𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐄

𝐓𝐖𝐎

2. | A HOLD ON ME

❝It had to be you, wonderful you.❞

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MIAMI, FLORIDA
JULY 1982.

Miami's air was heavy with the aroma of brine and seaweed. On the balcony, underneath the dark blue awning of the beach house, Diana leaned against the metal railing, breathing in the taste of the sea and the quiet aftermaths of the sun.

Where had the day gone? Most of the beach was shrouded in darkness, but ahead, just along the surface of the water, the faintest hint of starlight shined in elongated ripples, stretching from the shore to the sea beyond.

Two hours past midnight and still no signs of life.

For good measure, she cast a downward glance at her watch. 2:09 a.m.

She, the girls, and her mother had conquered every centimeter of sand, asphalt, and brick the city had to offer. Every so often, they came back to the condo for breaks, and each time, she always took it as an opportunity to walk the stretch of the hallway to the lone bedroom in the farthest part of the house. Check-in was typically a soft knock and a plate of whatever happened to be on the menu for that hour. While she often received a response, usually a belated, distracted "Yes?", which later yielded the sight of a missing plate, she was never sure what existed beyond that white door. The only two things signifying the existence of a living, breathing creature were the occasional whistle and the soft, disjointed trill of a sweet falsetto that had become the soundtrack to her hazy, love-ashen mornings on days that weren't slaves to time or reality.

Now with all of yesterday and some of the today gone, she knew her role in this odd, inexplicable space had begun.

It was time to coax Michael out of that room.

From that little, protective cocoon he shrunk into when he was honing his craft, and back into the arms of the world.

She was more to him than just that, she was sure, but her position had been etched into stone or, rather, the very essence of life, long before she had the mind to recognize it. It worried her at times, the responsibilities, the gravity it entailed, but it was a position, like it or not, she had created. She would care for him, always care for him, despite the confusion of what he was to her and what she was to him, and how it was a persistent, irreversible pitter-patter in the back of her mind.

A pitter-patter of another kind, the beginnings of a storm, tore her away from the balcony. It was a sudden summer rain, brief, warm, and isolated. As she closed the double glass doors, she could smell the briny air intermingling with the petrichor. Hopefully, it would be over by the time she pulled Michael from the room—if she pulled Michael from the room.

Quietly, she moved through darkness. The girls and her mother were fast asleep, exhausted from the day's activities. Diana, on the other hand, was wide awake. Full of energy she couldn't quite explain, she addled the hours away by catching up on some work of her own. When that was settled, she drifted between the rooms of the beach house, taking in details she had missed or overlooked, waiting for the slightest creak of a door, the smallest shift in the floorboards.

The walk to the bedroom at the very end of the hall was a straight shot. The artificial glow of a lamp seeped from the fine spaces around the door. He was awake. Either that or he had fallen asleep mid-pen to paper, as he sometimes did after days of no sleep at all.