In the midst of my tears, Vanessa leads me out of the hospital. Before I can object, she grasps my hand and takes me away from the hospital toward the beach. As we traverse the winding pathway, I try to gain composure, wiping away the tears with my free hand. Once we reach the beach, Vanessa removes her boots and motions for me to do the same. I comply, setting them down before sinking my toes into the soft, cool sand. With my hand still in her's, Vanessa approaches the azure ocean. The waves maintain a smooth back and forth motion, gently trailing across the sand. The white, bubbly sea foam threatens to touch our toes, but retreats mere inches before making contact.

"What're we doing here? Shouldn't we be with Paris?" I ask, gently detaching my hand from Vanessa's. The two of us walk in a slow, unified stride. The hospital's distance from the rest of Santa Barbara and the foreboding gloomy clouds contribute to the rather emptiness around us.

"I thought we needed a break. Especially you."

"I had a break," I reply with a shiver, the chilly afternoon wind blowing right through me.

"I'd hardly call returning home for an hour a break. Aren't your parents worried about you?"

"Why do you suddenly care if my parents are worried about me? Paris' dad never gave a shit about his whereabouts, and neither did you."

"Fair point."

Vanessa appears defeated, looking off at the solemn waves instead of meeting my eyes. Suddenly I feel terrible for lashing out at her. Except it seems unfair that Paris has experienced so much sorrow in the first sixteen years of his life, and that he never had parents or guardians who cared enough to check on him and ensure that he was alright. I didn't even know he had an aunt until six days ago when she arrived on the first flight from Portland, Oregon.

"Look, I'm sorry. That was shitty."

"Yeah, well, it's the truth. My brother was devastated by Liza's passing. I knew I should've moved here to help him take care of Paris. At least for the first year or so. But I love my job and," she pauses and I notice a tear trailing down her cheek, "I'd never in a million years guess that my brother was a heroin addict."

"What?" I shout, flabbergasted. Vanessa looks almost as shocked as me, unsure how to proceed.

"Didn't Paris tell you?"

My heart sinks and I simply shake my head at her, my throat suddenly too dry for me to speak. I can't believe he didn't tell me.

Instead of waiting for me to ponder, Vanessa answers the question burning inside my mind.

"He didn't wanna be a burden. To you. To me. To anybody."

I nod, agreeing with her. No matter how many times I assured Paris that he was never a burden to me, that I would do anything for him, he always held a sense of doubt that I'd someday walk out on him. And then I did exactly that.

"What happens now?"

"Well, once Paris wakes up I'm sending my brother to rehab."

"Is he receptive to the idea?"

"I think so. He may be a despondent addict, but he still loves his son. Plus, I threatened to sue for full custody if he didn't go to rehab."

"Does that mean you're here to stay?"

"Yep. Paris needs me. He needs both of us, and I want you to remain in his life."

"I'm not sure Paris even wants me in his life anymore."

With an exasperated sigh, I sit down and Vanessa joins me on the sand. She rests her soft hand, painted with chipped indigo nail polish, on my shoulder.

"The Paris you saw the day of the accident was not the Paris you fell in love with. He's sick and needs help."

All I can do is nod. She's right, but it may be too late for Paris to receive the help he needs.

***

Vanessa and I rest on the beach for the next few hours while she describes the various details of her life. For starters, she's a high school biology teacher with an affinity for dogs and a strong devotion to her students. She lives in a quaint little apartment near Powell's Books, a large downgrade from the expansive villas she lived in during her time abroad in Spain. Being quite the wanderer, she's never remained in a real, committed relationship but written quite a handful of songs about heartbreak. She used to show Paris all her songs, contributing to his love for poetry.

As Vanessa recounts the intricate and fascinating details of her life, I'm reminded of the countless stories Paris would tell me about his mom's time in Paris. It seems like Vanessa is another wayward spirit, just like her sister-in-law.

Paris used to be really close with his aunt. She would come to Santa Barbara a couple months out of the year and they would take long walks on the beach, go out to have tea at a local cafe, traverse the farmer's market to buy fresh produce, and make dinner together. That all changed after Paris' mom died.

"I had a mental breakdown after Liza died. Everything happened so fast. The car accident. The hospital check-in. Then, she was in a casket and we were burying her," she wipes away another tear on her cheek, not letting herself be overcome by the melancholy.

"I wasn't the kind of person who stayed around long enough to experience loss. I never dated a guy for more than a few months, if I even dated him at all. Yet you can't leave your family after a few months. They stick with you forever. And Liza became a part of my family. She was the big sister I never had and the best mother for Paris. I wasn't prepared for the whirlwind of emotions that came with her death. So, I fell apart."

I turn to her and stare into her silvery eyes, their outline taking on a sharp blue in the evening light. She looks back at me and sighs before turning back to the ocean.

"I guess I should've known better. If her death made me lose my marbles, it must've been even worse for my brother and nephew."

"You can't blame yourself entirely for Paris' accident."

"Are you talking to me or yourself?"

"Maybe I'm talking to both of us."

"Maybe," she smirks, the blue overtaking her irises until they bloom into a radiant expanse of cyan, like the waves sloshing on the sand.

***

In the darkness of the evening sky, I'm reminded of Paris' haunting black eyes that haven't opened in days and that may never open again. I wish I could've seen through them and realized that he needed my help.

How can I not feel at least partially responsible for what happened? I was the one who spent the most time with him these past few months. If anybody should've noticed he was hurting, it should've been me.

The shouting from that day echoes in my mind, reminding me of how loud I was. How could I raise my voice at Paris? He didn't need somebody to yell at him, he needed somebody to hold him. That kiss was his cry for help, and I failed him.

I failed myself too.

Even though it was Paris who jumped off that bridge, I could've done something to stop him. His aunt could've done something to stop him. His dad could've done something to stop him. Instead we all stood back and watched his whole life crumble.

"What're you thinking about?" Vanessa inquires as we stumble through the sand on our way back to the pathway. I turn to her, almost unable to see her shadowy figure in the darkness.

"I'm trying to heed my own advice."

"Look, you and I can throw ourselves the largest pity party in the world, but we didn't cause Paris' depression. It was an affliction that overcame him. Could we have done more to remedy it? Perhaps. But dwelling in the past does nothing to foster a better future for you, for me, for my brother, or for Paris."

"I just hope Paris has a future."