Chapter 1 CHAPTER 1 Our house, like most things, came down to luck. Luck that the property had managed to withstand two hurricanes in the last decade, perched on a set of pilings at the edge of the dunes, protected only by aluminum storm shutters and cedar shake siding that had faded over the years to a weatherworn gray. Luck that there was space for all of us within its five bedrooms, with balconies that connected via wraparound porches and precarious wooden steps over three stories. Luck that the beachfront rental belonged to Oliver''s family, and, that first year, after Clara''s funeral, when we were panicked and desperate and made that pact, Oliver had said: I know a place. The house was tucked away from the activity of town, at the far edge of a dead-end road. It was close enough to see the neighbors down the stretch of sand--especially in the dark, with the windows lit up, beacons in the night--but still private enough to feel removed. A peace of mind in both regards. It was the perfect haven for us, the lucky ones: survivors of the crash, and then of the raging river, the unrelenting storm.
Oliver called it The Shallows, a name that felt like a promise. A place of safety, and retreat, isolated from the rest of the world, and surrounded on all sides by the endless deep. We came here the first time out of convenience, but we kept coming back because returning here year after year removed the necessity of decisions, the burden of plans. And because it was hundreds of miles from the site of the accident, protected from the undertow of the past. I drove five hours to the coast, and then over a series of bridges to the southern barrier islands, passing the time in a state of steady dread, trying to distract myself with a variety of podcasts I couldn''t focus on, before finally giving over to the silence. The turnoff appeared before I was ready for it, a cluster of uncoordinated mailboxes before a faded street sign, bent from the wind and sun-scorched white at the center. The house was at the end of the unpaved road, the parking area out front a semicircle of rocks and weeds, with a fine coating of sand that I''d felt under the wheels for the last ten miles. On the drive in, the land progressively narrowed between the ocean and the sound, and the dunes crept closer to the road, sand swirling across the pavement in gusty spirals.
From a distance, the sand formed a sort of haze, suspended like fog in the atmosphere, encroaching from the sea. Without regular maintenance, I imagined, all of this would be swept away; every sign of humanity wiped clean, in a steady assault of nature. The geography was constantly shifting out here. In the marshlands, water seeped onto the grassy edges of the road. After a storm, islands could have become peninsulas, or vice versa. And the dunes were always moving, growing--like everything in sight was waiting to be consumed. But somehow this house remained. There were four cars in a row out front, the last being Amaya''s rust-colored sedan, with a collection of decals lining the rear windshield.
It was already late afternoon--I assumed I was the last to arrive. Not everyone lived within driving distance anymore. I pulled into the spot beside a familiar dark Honda, jarred by the car seat visible in the back, by how much could change in a year. When I stepped outside, the air tasted like salt, like something from my nightmares. Sometimes, alone, in the dark of night, I''d wake from a dream still tasting the river, storm water, a gritty soil in the back of my throat. But other times I''d wake to the scent of saltwater air instead, like I wasn''t sure which was the nightmare--then or now. I breathed slowly, staring up at the house. The raised porch, multiple gables, windows reflecting the sun and sky.
The structure was dated but objectively beautiful, I knew, in the way it rose unobtrusively from the landscape, like driftwood from the beach, positioned with care to welcome the forces of nature, instead of fighting against them. A set of wide wooden steps led up to the front door, where we''d taken that single photo our first year--the eight of us crammed together, sitting shoulder to shoulder, knees pressing into the body in front of us, like proof: We''re still here. I straightened my spine, steeling myself. On a list of things that could set my nerves on edge, this would be near the top. Not quite as high as driving on curving dark roads, or being lost. But arriving late to this house, with this group: high. They weren''t bad people. They were just bad people for me.
A shadow passed the living room window, and I imagined them all together, sitting around that taupe sectional couch, waiting for me. And then, before I could stop the image: I saw them running, funneling out the front door, a massive wave rising up behind the house, sky darkening, shadow expanding. The chaos of panic, and wondering who I would save first-- It was a habit I couldn''t shake, the question always on my mind. In a room full of people, a bus full of strangers: Who do you save? A thought experiment playing out in real time. A horror interlude in the monotony of my daily life. I grabbed my luggage, slammed the trunk of my car. The first day was always the hardest. The front door squeaked as I pushed it open, hinges rusted from the saltwater air and time.
One step inside, and my memory sharpened: whitewashed, wood-paneled walls and an open floor plan, so I could see straight through the house, entrance to exit--first the living room, then the long table of the dining room and the kitchen beyond, the areas partitioned by furniture alone, and finally the back windows and the sliding door to the deck. But when I closed the front door behind me--loud enough to draw attention, to make sure they knew I was here--Brody was the only one I saw. "There she is," he said, standing from the fridge, as if there were someone else in the room with us. He twisted the top off his beer while he walked halfway across the space, dimple forming as he smiled. He had the same shaggy haircut as always, a brown mop he was constantly pushing back from his face. He''d been the athlete of our group, one half of class-couple Brody and Hollis, and he still carried the confidence of someone used to being widely known in school. "Here," I said, like I was a student calling out her attendance, and he laughed. From his greeting, it sounded like they''d been waiting.
Unlike Brody, I was more accustomed to being overlooked, so I had gotten into the habit of going out of my way to make my presence known. I set my luggage beside the couch and took him in. Every year, our first greetings were both familiar and jarring. He dressed the same--casually, in gym shorts and a T-shirt and slip-on sandals. But there was a car seat in the back of his car; he was a dad . An entire identity that had changed in a moment. "The drive okay?" Brody appeared at ease no matter where he was or whom he was with. He picked up a conversation with me as if no time had passed since we''d seen each other last.
"Yes, but sorry I''m late." He took a long drink, shook his head, brushed a rogue wave of hair from his eyes. "You''re not even the last one." Then he nodded toward the back of the kitchen. "We''re outside, after you get settled." "I''ll be out in a few," I said, grateful for the time to orient myself first. Reasons to save Brody: he was a new father; people would miss him. He smiled, standing at the back door, taking me in.
I was wearing the first jeans and T-shirt I had managed to pull from my drawer, and pieces of dark blond hair had fallen from my haphazard ponytail during the drive. I felt self-conscious, exposed. "You look good, Cass," he said, as if he could read my insecurity. He left the sliding door ajar as he exited, in an offering, or an oversight. In the silence that followed, I could hear the waves, the cry of a seagull. Out back, there was a wooden walkway through the dunes, patchy seagrass mixed in with the sand, and then--water, sea breeze, infinity. Grace always said there was something healing about the ocean, but then, she was someone who believed in the mind''s ability to right itself, and in nature''s ability to do the same. She worked as a trauma therapist now, which I thought was reason enough to save her, even if she saw the rest of us as works in progress.
Grace must''ve managed to convince herself that the enemy was not water but the lack of lights on a winding mountain road. A deer, caught in the blinding glare of headlights; a series of bad decisions in an approaching storm. But I found nothing healing about this place. Maybe it was the bridges I had to take to get here, cutting me off from the rest of my life, cutting us all off together. The single road in, and the way the light shimmered off the pavement, like water. The sea visible on both sides, and this sensation that something was closing in. Maybe it would feel this way no matter where we were, as long as we were together. Maybe everything we touched together turned to ash.
My room--the room I had stayed in since that very first year--was one of three on the second floor. The door was open at the end of the hall, welcoming me. Inside, there were two queen beds with matching aqua-colored comforters, dark wooden furniture, and an antique, out-of-place mirror. Amaya''s luggage was at the foot of the bed that had always been hers,.