Shining Sea Page 13

  But his story doesn’t ring true—and something else is bothering me.

  “How did you know I was up by the northern end of the peninsula?”

  “You mentioned it, in the truck.” His blue-green gaze is unblinking, insistent. “You’re still shaken. I should go.”

  “How—how will you get home?”

  He looks pointedly down at the beach. “We’re neighbors, you know.”

  “Yes, I’ve figured out that much.” And more, and I need to say so. But instead I watch as the lighthouse casts its intermittent illumination across the sea. Blink; flash. Light. Then dark. We both watch as the beam creates a path on the waves that leads straight to us—or straight away—before it disappears. Light. Dark.

  “Thanks for helping me out tonight.” My body sways a little—as if the invisible water surrounding us has suddenly become deeper. Before it can close over my head and render me speechless, I say, “I want to know you.”

  “I understand, but—”

  “But that would require you to actually hang around. With me.” And not run off when things get weird.

  “Arion, I can’t just ‘hang around.’ There are things—” His angular jaw tenses.

  This confuses me, but not so much that I don’t know what’s coming, and I don’t want to hear it. “Stop, okay? Look, I get that you’re allergic to questions, but what if I found the answers on my own? Would you tell me if I was right?”

  His lips curve. “That sounds suspiciously like a question.”

  Standing there, I feel the pull of him, an energetic thing, like when you rub your palms together over and over then hold them facing each other. A current runs between your hands. But this isn’t just energy—isn’t even attraction. It’s something more . . . necessary.

  My heart kicks. Am I afraid? Definitely. But it doesn’t matter, because the strongest of my raveled feelings is no mystery.

  That doesn’t mean, though, that I can just blurt out what suddenly seems like a wild accusation. So I simply start talking. I speak into the silence that pools between us, telling him I want to play down in Portland, that I need to practice more first, that I’m not writing enough.

  “I want you to play for me.” The tone of his voice is low and . . . complicated.

  “Sure. But not—”

  “Not now, no. You’re probably tired. Sorry, I should leave.” But he doesn’t look sorry, he looks . . . intense. And I don’t want him to leave. His elegant cheekbones, the straight line of his nose—he’s so incredible looking.

  He’s also not human. I take a deep breath—

  Bo looks at my mouth—then bites his lip.

  Is he thinking of kissing me? My pulse jumps, and I let my breath out slowly—

  A look of pure irritation crosses Bo’s face.

  No. The almost kiss we shared is going to remain just that. Yet—the current holds steady.

  The lighthouse beam sweeps out over the waves, creating a sparkling path that’s visible one minute, invisible the next.

  I point to the light dancing on the water. “I wish I could play that. Wish I could sing it.”

  That glimmer on the ocean—whether it’s from the lighthouse lens, or the moon, from the early-morning sun, or the long reaching light of late afternoon—it makes life seem full of possibility, yet at the same time hollow, with wanting. Bo’s eyes hold that kind of light, and when he looks at me I feel just that way. “It’s like . . . promise, that shine on the water.”

  “Promises,” he says, and his tone in no way matches mine. There’s a hard edge to his voice now, even though he’s speaking quietly. “There are always two sides to them. They can be fulfilled—or broken.”

  I hadn’t meant that kind of promise, and his response isn’t exactly encouraging, but I know what he means, and despite the misunderstanding, the current continues to travel between us, as if we’re aligned in a myriad of other ways. But the connection—it’s disturbing somehow, like the black reaches of the sea, and also as mesmerizing as its continual curling waves. And as much as I don’t want to, I need to step into this unseen stream now. Need to tell him—I know what he is. But first I’ll make him promise—the kind of promise he was thinking of. A vow.

  I take a deep breath. He shudders.

  “Will you promise me something?”

  “Probably not.” But he doesn’t look away.

  “Try, okay? Promise, that no matter how idiotic I sound, you’ll tell me the truth. And promise that whatever I say, you’ll still be my friend.” My face heats. Friend, right. I’m a liar.

  And at the thought—something in me freezes.

  A liar. That’s not me—that’s Lilah.

  A memory spins out now, plays itself at the back of my mind like a movie, showing a brick apartment building in a decaying neighborhood . . . an artist friend of Mom’s . . .

  “Playground,” Lilah said, tugging me to the door. “In the backyard.” And then we were outside, walking. And Mom, she was still inside—I guess. But I didn’t care. I had Lilah.

  To me, at only four or five, the walk lasted forever, but in reality, the grubby playground had probably been only a few blocks from the apartment building. Either way, it certainly wasn’t in the backyard.

  A rusted metal jungle gym . . . “Swing!” I said, pointing.

  “Seesaw.” She scowled, yanking on my arm, twisting it, until nausea crawled up my throat. Seesaw. The kind they don’t make anymore, because they’re too dangerous.

  Up high, down low, up high, down low. Having fun but afraid I’d fall, I alternately giggled and squealed. My feet pressed the earth. Earth—sky. Earth—sky. Up high—

  Lilah slung her leg over the wooden plank and stepped off. I slammed down on the packed dirt. No air. Lilah laughed like it was wildly funny—me rolling in the dust in my favorite red dress, afraid I was dying, though I didn’t know what that meant.

  And that’s when the feeling came. The raw, scraped feeling under my skin, down in my belly. As if her betrayal had gutted me.

  Then Mom was there—out of the blue. Seemed Lilah had betrayed her too, because she was angry, so upset; she barely gave me a glance, although she helped me up from the ground.

  It happened again, and again. The small hurts, the bigger ones.

  As we got older, her games grew more twisted . . .

  “Kiss him,” Lilah commanded, before she drank from a bottle of something nasty that I’d refused. “Go. On. Kiss him.”

  “No!” I’d shouted. But Lilah caught my jacket, pushed me toward him.

  “Use your tongue,” she said, laughing. And he did. Her boyfriend.

  How old was I? Barely twelve.

  Then the accident happened, and the raw feeling became a permanent part of my life, a part of me. But Bo doesn’t know about that.

  Light from some source I can’t discern glints through the deep-gold fringe of Bo’s eyelashes now as he tips his head back, like he wants to see me from a different angle.

  But I can’t focus on him—my head feels fuzzy, crowded with images of my sister. I grope toward one thin thought that’s blowing loose inside me somewhere, luffing like a sail set too close to the wind.

  And finally I grasp it, and understand. I was right—I am right. She met someone here, and she did fall in love. It can happen that fast, in a day, or a week.

  It’s the same way I’m falling for Bo: Fast, and hard, and stupidly. Messily. It makes sense now—there’s someone. A boy—a boy I need to find.

  “Bo—” I begin, but my knees buckle—

  And then I feel one of his hands sliding across my back, one of his arms catching behind my knees—

  The night air’s cool against my cheeks as he swings me up into his arms—cool and soothing compared to the heat I feel emanating from him.

  I imagine I feel his lips as well, against my hair, but I can’t keep my eyes open, can’t see his face as he murmurs, “The best promise I can give to you—is that I’ll stay away. But I’m not sure I can promise that.
”

  The outside door closes behind us.

  I hear the inner door open—

  And then, there’s only silence.

  INTRUDER

  In the morning I wake curled in a tight ball, like I’m steeling myself for a blow. As if this isn’t alarming enough, I hear music—someone singing. Not in my head—like music from some fading dream—and not an earworm either, a song from the radio that even in sleep I can’t shake. No, it’s more like a deep voice, backed with a thrash metal riff.

  Sitting up in bed, head swiveling, I look around the room—

  But there’s no one here—of course there’s no one here.

  Bo. He must have brought me up to my room, although I have no memory of it. I touch my head. But there’s no pain, just a little stiffness in my neck and upper back.

  And obviously Bo’s not here now, and no one’s singing anything, let alone some pumped-up hardcore song with shifting time signatures. So what the hell was that? I shut my eyes—

  Gleaming wet hair—

  Then quickly open them. It was a dream. That’s all. Another dream. I remember more details this time—but the boy, he was different. Not a different boy, but—I’d watched his hips swivel and shudder, tearing through the sea tangle at his pelvis. Watched his body contort, as the silver-scaled appendage emerged from his lower torso, the end splitting into two fins edged with gossamer membrane making prisms of the light. It was as if the sharp-edged glass of the lighthouse lens had come to life—then the coiling reptilian limb had snaked around my waist. And all the while the music: a throbbing bass line ribboning through my rib cage.

  Quickly I get up and cross to the bathroom, peeling off the clothes I fell asleep in. The pale-green tiles make me think of murky water.

  The window is open and I lean my hands on the sill, looking out—

  Something slick sticks to my fingers. A piece of seaweed—all the way up here. I start to slide the window closed, wondering how—

  A gust of cool air blows my hair around my face, and I lose my grip—

  The window slams shut, and I jump back—

  But I don’t take my eyes off of it, realizing—

  I don’t remember opening it.

  Although I must have. Last night is a bit of blur, that’s all, because of what happened. Maybe Bo opened the window. He brought me up here, definitely. And then he left. He wouldn’t have stayed—I know that for a fact. And even though I can’t shake the feeling that someone’s been here? There’s certainly no one here now.

  But there is an envelope, tucked partway under the door. A slip of paper lies next to it.

  Ari,

  Are you okay? What happened to the window of the park service truck? I’m not thrilled you borrowed it. It’s state property. Call the marina, they’ll find me.

  Love, Your Dad

  P.S. Mary phoned.

  I’d beaten Dad home easily but had totally forgotten to get rid of the note I’d left for him. Not that it matters, with the driver’s side window of the truck broken and all.

  The letter is from Mom. As I’m about to open it, a wave of nausea hits me. I hurry back to the bathroom, trying to remember if I ate anything weird—

  My nausea is suddenly arrested.

  There’s water on the bathroom floor.

  I’d seen it a minute ago—a small puddle beneath the window. But from this angle, I see more now—more water, glistening on the floor. Drips and drops that form a wet, weaving trail from the bathroom, across the bedroom—

  To my bed.

  I bring my hands to my mouth. This is—this can’t be what it looks like.

  Walking back to the bed now, I don’t even have to touch the sheets to tell that they’re wet. Just in one spot, as if someone had been sitting on the edge of my bed.

  While I was sleeping.

  I hurry back to the bathroom, grab a towel, and wrap it around my naked body. I wash my face at the sink, look in the mirror. My skin is pale, my hair hangs limply—I need a shower. No, I need . . . I need . . . But I can’t seem to finish the thought, can really only hold one thought, one face, in my mind. The two of us not seeing each other—that’s not an answer, that’s a cop-out. And if he’s really some kind of—some kind of different . . . type of person than I am, then . . . then . . .

  But there is no then. There’s only now. I need to see him.

  I throw on jeans and a sweater. Down in the kitchen of the keeper’s house—I can’t eat. Taking a few deep breaths, I try to calm down.

  Okay, a calm person is logical. Responsible. She, for example, calls her dad.

  But the harbormaster can’t find Dad and he puts me on hold.

  After several long minutes in which I’m forced to listen to elevator music, he comes back on the line. “Captain Rush has a charter. He’ll be back tonight.”

  Good, because as soon as we actually talk? I’m grounded.

  After leaving a message at the marina, I grab a pen. I’ll write another note just in case Dad gets home early. But then I frown down at the blank page. If I tell the truth, I’ll get more than grounded. Dad will overnight me to Dr. Harrison.

  Bo’s idea about what happened suddenly seems like a good one.

  Dear Dad,

  I’m fine. I’m really sorry about the window. A rock from the road hit it pretty hard. I’ll pay for it out of my allowance. Sorry again.

  Love, Ari

  Done. If he gets home before me, Dad will see the note.

  But of course he won’t see the truck.

  Because I’m taking it.

  PURSUIT

  Whizzing through the rain, the plastic wrap I’ve duct-taped to the window flapping rhythmically, I don’t see one other car on the road. Rock Hook may be a peninsula, but it feels like an island—a deserted island.

  After half an hour, I veer off the main road and onto a dirt road. Soon, I turn again, heading southeast on what’s nothing more than a narrow trail. Branches scrape the side of the truck as I head deeper into the wet woods.

  Devil’s Claw. Everyone knows the Summers have a house out there, maybe not at the end proper, but somewhere in the woods—not that there’s any guarantee Bo will be there. But none of the cars I’ve seen him driving were at Summers Cove. I checked down the overgrown private road first. I couldn’t see the house from where I was, but I could see the drive, and there weren’t any cars. Besides, Bo’s got to know I won’t let this go—what exactly happened last night? And Summers Cove is too close if he wants to avoid me today.

  Like he said, we’re neighbors.

  Devil’s Claw. Wabanaki Wilderness is the official name, and US wilderness areas don’t usually allow motorized vehicles, but—the truck jounces over a series of bumps—I’m in a park service vehicle, and I’ve already driven up this way once, with Dad.

  I stop in front of an old cabin surrounded by evergreens. We didn’t go beyond this point, the day we drove out here. The sign on the side of the building is worn, but I manage to make out a few dates. The area will be closed for the season in less than a week, the end of September. Under the dates are warnings so faded they’re illegible.

  A clipboard with a pen hangs from the wooden counter below a shuttered window.

  Sure enough, Bo’s name is there along with today’s date.

  A few yards in front of me a rusted gate blocks the road. I push it open, then climb back into the truck and drive past it. I stop again and jump out, closing the gate behind me.

  The trees tower over the truck as I continue driving. I’m trying to concentrate on my surroundings, but mostly, I’m thinking about Bo. I feel almost feverish with the desire to talk to him—I just want to talk. To hear how I managed to miss our goodbye last night, and to tell him he doesn’t have to shut me out. I can keep his secret.

  I hit a series of ruts in the road and feel a hot flush of anxiety.

  He was there when I nearly drove off the road. What does that say?

  Nothing. It doesn’t say anything. It’s a coincidenc
e, that’s all.

  Then who tried to run me off the road?

  I try to calm myself by looking at the land, the rocky peaks reaching up through the tree line stretching toward the sky. It’s beautiful—and untouched. I shiver a little. Tell myself it’s from the damp of the day.

  At last I reach the top of a granite outcropping—

  And there’s no place else to go. I’ve passed barely there side roads, possible hiking trails. But this truly seems to be the end of the main road.

  I get out of the truck and begin hiking down what to me is a nearly nonexistent trail. The only reason I know to follow it is because of the bent branches at the top, low-lying bushes that have recently been disturbed. Hiking downward over the steeply slanted ground, I imagine Bo moving fluidly over the mossy rocks and tree roots, intensity radiating from him.

  I’m having trouble with the slippery soles of my boots and try to keep my attention on my feet, rather than the fact that inside every one of my shivers a needle of heat is burning.

  The trees shield me from the rain for most of the hike, which, like the drive, probably takes three-quarters of an hour. At the end of it I discover—

  Logan is wrong. Someone has built at Devil’s Claw.

  I thought the house would be a cabin, would be like the ranger station in the woods.

  It’s not.

  The rocky site of the bunker-like house is shockingly close to the ocean. The hard look of the concrete walls makes the house appear armored, yet the way the structure seems to cling to the rocks makes it seem organic as well, and . . . barnacle-like.

  When I reach the unassuming door, I stop. But I’ve already berated myself for coming, already pictured the various responses my showing up unannounced might elicit. At this point, I don’t care. Nothing surpasses my need to see Bo.

  I knock. No one answers. I knock again, then again, thinking of Dr. Harrison now, of what he’d say about obsession, about triggers and loops.

  I imagine how I’d tell him, The hike was good exercise. And, It’s just this one time.

  One last volley of knocking and I give up, heading around the side of the house, peering in through a large window. The L-shaped floor plan is compact. Efficient, like a boat. The concave wood ceiling gives an embracing sense of shelter, but everything else is open. The main rooms have no partitions between them, so there’s a flowing feeling. Nothing interrupts the view of the sea, and the sea—I realize now that I’m observing the way the house hangs out over the water—