Still Beating

“Aunt Mandy and Uncle Reid are here!”

Aiden and Brooklyn charge towards the front door, the dogs trailing behind them. I frantically try to zip my suitcase, sitting on it, then bouncing up and down as Dean saunters up behind me pulling a t-shirt on over his head.

“Shit, Cora. It looks like you packed for the end of days.”

“Well…” Bounce. “…you know I just like to…” Tug. “…be prepared.”

“For Armageddon?”

“For vacation with two children.” Bounce. “Who knows how many outfit changes we’ll need, and I packed the good camera because, you know, memories, and then the books take up a ton of space.”

“How many books are you bringing?”

“Five.”

“Jesus…”

I huff. “It’s a series, Dean.”

Dean chuckles, relieving me of my struggle and nudging me off the suitcase. He places his palm against the top and presses down, successfully zipping it on the first attempt.

I flip my hair back, puckering my lips together. “That was kind of hot.”

“Only you would get turned on by me zipping up a suitcase,” he winks.

I narrow my eyes teasingly. “Let’s hope so.”

We’re about to lean in for a kiss when Mandy and Reid shuffle up behind us with four dogs at their feet.

“Sorry we’re late,” Mandy says, scooping Penny Lane into her arms and peppering kisses along her snout. “Are the beasts ready for us?”

Jude, Lucy, and Rigby sit patiently, tails wagging, as Penny is placed back down between them. Mandy is the resident dog-sitter. She and her husband, Reid, take the animals back to their house once a year when we go on our annual vacation.

Mandy and Reid have been married for seven years now. Reid proposed on New Year’s Eve, just a month after his conversation with Dean, and Mandy walked down the aisle one year later. I finally got to stand up in my sister’s wedding as her maid of honor and with Dean as Reid’s best man, and there was a hell of a lot tears, joy, forgiveness, and full circle. Then Mandy and Reid stood up in our wedding six months later, and we all cried some more.

“The beasts look ready,” I smile, reaching for the leashes hanging along the wall and turning around to look for the kids. “Speaking of beasts, where did Aiden and Brooklyn disappear to?”

Dean slides over to us, giving Mandy a quick hug and fist bumping Reid over her shoulder. “They’re in the kitchen grabbing snacks.”

“Mom!”

The sound of my name pulls me into the kitchen of our two-story house, locating both kids carrying hot mugs of coffee around the island in their unsteady hands. Yikes.

Aiden, our six-year-old son, holds up the cup as hot liquid splashes over the rim. “We got your coffee ready. It’s already after eight o’clock, and I know how you get.”

Well.

He’s not wrong.

I try not to panic as the dark roast seeps into my hardwood floors and accept the offering. “This is so thoughtful of you. It’s very hot, though, so grab me or your dad next time.”

Our five-year-old daughter, Brooklyn, sets her mug down on the table. “Here’s yours, Dad!”

Dean steps away from his football-infused conversation with Reid and joins us, shooting me a wink as he reaches for his mug. “Thanks, princess. Such service.”

Dean and I take a sip of our respective coffees.

Then we simultaneously spit it out.

Everywhere.

I start gagging as Dean wipes at his shirt. We both look at each other accusingly, our eyes brimming with blame, when both children break out into hysterical laughter beside us.

“Gotcha!” they shout, doubling over in a fit of giggles.

Dean and I share another glance. Our mouths tip up into a smile, growing bigger and brighter, as we absorb the fact that we have raised devious little pranksters, much like ourselves. Then we race to the sink and start wiping the salt coffee off our tongues with paper towels, while chugging down water.

I wonder if Mandy and Reid would mind taking an extra two beasts with them.

“Do you think we can bring some seashells home for Nana Asher?”

Brooklyn skips over to me across the shoreline, her arms full of delicate seashells.

On the way to the airport, we made a quick stop at the assisted living facility to visit Dean’s mother and to deliver homemade masterpieces from the children. Aiden and Brooklyn love spending time with Holly, despite her memory loss. Her door is now completely covered in construction paper, crafts, and love notes created by the kids. We spend hours with her a few times each month, singing songs and telling stories. Holly has moments of clarity here and there, more so lately, especially when we sing.

She knows every single word to Hey Jude, and I can’t help but wonder if the song helps her cope with the darkness like it did for me.

I smile down at my daughter, bobbing my head. “I think that’s a wonderful idea. She’ll love them. Make sure to grab some for Gram and Gramps, too.”

“Yes! Gram loves shells. We can make necklaces with them.”

She scurries away to join her brother in the sand, her auburn hair floating behind her and catching on a breeze.

I’m taken by the moment, lost in a daydream, as I study my two babies filling buckets with sand on the scattered beach towels. And then I feel his arms slide around my waist, his fingers dipping just slightly into my bikini bottoms. I melt into him, my back to his chest, his chin finding the crook of my shoulder. We stand like that for a long while, both soaking up the feel of each other, both reminiscing, both being fully present in the blissful moment.

I turn in his embrace, grazing my fingertips down his bare chest. The sight of him alone, shirtless and lean, all toned abs and broad shoulders, has me swooning as I teeter on both feet.

Dean ducks his head, planting a kiss onto mine. “You have that look in your eyes,” he whispers against my hair.

My arms snake around his midsection, clinging tight. “What look?”

“Like you’re falling in love with me all over again.”

I grin into his chest, pressing soft kisses to his sea-swept skin as his hands travel dangerously low on my hips.

He’s very familiar with that look.

Dean reaches for my hand and tugs me towards the water. “Ready?”Text property © Nôvel(D)ra/ma.Org.

My heart dances inside my chest, my nerves tingling. I follow him to the edge of the sea, where sand touches water, and we slow our steps, gazing out at the roaring waves.

It’s November 8th.

Every year on this day we go to the ocean. I still recall our very first trip together one year after we made our relationship official. Dean was finally able to secure a job transfer back to his original union location after eleven, agonizing months of waiting and only seeing each other on the weekends. But the distance just made us stronger and more certain of our future.

Three weeks after moving in together, we hopped on a plane and headed out to Santa Monica, so I could finally dip my toes in the sea. It was an emotional moment, made that much more potent with Dean by my side. We ran into the waves, hand in hand, side by side, and I screamed when the cold water engulfed me.

And then I broke down.

I collapsed against his chest, overcome by the power of it, the beauty of it—the reality of finally conquering my lifelong fear. And as I sobbed in his arms, shaking from the cold and from the sheer intensity, Dean dipped down onto one knee and proposed. Right there in the middle of the ocean as I cried my heart out, tears mingling with seawater, and my skeletons washing away for good with the crest of each wave, disappearing to the ocean floor.

I jumped into his arms, my legs wrapping around his waist as I shouted yes over and over and over into his neck, holding onto him as the waves tried to take us down.

But we held tight, fighting each surge, standing strong like we always do.

Like we always will.

Dean and I both inhale a sharp breath as we stare out over the horizon at the setting sun. And then his knuckles graze against my own like a soft kiss, a knowing touch, a promise. I feel his fingers interlace with mine. We stand there, hand-in-hand, much like we did all those years ago as we awaited rescue, unsure of what our future held.

I glance at Dean, soaking up the smile lighting up his face as his eyes linger on mine. He squeezes my hand with his trademark wink. “Happy anniversary, Corabelle.”

“Happy anniversary,” I whisper back, the tears already threatening to spill.

I reach for my locket with my free hand, fisting the heart pendant between my fingers as my other hand clings to my husband.

And on the count of three, we rush into the ocean, tears mixing with laughter, love swelling higher than the tide, and we jump into the water.

Together.