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“I just didn’t want that guy to have it or for it to be lost in his damn boat,” I tell her, meaning every word. “I would love for you to have it, though.” You can have all of me.
“Can I keep you?” I ask, my soft voice cracking with emotion as my eyes well up too. “As long as I can keep you.”
“When I think about you, I touch myself.” She lets out a short breath in reply, but I can see the side of her mouth turn up slightly before she counters, “Yeah, me too. I rub my temples because you give me a damn headache.”
“Here, you need to hold this,” he tells me, holding out his hand curled in a fist, concealing whatever is in it. I assume he wants to give me another piece of sea glass, so I reach out my hand. Instead, he uncurls his fist and interlocks his fingers with mine.
I can’t be the anchor when I’m already drowning, nor the lighthouse when my own light is flickering on the verge of being snuffed out.
