The Choices I've Made (By the Bay #1)

Prologue

All my bags were packed. The back of my truck was full to the brim.

I was really leaving.

With one last look at the bright blue house I'd called home since birth, I hopped in the truck and started the ignition.

I knew he was watching me from the window. I knew he wanted to run out here and beg me not to go and hug me good-bye, all at the same time.

But I'd told him not to.

And, after everything my father and I had been through over the last few months, it was the least he could do for me.

The sun had barely risen over the tide as I made my way out of town. Seeing the last few shops fall behind me made my heart squeeze tight in my chest. I swallowed hard and kept going.

There was one last stop I needed to make.

Several miles out of town with no marker or sign to indicate it was coming, I pulled off the road and turned off my headlights. The light from the sun was enough now.

And I knew this spot like the back of my hand.

Grabbing what I needed from the front seat, I shoved it in the pouch of my hoodie and began the short walk to the beach.

How many times had I made this same path over the last eighteen years? A hundred times? A thousand? It had been my playground as a kid and a place we could escape to as teenagers. Growing up in a small town gave us few choices to act out and be kids, especially when your graduating class was a grand total of five.

By the time I reached the exact spot I'd set out for, the sun was bright, and the day was new. Looking down at the sand, I let out a sigh. Without room for tools or shovels in my truck, I guessed I would be doing this the old-fashioned way.

With my hands.

Dropping to my knees, I began the tedious process of digging a hole.

A deep one.

All those years of building castles had at least given me some skills. Within no time, I had a narrow hole in the sand for my tiny treasure.

I was officially a pirate.

Reaching into the pouch of my hoodie, I pulled out the small wooden box. My fingers ran over the intricate pattern. It had taken me all semester to carve them. Art class at our school usually consisted of simplistic things, like painting and modeling clay. A small grant won by our school had afforded us a few woodworking tools this year, and I'd gravitated to them. I loved the precision and detail required. My hands were naturally steady, and I worked well under pressure.

My friends all thought I was nuts, obsessing over a box. But it had become the one thing I could focus on when everything fell apart.

When I lost my anchor.

But, now, it was time to bury the past and everything with it. The wooden box and all the promises it carried within it.

Dropping it into the sand, I carefully covered it, one layer at a time.

There was no need for markings.

I'd remember this spot for as long as I lived. This place, this island, was etched onto my skin forever.

The blue house, the little inn with the yellow room, and the beautiful girl I'd be leaving behind.

Nothing but a distant memory scattered to the wind.