The Tide Between Us

I change into a long-sleeved T-shirt since it's hot out, and I wear shorts—even though I have scars on my legs. Thank you, fifteen-year-old me. Not too bad, just a few near my ankle.

"Ready?" my uncle asks, and I nod. I haven't properly explored the area yet. Even the times I've been down here before, I never really got to look around.

"That's where your father and I grew up," Nick says, pointing at a smaller house down the street.

I flinch at the word father. Ew.

My hand drifts to my neck, scratching the rash again as we head toward the beach. There are people my age playing volleyball near the shoreline, and the scene is kind of... beautiful. Their silhouettes are blurred by the setting sun, soft golden light painting the sand. It's the kind of moment that would look perfect in a movie.

Anyway.

Nick and I eventually reach the fish bar he mentioned. I notice the boats tied up next to it, which I assume are used to catch the actual fish they serve.

We sit at a table by the window. The interior is cozy and beachy, decorated with surfboards, nets, and faded posters of the ocean. It's pretty, in a laid-back kind of way.

"Can I get you guys any drinks?" a guy asks, stepping up to the table. He looks about my age, with freckles scattered across his face—more visible thanks to the sun—and trailing down his arms and neck. His light brown hair looks like it's been bleached slightly at the tips by saltwater or sun, and his grey eyes catch a hint of green when the light hits just right.

"I'll get your Shark Attack cocktail!" my uncle announces enthusiastically.

The guy—Vinnie, according to his name badge (complete with a hand-drawn smiley face)—rolls his eyes in a way that seems more tired than rude.

"I'll take a Coke, please," I say, my voice flat.

Vinnie nods and walks off, and I watch him for a second longer than I mean to.

"So, how have you been feeling?" Nick asks, and I shrug.

"Better, I guess," I mumble, eyes fixed on the table.

He glances down at my neck where the rash is starting to show again.

"You should get that checked out," he says, nodding toward me.

"It's fine. I've had them for ages."
It's true—I can't even remember when they started.

"I don't want to pressure you into anything, Rive. I just want to help," Nick says, his voice soft. There's no pity in his expression—just genuine concern. The kind that doesn't make me feel like a burden.

"I know." I smile at him, small but sincere.
I'm scratching again. Damn it—I didn't even notice.

"Riven, you're bleeding," my uncle says, gently pulling my hand away from my neck. "Go clean it in the bathroom. You don't want to risk an infection."

I listen. I get up and head into the bathroom.

In the mirror, I catch a glimpse of the damage. Harsh, red scratches carve across the rash, the skin angry and irritated. It stings slightly, but I've felt worse.

I wet a tissue under the tap and dab at the area until the bleeding stops.

Then I take a step back and just... look.

My reflection stares back at me, familiar and strange all at once. My hair's getting long—curling a little at the ends. It's a dark brown now, but I used to be ginger. Over the years, it's just kept darkening. If I spent enough time in the sun, it might lighten into a deep copper, but that won't be happening anytime soon.