Jesus, I sounded like a scared dope. But if someone—or two or ten someones—lived here, I didn’t want to be rude.
Or murdered.
The shack was empty. And bigger than I thought. My light wasn’t strong enough; I had to illuminate parts of it at a time. Moonlight filtered in through cracks in the roof and through the one glass-less window cut into the side, drifts of sand piled against it.
I guessed the shack was about two hundred square feet. Rickety, uneven wood planks made up the flooring. A tangle of poles still wound with fishing line—like white witch’s hair—stood in one corner. A bucket. A bench. Even a small table with a rusted scaling knife resting on it.
I’d found a fisherman’s shack, weather-beaten, salt-rusted. Out of sight and forgotten and unused in months, if not years. It had its own small stretch of beach, and the ocean crashed a few hundred yards away, too far away to threaten.
Mine.
I sank down on the splintered but sturdy wooden bench. Suddenly, I was so fucking tired. I pillowed my head on my arm on the table, smelling wood and salt. My eyes fell shut at once.
When my CGM’s alarm went off, dawn’s first light was filtering in the shack’s lone window and streaming in from gaps in the planks like slivers of gold. I knew immediately where I was, as if I’d been coming here for years.
Treasure. I found buried treasure.
Just as I had four years ago, the night I’d stumbled out of the forest to see Violet McNamara’s face peering down at me from her bedroom window.
I popped a few gummies and finished off the bottle of orange juice. When I felt steadier, I stretched the cricks out of my bones for sleeping hunched over a table and grabbed my guitar case.
Outside, the sun was just cresting the horizon to the east. My eyes stung with tears—probably just the cold wind—as I watched the light spill over the ocean that was no longer angry but calm. Serene.
In front of my shack, I found a flat rock and sat facing the water. I took my guitar from its case, looped the strap around my neck. The fingers of my right hand found their home on the frets, and the left went to the strings.
The sun rose, and I played Violet’s song. My voice—rough and scratchy, like old wood—sang the words that had been trapped in my heart for years. I sang them louder, strummed the guitar harder. Fueled by fruitless, hopeless longing, the words rose up and up…
Until they were caught by the wind and torn to shreds.
All I’ll Ever Want
Pretend I’m doing fine on my own
a lost soul with nowhere to go
I got holes in my shoes walking away from you
there’s living and then there’s life
don’t tell me it’ll be all right
this nomad needs a home a home
So maybe fall in love with me tonight
You’re right there but so far away
A thousand words in my mouth
And I got nothing to say
put you in my love song, hiding in plain sight
Don’t make me say it again
Guess I’ll have to play it again
And make you fall in love with me tonight