I drive myself insane when I think of how our loved behaved so chaotically. That day I begged you to take me to Las Olas and you asked how far it was and I lied, told you that we were close. You hated driving through the cities I grew up in, but you did it anyway. I wish you’d been nicer to that waitress, wish you didn’t feel the need to scoff at everyone we saw. I wish I wouldn’t have taken you there, given you a piece of myself, showed you a place my family used to go to when we were still a family. Do you remember how that seagull shat on me, right on my thigh, and how I was too tired to be embarrassed or worried? You cleaned me up and kissed my lips and wrapped a blanket full of sand around me. I prefer not to think about that day, but I can’t be anything besides heavy. I still think of how sunburnt my nose got and how we watched two people get married on the beach and how odd it was that our bodies fit perfectly in that hole we found. You loved me but you hated admitting it sometimes. I loved you but I felt ugly that day. You said you liked my hair when I did nothing to it. I told you I wanted to cut all of it off. You wouldn’t even know how to love me now, my hair so short and my arms no longer bare. Do you remember when you told me not to tattoo my arms, not to compromise my own beauty, to think about myself in a wedding dress? You asked me if I’d want to marry you with tattooed arms. All I could say was that I wanted to marry you, with whatever sort of arms. In Carlsbad, on that day, I loved you the most. I don’t think you realized then how many days of my childhood were spent on that stretch of sand; how many cold mornings I sat in holes on the beach dug by tiny hands; how many times I begged my mother to keep driving south. And now, I’m sure you don’t realize how whole it felt at the time. How badly I wanted to be your wife someday. How honest I was being with myself and you when I told you that I really, truly loved you back. I always hated eating in front of you. I hated the way you wouldn’t ever not order a beer. I hated the way you slept and I didn’t. I hated the way we shared whole shorelines with each other, and yet we couldn’t sort out how to share anything else.