The therapist recommended we try once more to save our three-year-old marriage. So, there we were, in a hotel room in Santa Cruz with a view of the ocean. A swell moved through the dark gray waves. Thick fog rolled in, heavy and white. 8 am. No sign of the sun.

“Looks cold,” Brian said softly, stepping up to the window next to me.

He put on a red jacket. Dark circles shaded his brown eyes as he gazed out at the foggy horizon. We were miles away from our condo in the city—a place that echoed our high-pitched voices shouting names, breaking plates and glasses, and throwing books. The floors and walls had begun to crack.

This trip was our last attempt to fix what remained of us after his affair with an intern. He sheepishly called it a mistake, blamed it on whiskey shots at the office party, and my frequent travel due to a demanding job as a public relations executive.

We chose to walk barefoot on the beach, just like we did on our honeymoon in Maui three years back.

Back then, our world was soft and golden. We woke up to sunlight and wandered across untouched white sands. We snorkeled in the turquoise waters, marveling at the beautiful corals. Later, we sipped mai tais and munched on crab cakes while watching the sky turn a radiant orange as the last remnants of the sun sank into the darkening waves. At night, when we walked on the sands, our lips met in a kiss while the waves roared behind us. 

Now, we watched some swimmers in black-and-gray wetsuits jump into the cold waves and swim their strokes. Soon, they became specs, lost in the vast saltwater. Seagulls circled overhead. Every time his hand accidentally brushed mine, I flinched.

“I was thinking about how we used to be,” he said, stopping to pick up a half-broken shell. 

He twirled it between his fingers. The sand felt cold beneath my feet. When had everything gone wrong? Was it since I took on this new role? Or since the early loss of the life growing inside me?

We kept walking until a sharp stab in my right foot made me yelp. Brian dropped the shell and lifted my foot. A shard of glass had pierced my tender, reddish skin. I wanted to scream, cry, and hurl every fragment of pain into the gray waves. Instead, I stared at the swells. My vision blurred. I swallowed hard. Brian knelt down and carefully examined my foot to remove the glass. I pictured the intern and him—their lips locked, arms wrapped tight. I winced.

“It’ll be okay,” Brian said softly.

His shoulders slumped as he pulled out the shard.

“There. Got it,” he sighed in relief. “Does it feel better?”

I looked down. Blood was fresh and oozing out, but it was bound to dry and heal.

“We could sit here until you feel better,” he assured me, his brown eyes filled with concern.

I nodded and sank onto the cold sand as we watched the ocean together. The fog began to lift, and at the horizon, sunlight peeked through, tinting the sky with soft pink hues. His hand brushed mine again. Seagulls squawked overhead, and waves crashed onto the shore. His grip on my hand tightened. This time, I didn’t flinch. The waves turned a gentle shade of blue, shimmering in the light.