And just like that, I’m seventeen again, dressed in a terry cloth bathing suit cover-up with a camera strapped around my neck. I’m free from Trevor, from suggestions of cellulite, from the sense that I haven’t taken a photo that feels like me in months. I stare out the window, and I can see eight-year-old Luca and Lavinia leaping off the dock and a yellow speedboat ripping across the water. But then I blink, and I’m returned to my thirty-two-year-old body. I stare at the empty bay, wondering if there’s a way to go back.
