Marina del Ray

The air was warm, tinged with sea salt and sunburnt memories, as Daniel Mercer stepped out of the cab onto the quiet road that hugged the coast of Marina del Rey. It had been exactly four years.

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Four years since he last saw her.

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He’d promised himself he wouldn’t come back.

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Not because he didn’t want to.

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But because he wasn’t sure he could survive it.

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He still remembered everything. The amber curve of the setting sun. The hush of the waves kissing the sand. The way her laughter had sounded like a song just for him. The way she’d looked at him like he was her whole world—and how he had let her go anyway.

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Back then, he’d been in California for a week of solitude and reflection, largely due to the empty engagement he’d just called off. He wanted to feel alive again.

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He met Lana Jameson on a half-hidden beach near a cluster of palms that no tourists ventured past. She wore a sundress, barefoot in the sand, her caramel hair caught in the wind, her notebook open beside her.

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"Sorry, is this your spot?" he’d asked.

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She’d looked up, eyes a shade between moss and emerald, and smiled. “It can be both of ours.”

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They spent that afternoon talking like old lovers who had somehow just now met. And that evening, under a golden sun, she spread a blanket across the sand. They laid down on it, hearts open, lips close, and somewhere between the sea and the stars, they loved the world away.

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It wasn’t just physical—it was soul-deep. They both knew it, and it scared them.

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The next morning, the goodbye came too quickly.

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“I had a good time,” she whispered, trying to smile as she stood wrapped in his arms.

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He tried to believe her. He nodded, kissed her once more long and hard, and walked away.

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Back in Tennessee, the world swallowed him whole again. But nothing—nothing—could quiet the memories of Lana. Of her stunning face and body. Of her skin tasting like salt and sunshine. Of the way she’d touched and caressed him with her palms and fingers. Of the silent ache in her sad, beautiful eyes when he left.

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He tried to reach out a month later, but the number she’d given him was disconnected. He searched online. Asked around. But it was like she’d vanished into the breeze.

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Maybe she’d meant to disappear. Maybe she needed to. Or maybe it had just never been real to her at all. But it was real to him.

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And so now, after four years of dreaming of her, of waking up with her name and image stuck in his head, he was finally here.

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He walked slowly, following the same path along the sand. The air smelled of jasmine and ocean. The sun was just starting to dip low, casting that same amber fire across the sea.

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His boots hit the sand. He paused at the edge of the beach—their beach. Untouched. Sacred. Exactly how he remembered it.

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He almost turned back. But something caught his eye.

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A figure… walking alone along the shoreline.

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A woman.

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His heart slammed against his ribs.

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So beautiful. Wind-tossed dark caramel hair. She was wearing a bikini.

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He blinked.

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Couldn’t be.

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And then she looked up.

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They stopped—maybe twenty feet apart.

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Time collapsed in on itself.

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She didn’t look surprised. She looked like someone who had been waiting.

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Like a woman who never stopped believing.

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“Daniel?” she said softly, stepping closer.

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“Lana…” His voice cracked like the surf behind him. “I—I didn’t know if I’d ever…”

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“You came back,” she said, stopping just inches from him. Her voice was warm but cautious, like she wasn’t sure if he was real either. “Today of all days…”

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“Four years,” he said, a laugh breaking through the emotion in his throat. “To the day.”

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“I walked here every year,” she whispered. “Same date. Same time. I guess... I always hoped.”

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He reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. She leaned into his touch, eyes glistening.

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“I tried to find you,” he said.

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“I had to leave LA. It was just all too much back then. I wasn’t ready. I changed my number, address. I really didn’t think you'd ever look.”

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“I never stopped,” he said simply.

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She smiled, tears streaking down her cheeks. “Neither did I.”

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They stood in silence, the sun dipping lower, wrapping them in golden light. The same magic from before returned—not as a memory, but as something alive, alive between them.

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“I’ve carried you with me,” he said. “In every room, every dream, every sunset.”

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She reached for his hand. “I kept our blanket,” she said, voice breaking on a half-laugh. “I took it out on this day every year. Just in case.”

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Daniel’s heart shattered open and closed itself back together in the space of a breath.

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“Come sit with me,” she whispered.

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They walked together to the spot where the waves curled up lazily at the shore. She pulled the old blanket from her bag and spread it across the sand.

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They sat, side by side, hands intertwined, bodies warming again in the setting sun.

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“I’m not leaving this time,” Daniel said.

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“You sure?” she asked, turning to face him, hope trembling in her voice.

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He looked at her, really looked—at her laugh lines deeper now, her heart stronger, her soul still filled with fire.

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“This feels like home,” he said.

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And with that, she leaned in, kissed him like no time had passed at all, like the ocean beach had simply held their love for safekeeping.

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Above them, the stars began to peek through the twilight.

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Next to them, the waves whispered softly and calmly.

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In Marina del Rey—where once they said goodbye—they found each other again.

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And this time, they stayed. And every year after, at sunset, they came back to the beach just to remember how it all began.

 

-Mark Gammill