“It’s late. I’ve been driving all day.”

“That’s why you need to walk,” he says. “Come on!”

The only reasons for not going are ones I can’t tell him, so we go.

He holds my hand as we walk down the road in the dark and cross to the beach. The moon is the slimmest sliver, hidden behind clouds. It’s disorienting. The blackness of the horizon. My hair flying in the wind. I can hear the power of the waves, even though I can’t see them clearly. It’s dark music they make. I could walk right into the water and become part of the movement, but I’m tethered to Justin, fingers hooked. Our feet sink in the sand. The air is thick and smells alive.

“We made it,” he says, laughing.

“We did.”

“Fuck you, Dad!” he yells to the waves. His voice is tired, ragged, young. “Now you.” He squeezes my hand. “Your turn.”

“Fuck you, Dad!” I yell. Because the waves are too loud for anyone else to hear us. I can barely hear myself.

“Yeah!” Justin yells, and then he lifts me up and kisses me. His face is wet. I wipe his cheeks.

“Fuck ’em both,” I say.

He stumbles and we fall, landing soft in the sand. I wish the world would always catch me this way. Justin holds on to me still, tucks his head into my neck. “Thank you,” he says. “I need to be myself sometimes, you know?” His breath is warm. I find his lips with mine. The waves are loud and the night is dark, and no one will see us.

We sleep late, even though the mattress is old and sagging. Musty pillows. Sand in the sheets. Justin takes forever to open his eyes. Even after I extract myself from his grasp and get out of bed, he lies there, breathing in slow rhythm. It’s better if we leave. This is not a place to linger.

“Gypsy rules!” I say, shoving the pile of clothes Justin left on the floor into his duffle.

“What?” He sits up fast. Looks around, trying to make sense of where we are.

“We’re on an adventure. We could end up anywhere. We may as well put our stuff back in the trunk. So if we decide to drive to Mexico next, we don’t even have to come back here.”

“Mexico is kind of far,” Justin says. “If we go to Mexico, I won’t be back at school in time.”

“Proverbial Mexico,” I say.

“But we’re just walking over to the beach, right?”