The day we leave, exactly one month after the wave—September 29—Cynthia comes to say goodbye. She takes me aside and presses a tarot deck into my hands. It’s a Rider-Waite-Smith deck, like the one I have but a different version.

“I read your mom’s cards with this the day before she left,” Cyn says. “This was the deck she bought me, years ago.”

I stare at the box, which has The Magician on the front, holding a wand up high, an infinity symbol traced over his head. As above, so below.

“Did she get Death?”

Cyn shakes her head. “She got The Fool.”

“The Fool?”

Starting a journey. I guess that makes sense.

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” she says. “You know what I’ve decided?”

“Huh?”

“Death is just the beginning.” She wraps her arms around me. “You have so much of her in you, honey. Don’t forget that. She was magic. So are you.”

I almost tell her what I know, about Dad, but then Micah’s there looking shattered. I let go of Cyn and follow Micah to the little wall that runs along the bike path on the beach. He sits down and pulls me onto his lap and I bury my face in his neck. I hear him sniffling, and when I look up, there are tears rolling down his cheeks and I hate the world. I hate it so much.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he says.

He looks as lost as I feel.

“I love you,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

Is this the end—the real end? I don’t want to be alone. And I can’t imagine losing him, too.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he murmurs.

His arms tighten around me, and I can’t help but think about the stories of people whose kids or wives or parents were pulled out of their arms by the wave. It doesn’t matter how tightly you hold on to someone. Eventually you have to let go.

But I don’t know how.

We stay like that until Mae softly calls my name.

“The airport shuttle’s here,” I say.

He presses his lips to my forehead. “Call me from the airport.” My cheek. “Call me when you get in.” The tip of my nose. “Call me in the middle of the night, and every second of every day.” My lips. “Call me.”

I can taste his tears and mine. “I will.”

“I’ll be there for Christmas. And we’ll make lots of hot Los Angeles love.”

I laugh a little. “It’s a deal.”

“It’ll be perfect. Just a couple months away,” he says, his fingers trailing along my jaw. “And then you’ll come back and we’ll get our own place and … It’s just nine months, right?”

That number. Why does it have to be that exact number?

“Yeah.”