As I sit in the shadow of the sheer rock-face, admiring time's artwork in the striations of fossil layers sandwiched between empty eons of black stone, I reflect on the year and a half that has passed since I met Hazel MacDowell—the day a dumb decision and a dramatic rescue drew us together.

It's Sunday, two days after the graduation ceremony, and that morning I'd submitted the final acceptance form, enrolling in the graduate program of my choice just shy of the deadline. Then, I'd asked Hazel to meet me. It seemed only right to tell him here.

Turning away from the cliffs, I trail my hands over the smooth, damp sand, feeling the cold, grainy texture against my skin. It's still early and the wind and waves are calm, not yet agitated by the sun, but it's getting warmer by the minute and I catch a whiff of the seashore's signature scent—eau de tideline—on the mild breeze.

A line of sooty shearwaters wing their way past, parallel to the shore and almost touching the waves. I shut my eyes and match my breathing to the rhythm of the sea—in and out, unceasing. Life is change, not stillness, and even the stone beneath our feet is not as stable as we like to believe; even fossils aren't permanent.

My beautiful cliffs erode a few inches—sometimes, if the storms are bad—a few feet—every year. The fossils they contain, trapped in time for millenia, are exposed, ground to bits by wind and wave, and turned to sand.

Before I met Hazel, my life had seemed stable, my path clear: work hard, keep my head down, avoid attention, graduate, and be free of my dad.

The truth is, my dad would have found some way to keep me chained to his will, and there was no reality in which I could be myself without the house of cards collapsing. It was like I'd built a sandcastle too close to the waves, and I was a kid digging moats with a toy shovel, hoping to keep the tide at bay. I'd become so used to living in fear, I didn't realize that my 'normal' was really just survival mode.

I can't exactly thank Hazel for what happened—inevitable or not, it hadn't been pleasant—but I can't entirely blame him, either. Done is done, and like my mom said, sometimes you have to know when what you have is worth rebuilding—worth fighting for—and when it's time to move on and let go.

An approaching figure interrupts my reverie, walking towards me across the sand, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, wavy brown hair artlessly styled by the sea breeze. I get to my feet and walk to meet him.

"Fancy meeting you here," he says, and grins. It's a nervous, vulnerable expression, though, and the humor in his tone doesn't match the uncertainty that flickers in his eyes. "Staying dry?"

"This time." I try to smile but can't quite manage it. My stomach is a ball of nerves, my guts twisting like the coils of a snake. "Thanks for coming. I guess we could have talked anywhere but..."

"Best to end where we began, huh?" Hazel shrugs, hands still in his pockets.

I look up at him, suddenly unsure again despite my well-thought-out decision. I'd told Hazel he should date someone else if he wanted, and I know he's been to Chase a few times in the past month. Maybe he met someone new; maybe he wasn't so willing to wait for me, after all.

"That's what you want to tell me, isn't it?" he continues. "You're leaving, and you don't want anything holding you back, or you don't want to hold me back, or some shit like that." There's a hard edge and a warble in his tone, and he takes his hands from his pockets and runs them through his hair, blinking rapidly. "Sorry. I know I said I'd let you go, if that's what you wanted. But it's fucking hard."

I frown up at him. "Wow. I guess you know exactly what I'm gonna say, don't you?"

"Makes sense." He sniffs and wipes his nose on the sleeve of his hoodie. "This is where we met; this is where we say goodbye."

I look down the beach towards the far end of the cliffs, where the sand gives way to the shelf of rock where a fossil snail had nearly tempted me to my doom.

"I guess that would be sort of romantic, if I hadn't almost drowned and puked seawater all over you that day."

He laughs, but it's a strangled, rough sound. "God, I wish none of that had happened."

"You do?"

"I just wish we'd met some other way, without Dave there to make a dumb video of it."

I shake my head. "Hazel, if you hadn't been there to save me, I probably wouldn't be here right now."

"You could have skipped the beach that day," Hazel points out.

I laugh. "Not a chance. You know why I was here?"

Hazel frowns. "To look for fossils, right?"

"Yeah. But I mean that day, specifically."

"No. Why?"

I turn and gesture at the cliffs. "There'd been a storm the night before, remember? Right after a storm is the best time to look for fossils in eroding sea cliffs. New things might have been exposed, but if you don't get to them fast, they might fall out and wash away. No way was I missing that window."

Surprising me, Hazel laughs. "Well, I guess it was fate then."

"What do you mean?" I squint at him, brows pinched. By this time, the sun is above the trees atop the cliffs, casting its morning rays over the beach, making the sand glisten and the waves shine.

"The storm. The swell was phenomenal that day. Of course my dad forbade me from coming here, so there was no chance in hell I'd stay away. I guess the only way we could have not met that day is if the storm never happened. Like some butterfly in China didn't flap its wings."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know—chaos theory, with the butterfly and the storm, and all that."

I can't help laughing. "You know that's not actually how things work, right?"

He shrugs. "Close enough. So why not just call it fate?"

I roll my eyes. "And who says he's not into the romantic crap?"

"I told you, I wasn't until..." His humor fades and he sighs. "I guess I don't wish we hadn't met here. It's just everything after—all the fuckups—that was all my fault. I wish... I just wish..."

Struck with a sudden whim, I raise my hand. "Hey, wait a sec!"

He startles. I dash over to the base of the cliff, pick out a smooth, oval shaped rock, and bring it back to him.

I hold it out. "Make your wish on the stone and throw it in the sea. Maybe it will come true."

"Charlie, I don't—"

"Just do it."

"Fine." He takes it without much enthusiasm, but closes his eyes and presses the stone to his forehead for a moment. Then he turns and hurls it into the waves, where it lands with an inaudible splash, the sound drowned by the constant murmur of the sea.

"I'm not leaving," I say.

He turns, the vulnerable uncertainty on his face telling me he wonders if he heard me right. "Y—You're not?"

"Nope." I allow a tentative grin to stretch my lips as his eyes widen. "I'm staying at Crestwood. The foundation of my work is here. The Paleocene-Eocene boundary is what interests me right now, and the evidence is here—in these cliffs. They haven't given up all their secrets yet. Not even close. George wants to study the origins of life, so he went to Australia. Riley is all about the end-Cretaceous—the asteroid impact—so they went to Montana. This—"I gesture at the cliffs again. "This is my passion. And yeah, 'dead clams' will never be as glamorous as T-Rex, but that doesn't mean they're not important. The information locked away in these rocks, information about ancient climate shifts, is more important now than ever before."

Hazel rubs the back of his neck and watches me with wide eyes. "Damn. I guess I should shut up and let you talk more."

"Wouldn't hurt." I smirk a little.

"So... You're staying for the clams?" His expression—half hopeful, half fearful—tells me what he's really asking.

"I won't lie, Hazel. I'm not staying for you." I wait a heartbeat or two before continuing. "I'm staying for myself, for my studies, and... for us. I believe what we have is worth fighting for—worth rebuilding. I hope the road ahead isn't as rocky as the one that got us here, but..."

I trail off, the rest of whatever else I'd planned to say forgotten in the pure joy that lights Hazel's face.

"You mean it?" he whispers. "You... you mean..."

"I mean I love you, Hazel MacDowell, even if I'm a fool for it. I love you."

He stares at me, gapes stupidly, shakes his head, grabs my arms and pulls me into a rough kiss.

I laugh against his lips, not resisting even as he falls, dragging us both down and rolling in the sand. I come to rest on my back with Hazel on top of me. Looking down, he brushes sand and hair from my face and kisses me again.

"You really love me?" he asks, his warm breath tickling my lips.

"I said so, didn't I?" I wrap my arms around him, holding him in place.

"More than clams?"

"Well, the clams are quieter," I tease.

He droops, shaking with laughter that puffs hot against my neck. When he recovers and raises his head again, his face is red and his blue eyes are bloodshot, lashes clumped with tears.

"I'm sorry" I say, reaching up to wipe the wetness from his cheeks. "I didn't mean for this to be so dramatic."

He shakes his head. "I wouldn't have it any other way," he says, and kisses me again, his lips salty and wet.

A while later, we walk back along the beach, hand in hand, as the waves erase the footsteps in our wake.

Everything changes; nothing is permanent. The future is both what we make it, and seldom what we imagine it to be. It might sound cliche, but the present is all we really have, and for the first time in my life, I'm here for it, and I'm not afraid.

"Hey. You wanna take me out tonight?" I ask as we walk. "To Chase, maybe?"

Hazel's grip tightens on my hand and he turns to me with pure joy lighting his eyes. "You got it."

I laugh and duck my head against the increasingly energetic breeze. I have no doubt that life with Hazel will not be smooth sailing, but as we both already know, a storm can be refreshing, and I'm ready to ride the waves.