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splashes of the blue he was using to paint an ocean went everywhere, and that started a paint fight, which resulted in me calling their parents to pick them up.
    So here I am, an hour after I wanted to be here, wiping paint off every surface in the room. My one salvation is that the room is an enclosed space separate from the art outside, because if they’d gotten any of this mess on one of the local artists’ work, or worse—Wyatt’s—I would have died. My ass hits the floor when I get tired of bending over, and I look around once more. The canvases they are painting on are still on their designated easels, and I take a moment to look at the one Fin was working on. It’s a gloomy day in his world. The gray sky makes the water below it hit the rocks angrily. The dark blue brush strokes on the ocean almost make me feel like I can hear the waves, and I decide I want to see the real thing. My studio isn’t far from the beach, and I don’t enjoy it as often as I could. I gather everything I need for the hospital meeting into one box and set it aside, next to the door. As I’m locking up, I see the splashes of paint on my arm from the paint fight. Damn kids.
    The temperature usually drops around sundown and, like clockwork, when the sun begins to set, I feel a cool gust of wind hit me. I pull my light jacket closed, as I stroll toward the water.
    I stop at the light a block away and listen for the waves, feeling lighter already. Aside from the other galleries in the area, the ocean was a huge selling point for us when we got the place. If I close my eyes and think hard enough, I can picture Wyatt running toward the beach with his board under one arm, his wet suit practically falling off his body. The memory makes me smile, even though it makes my heart squeeze in my chest. When I first came back to the studio, that was my first thought. Not the gallery, not the painting he was working on that I have put away in the back room, not our daily breakfast together, or the way he would smile when I walked in a room—but remembering the way he ran toward that water.
    Surfing was quite possibly the only thing he had in common with my brother. When I first got together with Wyatt, my mom joked that I purposely brought home the artiest man I could find. Forget the fact that he was highly successful, older, and made the effort to wear a suit to their house the first time they met. My mom saw him beneath it all. Not in a bad way. She grew to accept Wyatt, as did my dad. Vic never really did, but didn’t say otherwise. I think they all saw him as an extension of me. I was already kind of an outsider in their world anyway. I hated going to those pretentious parties and galas my parents attend annually. My dad’s an orthodontist, and my mom’s an English professor, so everybody assumed their kids would follow in their footsteps. Well, Vic became an attorney, and I became a painter. They’re supportive of me, though. They love my work and cheer me on, so even though I know I’m the black sheep in some ways, I’m never made to feel like one.
    When I reach the sand, I take a really deep breath and close my eyes, relishing the moment. Every second counts. Live in this moment. This is life. This is what matters. It’s a simple thought, but it’s so easy to forget. The ocean is there as a constant reminder though. The big waves crashing against the rocks are as cleansing as they are dangerous. I take a seat in the sand and watch the surfers, young and old, and let the sounds wash over me. Instead of drowning out my pent-up sorrow, it cuts me in half. The anniversary of Wyatt’s death was a couple of days ago. It came and went without much remembrance, other than from me and his parents, via the phone call we had to check up on each other.
    A little over a year ago, I was on this very beach for a completely different reason. I saw ambulances drive through the sand and followed them because curiosity got the best of me. God. What would