Shelby gives me a sympathetic nod. “In that case, perhaps the sweetest form of justice comes from you boldly moving on. Leave them to each other. We survive, we thrive, and we never give them power over us again.”
It’s my turn to pause, holding her gentle gaze. I’ve never mentioned what she admitted to me in the garage. Not to Rachel, not to anyone. Shelby may be a child psychologist who deals with cases like mine in a professional capacity, but she and I both know her experience runs deeper. She bears her own scars.
“Is that what you would do?” I ask.
She smiles, tears in her eyes. “I would want the future too. No more living in the past.”
I nod, my heart fluttering with relief at being understood. Next to me, Poppy sucks in a breath that sounds almost like a sob.
“Pop? You okay?” Rachel asks.
“Oh, goodness,” she says with a little laugh. “Don’t mind me. I’m such a hormonal mess these days.”
“What about you?” I say at her. “What would you do?”
She sniffs back her tears, wiping under her nose. “Some days it feels like my past holds more ghosts than the Haunted Mansion.” She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. Slowly, she opens them. “I want the future too,” she says, her lips quivering as she places a hand on her little bump. “Heaven help me, I can’t keep looking back. I want to look forward. I need to look forward.”
I nod, giving her shoulder a squeeze.
“Well, here,” says Rachel, glancing around the sand at our feet. “Find a shell.”
Poppy sniffles. “What?”
“Everyone find a shell,” Rachel says again.
Seashells litter this stretch of beach—cockles and whelks, even the occasional conch shell. Most are no bigger than a silver dollar. I find one half-buried in the sand. It’s a little scallop shell, orange at the edges and rosy pink at the base.
Next to me, Shelby dusts off a little white shell. “What are we doing with these?” she asks, holding it in her open palm.
“Everyone has one?” Rachel replies, holding a curled black shell in her outstretched hand.
We all show our shells, our fingers dusted with sand.
“Right, so this was something my grandma did with us when we were little,” Rachel explains. “You whisper a secret to the shell, a hope, a dream. You give it to the shell to carry, and the ocean keeps it safe.”
Poppy raises a skeptical brow. “You want me to tell this shell a secret?”
Rachel smiles. “If you want. Or you can give it your past. Give it your ghosts.” She looks to me, her gaze solemn. “Give it your pain, your frustration.”
“I’m gonna need a bigger shell,” Shelby deadpans.
“Shells are tough,” Rachel replies. “They can hold more than you think.”
I look down at my shell, noting the thin ridges and the color, rusty like my hair. My heart beats faster as I close my fingers around it, letting those ridges imprint into the meat of my palm.
Rachel stands next to me, her eyes falling shut as she takes a deep breath. “Give the shell whatever you need it to carry for you. And when you’re ready…let it go.”
“Let it go?” Poppy repeats.
Rachel smiles, opening her eyes. “Like this.” Giving her shell a little kiss, she cocks her arm back and flings her shell out into the waves, letting the water swallow it. Then she lets out a deep exhale, her shoulder relaxing.
Closing my eyes, I concentrate on the shell in my hand, feeding it my anger and frustration, my fear, my loneliness, my own self-defeat. I am Tess. I am strong and confident. There is no room for shame. I give it to the shell. I am beautiful and kind. There is no room for insecurity. I let the shell have that too. I am powerful. I am wanted. I am loved. There is no room for doubt.
Giving the shell one last squeeze, I open my eyes and gaze out at the water. I watch the waves crash in once, twice, the white caps frothing against the sand as the water laps at my toes. Taking a deep breath, I cock my arm and fling the shell into the air, watching as it sails over the surf to land with a soundless plop in the grayish blue water.
“There.” I take Rachel’s sandy hand in mine. “It’s done.”
“It’s done,” she repeats.
To either side of us, Poppy and Shelby throw their shells into the ocean too. The four of us stand there with tears in our eyes, watching as the waves crash at our ankles.
After a few minutes of reverent silence, Poppy clears her throat. “Anyone up for brunch?”