Page 100 of Whiskey Splash

I made Naomi swear to not tell Desmond where I am.

Or Arie.

“Please inform them I’m on the island,” I told her. “Tell them I’m fine, and that they should focus on finishing the film and the wrap party. I’ll talk to them when I’m ready to talk to them. I need space.”

Naomi nodded before taking my computer, my phone, and the landline that’s normally at her parents’ bungalow.

I wanted all electronics and internet devices gone, out of my mind and unable to beep or chirp or distract me. This bungalow is a social-media-free-zone, a black hole of silence to protect me from whatevershitis being said about our photo on the internet. I don’t want to hear a single word of it. Even if it’s Arie cursing the world on my behalf. Even if it’s Desmond whispering I love you.

I want the silence.

I want the salty breeze to mummify me in a Zen-like cocoon of quiet bliss. Everything felt so small and impossible when that photo raked through my life, and I’m trying desperately to carve out a small island of space for myself. A space that’s free of gossip and judgement and strangers butting into my life. Judging my life. Thinking I’m—

I lie back on my yoga mat and push the images from my mind of that asshole at the spa soliciting me, or Jeremy’s friends making lewd jokes, and every stranger who thinks my body belongs to them because they’ve seen me in a compromising situation.

The last three days of yoga and meditation and journaling have helped to empty my mind, but they can’t seem to fill up the cavern in my chest and the feeling that running away from Desmond feels like cowardice. I stare out at the endless ocean, wide and expansive, covering more than half the globe with its vastness—and I feel so small.

I could leave Hawaii.

I could go anywhere in the world. I’m young. I’m capable. I could dance on the shores of the globe and dip my toes in the water of a dozen different seas and oceans—the Atlantic, the Mediterranean, the Baltic. There is so much more of the world to see and all I’ve been doing is skipping in the puddles of my sister’s shadow. I want to rise with the sun, embrace adventure, and shine on my own.

But is running across the globe still running?

I curl up into a tight ball and ask myself what I’m really running from? The photo and the past? The words and judgements of those on the internet, the strangers I don’t know? Or maybe the fact that I really do have feelings for Desmond?

Real. Honest. Feelings.

Am I truly not strong enough to weather this storm for him? Doesourintimate moment truly no longer belong to us? Was it not his body I wanted to taste and take and hold inside me? Was it not his touch I wanted to expose to the sun with every tender inch of my skin? Was it not his heart that made me feel brave enough to wrap us in the light? Am I really afraid of how real and raw and culpable the two of us really were?

The lump in my throat says yes.

The lump in my throat is also harder and deeper than just him. Somehow, I haven’t been living my life at all here in Hawaii. I’m an imposter in my own story. A lightly sketched side-character that even I wasn’t willing to fully face, or ask: Who are you? What do you really want? Without your sister? You? Esme? Who do you want to become?

I feel raw and scraped bare. The photo scalds me with how naked and sexual it is, but something deeper in that image makes my soul shake. For the first time I was me. For the first time I was unafraid, and vulnerable, and willing to be real. If the photo had been the two of us that first night—on the terrace in the pool—would I be as upset about it?

I cover my face with my hands. The answer is no. Yes, it was the beginning of something between Desmond and I, but it wasn’t the moment I wanted to be truly free. Truly me.

The sky above is blue and cloudless. Like the ocean, it’s so wide and endless, as if everything around me is trying to tell me that the only thing holding me hostage is my own fear and cowardice. I could open my own private contractor business and be my own boss. I could give private massages and make my own hours and belong to myself. I’d have the freedom to do that anywhere, and I’d never have to be tied down again.

The thought alone terrifies me. But it’s also exhilarating—to be on my own, to do something without my sister, to do something that’s all mine.

I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with salt and possibility. Have I really been following Arie because I didn’t want to make any real decisions for myself? Has she always been my security blanket? The shield I used after Jeremy to make sure I was always safe?

My fingers tingle. The ocean is so wide with its possibilities. Almost too vast, it’s paralyzing. I could do anything, so instead I do nothing. Even with Desmond, I pushed the possibility away again and again and again, because it was a challenge I wasn’t ready for. Thank goodness he was persistent. Thank goodness Arie was too.

I open my arms wide on the sand, yoga matt at my back, palms up and receiving. How is it possible that I’ve spent most of my life letting others make decisions for me? How is it possible that I let the waves of the ocean push and pull and drag me, without once trying to swim against its tow?

It’s time to stop.

Time to start deciding what I want for myself.

I get up off my mat and walk toward the ocean, wading into the light surf. Sand swirls between my toes but the water is warm and inviting. I wade all the way up to my waist in my shorts and tank-top, reminding me of my date with Desmond and the lightning storm that blew in without warning. That night, all I wanted to do was run furiously toward danger—electric skies, roiling surf, powerful undertows.

I was alive then, truly alive. Truly unafraid.

I dive into the ocean and swim, holding my breath, pulling myself through the water till my arms and legs burn. I surface and continue to swim toward the horizon, toward infinity, toward all the possibilities. Only, this time I’m not following my sister, and I’m not letting the waves and swells decide where I should go for me.

I’m headed forward.

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