I thought of the Bernice Bing painting with the swirl of color surrounded by darkness, and in my mind her painting became inextricably linked to the poem. I saw the diver swimming closer to that swirl, that vortex, her hands parting the waves, her flippered feet kicking through the water. I saw her reaching for it as if it were a treasure long lost to the deep. But it was unreachable. The diver’s map was wrong. She kept swimming the wrong way, and the current would push her back over and over again, like the waves in the ocean pushing a frond of seaweed out and out. I was captivated by that imagined image: the diver hanging in mid-water as if suspended between past and future, as if trying to make a choice.

I must have dozed off, because when my phone rang I was so startled that I jerked, and the phone tumbled out of my pocket and fell onto the deck. My heart was thudding in my chest as I reached for it, hoping that the screen hadn’t broken, and I was so startled to see Tasha’s name come up that I didn’t hesitate. I answered her call.

“Aria?” Tasha’s voice sounded so familiar to me, and yet it hurt to hear it.

“Hey.” I blinked. I felt like I was the diver, pushing against the current to reach the surface.

“You didn’t answer any of my texts. What’s going on? Are you okay?”

I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the lounge. Diving into the Wreck slid from my lap onto the deck. The photo strip slid partway out, and I nudged it back in with my toe. “Sorry. The reception isn’t so good out here. I must not have gotten them.”

“Oh.”

There was a beat, two beats of silence. I knew she knew I was lying. “How was Thailand?” I asked.

“It was amazing. We stayed in this gorgeous little village on the ocean, and the food was like—I’ve never had Thai food like this.”

Tasha went on, gushing about her two-week internship, while I barely listened. My stomach was churning in a weird way, and nothing Tasha said seemed relevant to what was happening now, to me. It had only been a few weeks since high school graduation, but it already felt like a year ago.

“I’ll send you some pictures,” she was saying. “You have to see how beautiful it was.”

“Wait—where you are now?” I asked, suddenly checking in. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Paris?”

She paused. “I’m back for a week. We’re on the Vineyard for the Fourth, but we’re leaving on Saturday for France.” She paused again, then said, “I wish you were here. I really do. I’m sorry it didn’t work out this summer.”