The sound and the fury of the thunderstorm boiled on the edge of the horizon line, a lonely storm out to sea. Tyler and I sat on the edge of the Fairhaven hurricane barrier to watch, like we always did in those days.

Seven years ago we’d met on the playground, and here we were, nearly nineteen, telling ourselves that we’d be friends until we were eighty-nine, but knowing at the same time that it would probably never happen that way.

The waves crashed against the rocks, and if you listened closely, you could hear them cry.

He looked at me, water streaming through his hair, “Mary, what do you want?”

It was a loaded question, and language is an art.

I want to feel the earth stop, I thought to myself.

I looked out across the boiling ocean.

“I don’t know,” I said as the beam from the lighthouse swept over us with its startling luminescensce that reminded me, for some reason, of the field of poppies behind his house and the way the sun lit on each flower, like every one was special.