my god,” the one on the right breathes. “You’re… Are you…”

A flicker of annoyance moves through me. I sidestep the fangirls and swing myself up into the doorless driver’s seat with one hand on the overhead bar. Fishing the keys from the glove compartment, I shove them into the ignition with haste.

“Hey! Aren’t you that guy from—”

“No.” I turn over the engine with a rumble, cutting off their question as it roars to life. “I’m no one.”

“Wait! You’re—”

The car is barely in gear when I pull off the dusty shoulder onto the narrow roadway, leaving them behind with baffled looks on their still-innocent faces. My own words haunt me the whole ride across the island, back to the cliff-perched villa where I’ve spent the past six months hiding out from my life in the vain hope that if I stay away long enough, I might disappear entirely.

I’m no one.

Not anymore.