Unbroken

sand-dunes, the flatbed of his truck, the deserted woodlands on the outskirts of town... Anyplace we could steal a moment together, dizzy with passion, our tongues and fingertips discovering foreign lands; our bodies sliding together in a glorious sweat.
    Closing my eyes to sink into the memory, I can almost taste him, salty on my tongue.
    Then I snap out of it. What are you doing? I scold myself. What happened to not thinking about him?
    All my happy memories of us together are just that: the past. I was young. I was stupid. I thought our love would last forever.
    I was wrong.
    Finally, night fades into dawn outside the window. I look around the room. The bookshelves are almost done, all the bric-a-brac divided up between donation boxes, and the few family heirlooms safely wrapped away.
    I go fix a cup of coffee over the stove in the kitchen. I think with longing of the new coffee-shop in town, but there’s no way I’m going back there again, not if it means risking another run-in with Emerson. I settle for bitter instant grounds in a chipped mug, and take my brew and my textbooks out onto the back porch to watch the sun rise.
    I sit in the peeling old rocker and breathe in the salty morning air. The beach is a still, silent stretch of golden sands under a pale sky, wave lapping gently at the shore. You can’t tell where our property ends and the beach begins: the wild grasses creep up to the edge of the wooden porch, and then make way for the dunes rolling down to the ocean. Dad always used to yell at us for tracking sand into the house, but there’s no keeping it at bay. It would find a way everywhere, the same day we arrived: in the soles of shoes, between the pages of books, trailing up the stairs.
    I sip my coffee slowly, feeling the tug of sad nostalgia for those early, simpler times. We were happy here as kids, before the frayed edges of my parents’ marriage unraveled, one harsh insult at a time. But no, that’s not true—it was unraveling all along, I just couldn’t see it then. Back when I was younger, I didn’t notice the way mom turned to him for affection, like a flower craning for the sun. I didn’t see the contempt in his eyes, as he looked at his family, or hear the slurring cruelty in his voice every night after one too many drinks.
    I often wonder what it cost her, to hide it from us. If she might have survived longer, if she wasn’t using all her strength to act like nothing was wrong.
    I shake off the memories, my gaze drifting to the small garden shed set up on the far side of the property. It’s just a hut, wooden planks and a tarp roof, but I set my textbooks aside and walk across the lawn as if drawn by a magnetic force, my feet bare in the morning dew-damp grass.
    I reach the shed, and raise one hand, slowly pushing the door open. The hinges screech and stick, but it opens. I step inside
    It’s dark: windows covered with thick black drapes to block out all the light. I open the door wider, and blink to adjust to the shadows. Slowly, my eyes start to make out the shapes in the small room. A sink, a long work-bench, plastic washing buckets, a shelf full of chemicals. Everything exactly the way I left it.
    The darkroom.
    My grandpa built it, when he married my grandma. He was the photographer in the family, just a hobbyist, but he loved it enough to make this little darkroom, so my grandma wouldn’t complain about the chemicals and mess. He showed me how to develop my first roll of film here: exposing the print on special paper, then soaking it in the chemical baths, until slowly, the image became clear.
    I practically lived in here, that summer. If I wasn’t out with Emerson, I’d be here, working on my prints. And sometimes, he’d come too—standing behind me, kissing a burning trail down my neck as I pored over the negatives, his hands roving over my body…
    No! I warn myself sternly again. I am definitely not thinking about that.
    I go to the shelves, and pull out an airtight box. Inside, I find canisters of undeveloped film, and my old camera, wrapped in an oilcloth. I lift it out gently. It’s dusty, but undamaged: the large lens, the square glass viewfinder, the settings that twist under my fingertips. It fits in my hand like it belongs there, yet another reminder of everything I left behind in this town that fateful summer.
    Feeling its familiar weight, a sense of rightness settles through me. A calm I haven’t felt in a long while, not for one moment since driving