Since becoming friends, I’ve filled her in on why Little Beach is such a hot-button topic for me: how early-morning swims there used to be my lifeblood and that first off-the-charts awkward run-in with a naked Callum.

I grab her hand in a gentle squeeze. “It’s okay, Penelope. You can say his name.”

“I just don’t want to bring up sad memories.”

“I know,” I say softly. I’m lucky to have a friend like Penelope who cares about how I feel, who goes out of her way to make sure I’m doing well.

“It’s just . . .” Her perfectly shaped eyebrows furrow in concern. “I know things are still raw, and I don’t want to make it worse by saying the wrong thing.”

“That means so much. But I’m moving on. And part of moving on is normalizing things that used to set me off. So you can say his name. I’m totally fine with it. You don’t have to walk on eggshells around me, okay?”

“Totally fine?” She raises an eyebrow.

I purse my lips at how easily she calls my bluff. I am light-years away from “totally fine.” Every day I still think of Callum. Because every day something happens to remind me of him. All it takes is a flash of golden hair in my peripheral vision or someone with an English accent ordering from the truck. I think of him cradling me into his chest when we slept, his perfect smile, his sandalwood cologne that always gave me goose bumps every time I took a breath. Of how I always, always felt at home in his presence.

In these moments, it’s a battle to get myself back on track. I try everything and anything. I breathe extra deep, take an extra long pause if I’m speaking, or close my eyes to collect myself for a moment.

But every day I do it because I have to. It’s the only way to move on.

One day I won’t have to silently tell myself to breathe until the pain passes. One day I’ll just instinctively do it. One day my chest won’t tighten, my eyes won’t water, my breath won’t catch. One day it won’t hurt anymore.

“Okay, not one hundred percent fine,” I say with a sigh. “But I’m managing. Every day is easier. Callum is a hell of a guy to get over, but I’ll get there. Eventually.”

She gives me another hug. “I’m so proud of you for how you’re moving on. Want me to wait here in the truck until you’re finished swimming so I can give you a ride home?”

I shake my head. “No, it’s okay. I’ll get an Uber. You should go home and rest. You worked so hard.”