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I’ve spaced out for when Tina shouts, “Oh my God we’re here !”
    The last stop on the train is Stillwell Avenue. We walk out of the subway onto Surf Avenue and the smell of the ocean smacks us in the face. The last time I was at Coney Island was for a big music festival and the clean sea waft was marred by the overwhelming scent d’Portapotty. Not tonight. The rickety wooden Cyclone looms over us as we stroll. It’s light enough for our path to be clear, but dark enough so that we can’t see the hot dog wrappers and the discarded bottles of suntan lotion that surely surround us. Tina seems to know where she’s going, so Rel and I hang back and watch her walk languidly toward the boardwalk. Rel reaches for my hand and holds it the way a small child would.
    When she spots the beach, Tina takes off her shoes and breaks into a run. Rel drops my hand and follows on her heels. I start running, too. The only people in sight are a couple of Russian teenagers huddled together on a bench off to our left. They don’t even look up as we come whooping past, throwing our light summer frocks and our canvas bags onto the sand.
    Tina’s the first one in the bracing Atlantic salt water. “IIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE,” she shrieks as she hits the waves. I’m already running so fast into the surf I don’t have time to register the temperature until I’m struggling to catch my breath in the chest-deep water.
    Rel is smart enough to see us shudder and stays in the shallows. We join her back in the surf and loll around in the sand, letting the waves wash over us. For such a fashionista, Tina is wearing some seriously dumpy undergarments: Her baggy white Hanes droop around her hips. Rel’s yanking up the waistband of her boy-cut briefs, and I’m trying to clear the sand out of my unassuming black bra.
    Simultaneously, and for no apparent reason, we stop fidgeting. For what seems like forever we sit in silence and listen to the sound of the ocean. The salty air on my exposed skin makes me feel almost achingly alive, diametrically opposite to my days spent in our basement dwelling, shackled to my laptop.
    Finally, Rel says, “This is the best possible end to a shitty day.” Tina and I nod our heads in solemn agreement.
    An early morning chill has descended onto the beach and I start shivering. I get up and paw around for my muumuu, which now has fine grains of sand attached to all the eyelets and sticks unattractively to my damp body when I pull it on. I reach down and gather my bag, instinctively grabbing for my iPhone. It’s been about forty minutes since we arrived at Coney Island, and it feels like that’s the longest period of time I’ve been away from an electronic device since I started working this job.
    I wipe the sand away from the phone’s screen and find another text from Peter.
Peter Rice (2:34 AM): Please just come home.

Chapter Three
    The bring bring of my iPhone jolts me out of a sweaty half slumber at 6:20. I would estimate I’ve been asleep for about two and a half hours. I stretch my legs and feel sand crunching in between my toes. My first coherent thought is, Why is there so much sand in this bed? And then the previous evening’s activities come roaring back to me.
    I look over at Peter’s side of the bed and realize that it’s a mass of blankets and a depression where his body should be. I heave myself out of bed and go out into the living room, where Peter’s sitting in the crack between the couch cushions, drinking coffee with a blank expression. The burgeoning crow’s-feet around his pale eyes look deeper than usual, probably because he barely slept last night. And I know it’s my fault.
    “Hi,” I say, padding over to him. With every shuffle-step my head throbs. I pick the salty muumuu up from the floor and slip it on. Tiny grains of sand skitter across our wood floors. “I’m really sorry about last night. I was freaking out about that hate site and I wanted to unwind with the