The car ride is quiet in that way that isn’t really quiet at all—engine humming, gravel pinging the undercarriage, Billy’s fingers drumming against the steering wheel like he’s got something trapped under his skin. Indiana has been getting under it lately. Too flat. Too green. Too far from the ocean. You can tell because he’s been staring at the horizon like he expects it to apologize.

“You good?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

He shrugs, jaw tight. “Just miss the beach.”

He doesn’t say California, doesn’t say home, doesn’t say before. But it’s all there anyway, packed into two words. The beach is one of the last places that doesn’t hurt to remember. Sunburnt shoulders. Salt in his hair. Waves loud enough to drown everything else out. A place where his dad’s voice couldn’t follow him into the water.

And now he’s stuck in fuckall Indiana, where the air feels heavier and the sky seems too close.

“Okay,” you say, reaching over to lace your fingers through his for a second. “I’ve got something.”

He gives you a sideways look. “That’s never ominous at all.”

You just grin and tell him to trust you.

When you finally pull in, the road opens up to a wide stretch of water, sunlight splintering across it. There’s a curve of pale sand along the edge, dotted with towels and a few kids kicking up dust. No cliffs. No waves. No endless blue. But there is water, and there is sand, and for Indiana, that’s about as good as it gets.

Billy steps out of the car slowly, boots crunching against gravel. He squints at the lake, then down at the sand, then back at you.

“You serious?”

You rock back on your heels, suddenly very aware of how ridiculous this might look to someone who grew up with the real thing. “Now the water isn’t salty, and there’s no waves… or palm trees… or anything that makes it a beach at all, I’m realizing the more I say the less it’s—”

“But you tried.”

He cuts you off gently, not teasing. There’s something soft in his voice you don’t hear often, something unguarded. He steps closer, hands sliding into his pockets, eyes still on the water.

Everyone in the Midwest calls these beaches. You know they’re lying. You know he knows it too. But he doesn’t laugh, doesn’t scoff, doesn’t turn back to the car. Instead, he toes off his boots and lets his feet sink into the sand like he’s testing a memory.

“It’s stupid,” he mutters. “But… yeah. It helps.”

You sit together near the shoreline, the lake lapping quietly at your ankles. It’s not loud enough to drown anything out, but it’s steady. Constant. And when Billy leans his shoulder into yours, staring out over the water like he’s letting himself pretend just a little, you realize that for him, the gesture matters more than the accuracy ever could.

He’ll never say it out loud.

But he stays.