An hour before dusk, I enter Seaside Cemetery, right on time—thirty minutes before dusk, just like always. The cemetery is on a rolling hilltop ten minutes south of Cedar Cove, not far from the bluffs. The sweeping, beautiful million-dollar views of the Pacific stretch out below me.
I walk down the winding concrete pathways, past the big, soonto-be bare weeping willow, and to the fourth grave after the tree. Steven’s. Once there, I drop to my knees next to the stone, between the body of Steven Goode and his neighbor’s, a guy named Mathew Pearson. A guy who’d been blessed with sixty-two years on this earth, more than three times as many as Steven had.
I turn around and lie back on the grass, staring toward the cloudless September sky. As the pinks and oranges of sunset begin to seep into the sky, I can’t help but think about what dusk means. If Steven were lying on top of the grass, instead of six feet under, he’d be right next to me. We could spend the next half-hour touching shoulders, intertwining our fingers. The chill of the grass would disappear under the warmth of his smile.
Instead, he’s cold and dead, buried beneath the ground in a beautiful mahogany coffin that cost his mother eight thousand dollars.
“Hey, Steven,” I say. I dig into my pocket and produce a tiny Hot Wheels Chevelle. It’s electric blue, like his was. “I found this at a toy store the other day.” I hold it up to the sky, as if he’ll be able to see it from wherever it is his soul resides.
“I know it’s not the same thing. I mean, you can’t drive it or anything. But it made me think of you, so . . .” I bought one for you and kept one for me.
My voice trails off, and I drop my arm back to my side. “The guy who bought your car lives in town, you know. I see him sometimes. He’s, like, fifty. I bet he has no idea how hard you worked to restore it. Stinks that you can’t be the one to enjoy it.”
My voice cracks and catches in my throat. This is the only time of day I let my guard down. I’m not sure why I come up here every day, as if I’ll find the answers, as if he’ll tell me he doesn’t blame me for what happened. But somehow talking to him takes a tiny piece of the guilt away. It’s just a little ice chip of a huge iceberg, but it’s something.
I swallow as the first tear brims and rolls across my temple. As my vision swims with tears, it makes the darkening sky look like the ocean, like rippling, shimmering water.
And suddenly, I’m there again, standing on the dark beach with Steven.
I giggle when he slips his arms around my waist, nervous. We’ve been dancing around this for weeks. I’ve been too afraid to ask him what he was waiting for. Too afraid I was wrong.
But tonight everything is different. Tonight we stopped dancing.
I watch the water roll in to shore, Steven behind me, his lips brushing across the crook of my neck. There’s something in the air tonight, something electric that seems to be setting me on fire. It’s a humid latesummer night, the dark clouds threatening rain that never seems to come. All they do is blot out the moon and the stars and make it hard to see more than a dozen yards ahead.
The air tastes like salt, like summer, like everything I love, and the urge to get in and swim is overwhelming.
I twist around in his arms, until I’m facing him. He leans down, and the kiss is long, lingering. I can’t believe we’re really here, really doing this. It’s like something from a dream. I find myself backing up without breaking the kiss, until I feel the sea lapping at my feet. Steven pulls away for a second, surprised by the feel of it, but I yank him back down to me, wanting more.
More, more, more. That’s all I can think. The need is overwhelming. “Let’s go swimming,” I whisper between kisses. I don’t know why I want to swim, but I do. Desperately. And before he can react, I’m pulling his T-shirt over his head and throwing it onto the beach.
Steven blinks. Maybe I’m moving too fast after waiting so long. But he wants it, too—I can see that. He watches as I toss my shirt with his. And when I pull my pants off, he does the same. And then we’re standing there, in our underwear. I grab his hand and lead him further into the water.
I’m nervous, but I don’t care, and I can’t seem to stop myself from dragging him deeper.
I’m always so cautious, so carefully controlled. But tonight I’m reckless, taking what I want without regard for the consequences.
An overwhelming sense of desire spirals inside me as our feet leave the sandy bottom. He goes to kiss me, but a wave splashes into us. We throw back our heads and laugh.
I’m giddy and euphoric, so exquisitely happy it’s uncontainable.
I laugh again and flip onto my back to float and paddle out further. Steven’s saying something, but the water filling my ears makes it impossible to decipher. I laugh again, and it comes out strange, melodic. It bubbles out and changes, fills the night air with a hauntingly beautiful song.
It can’t be me, singing it, but it is. The notes ring out, stronger and stronger as I pick up an urgent paddle. I don’t know why I’m doing this; I only know it feels right. As if I’ve waited my entire life to sing this song.
Soon, I stop thinking altogether, my arms paddling steadily, until I’m propelled faster and faster, gliding along more rapidly than any other creature in the water. Vaguely, I know Steven is out here with me, but I can’t seem to think clearly. The song grows, intensifying, louder, vibrating in my chest.
But abruptly, as I reach for another stroke, the melody dies in my throat. Silence rings out.
Suddenly, the urge to sing is gone. My head clears, the fog lifting all at once.
What am I doing? Where did Steven go?
I swim upright, treading water, trying to make out the beach in the distance. Did he get out? Swim to shore? I peer into the darkness, but it’s impossible to see beyond twenty feet. The swells rise around me, and I bob along the surface, waiting.
The desire to swim has vanished. The memory, now faint, of my laughter twisting into a strangely wordless song rattles me. I want to get out, and I can’t seem to remember why it seemed so important to swim in the first place. It’s nearly midnight, and a storm is sure to roll in soon.
I flip onto my back and kick my way to the shore. I knock into something with my head, so hard it seems to echo inside my skull. Quickly, I right myself, get my feet underneath me.
The inky darkness makes it impossible to see what is floating in front of me. I reach out, the water rippling with my movements. At first, I’m not sure what I feel beneath my fingers. But then, I know.
Hair.
Skin.
I jerk back, so fast I bob under and inhale a mouthful of water. I have to kick hard to keep my mouth above water as I cough and gasp.
I reach out again, my heart thundering in my chest, my hand trembling as I pull the body around, squinting into the darkness.
It’s . . .
Steven.
A scream rips free of my throat and, for a moment, I’m frozen. My legs no longer kick. I slowly sink. But then I cough up more seawater, and it occurs to me to tread. I watch his body bob along the surface, the waves swelling around us.
My mind clears and spurs me into motion. I hook an arm around his chin and kick hard, propelling myself toward the shoreline. I glide through the water faster than any human could possibly swim, faster than I ever knew I could. It seems to be just seconds before I am hauling him up onto the sand.
But he hasn’t moved, hasn’t struggled in my arms.
No. No, no, no, no.
I lean over and try to breathe life into him. I plug his nose and give him everything I have. I press on his chest, trying to force his heart to beat. He can’t be that far gone. He can’t be. It seemed like only seconds we were apart.
I desperately pound on his chest, try to force the air into his lungs, but it doesn’t work. Tears clog my throat.
“Steven!” I scream at him, pound at his chest, sobbing.
His eyes are blank, glassy. Haunting.
I lean over and cry. For everything he was. For everything
we’ll never be.
A truck rumbles by on the street above us, so loud I jump back. It brings reality screeching with it.
Help. Someone can help.
I scramble up the sandy bank, reed grass slicing into my bare feet, until I’m standing under a streetlamp. The night air is no longer warm on my bare, wet skin. The rain that has threatened for days sprinkles down as I step foot onto the pavement.
Headlights swing toward me as a car comes from around the bend. I stumble into the middle of street, waving my hands above my head. The lights beam right onto me, blinding me, until I have to shield my eyes. I must look crazed, soaking wet and half naked.
And then a spotlight joins it and the lights flash red and blue.
It’s a cop.
I play it over and over in my mind, every day of my life, but every time it ends the same. I’m wrapped up in a blanket in the backseat of a police car as Steven’s cold, sheet-covered body is wheeled past me. The bed jostles as they lift it into the ambulance, and his hand slides out from under the sheet, and all I can see is his pale, lifeless fingers.
I blink, hard, washing away the memory. You don’t have to sleep, you don’t have to dream, to have nightmares.
His death was considered suspicious. He was a vibrant seventeenyear-old athlete who shouldn’t have succumbed to the waves—he swam in his family’s pool every day and surfed during the summer. The police never understood why we went swimming on such a dark night; and at the time, neither did I.
I was brought in for questioning again and again. I retold the story over and over—leaving out the part where I sang. Even then, before I really understood what that meant, I knew not to mention it.
Eventually, the police determined that there was no way I could have drowned him myself. At least not by any normal means. Steven was so much bigger than me, so much stronger. When the autopsy came back clean—no bruising, no skin underneath his fingernails, no sign of a struggle—the drowning was ruled accidental.
Reporters speculated that he’d become disoriented in the dark. Unable to find the shore, he simply got too tired to keep his head above water. Others said it must have been a leg cramp, worsened by the growing waves. A sad, tragic accident.
But my friends never saw it that way. They wanted to know why I led him out of the house, toward the beach. Why I didn’t save him. And when I refused to explain anything, even to Sienna, they turned on me.
In the days following his death, I ignored the intense desire to swim, and I shut everyone out. I pulled the drapes closed in my room and lay there all night long, staring at the shadows, pretending I wasn’t craving the feel of the water against my skin.
With each day, I grew sicker. It was just a little fever at first, but soon I could hardly stand it. Eventually, I drove up to an old lake where I used to go swimming with Sienna and Nikki and Kristi.
I sang all night. And by morning, I felt stronger than ever. But the feeling only lasted a day.
Within two weeks, I was swimming every night.
I sigh, rolling over onto my stomach and propping myself up on my elbows. Maybe it’s morbid to be lying here in the grass, just six feet above the bodies. Maybe someone would be horrified if they saw me. But I need this time with him—it’s the only thing that keeps me sane. Luckily, Steven’s grave is hard to see from the pathways because of a few shrubs and the willow. I would probably see someone long before they’d see me.
I reach out and trace my fingers over Steven’s grave marker. Steven Goode. Beloved Son, Brother and Friend. At the bottom is an engraved football. Steven didn’t even like football. I never told anyone that. He did it for his dad, who played through high school and college but never made it pro. That was when I first began to hope that he liked me—he was telling me secrets no one else knew. Secrets he trusted me with.
I never got to tell him mine. I spent three years pining for him; just when things started to shift, just when it looked as if the romance wasn’t all in my head, I killed him.
I set the Chevelle in front of his headstone. Every night, I tell him everything, even about the curse I live with. He’s the only one who knows the truth. Unless I want all my old friends to end up in the ground next to him, I have to keep them away.
I kiss my fingertips and then place them on his headstone. For a brief moment, my fingers linger on the marble, and I wonder for the thousandth time what it would have been like to be with him for more than just a moment. My sixteenth-birthday party could have been the start of something. And instead, it was the end.
I wonder for the thousandth time if he could have loved me in that same fierce way I loved him. “Good night, Steven.”
I get up and wipe my knees off and then step back onto the pathways. It’s getting darker now and harder to see. I have another night of swimming ahead of me. Even as I leave his body to rot in a grave that I put him in, I must return to the water.
“See you tomorrow,” I whisper, as if someone will hear.
And then I take the first few steps that will leave him behind.
Chapter Five
I swam all night, but my stomach still churns as I walk into the doors at school, zipping up my fleece jacket as though somehow it will protect me from what’s to come. Getting through today will be a gauntlet.
We’re two weeks into the school year, now, which means one thing: it’s my birthday. It should be a happy day. For any other person in this school, it would be. But my birthday will forever mark the anniversary of Steven’s death; and no one is going to let me forget it. The police may have cleared my name, but to everyone else, I was found guilty. Forever and always, the one who stole Steven from their lives.
I tip my chin up, square my shoulders, and try to walk to my locker as if I don’t notice the watchful eyes of my classmates.
An underclassman, oblivious to the tension in the hall, walks by me, his eyes sweeping over me in an appreciative, almost lustful way before he catches my glare and turns away.
A group of people, Sienna and her boyfriend Patrick, plus Nikki and Kristi, stand together not far from my locker. They lounge around a big bay window, officially reserved for seniors. Unofficially, it’s for top tier seniors, and that means it belongs to them. Why did I have to be cursed with a locker so close to their stomping grounds?
I turn to my locker, concentrating on keeping my hand from shaking so much they’ll see it. I screw up the combination the first time and have to start over. I can feel their eyes on my back, watching me. My chest tightens and it seems harder to breathe.
Finally, I hit the last digit and pop the door open.
Sand spills out in a wave, piling up at my feet. My books, my papers, everything is filled with grit.
I whirl around, wondering which of my classmates is to blame. Sienna’s closer than before, her hand on her hip. She’s wearing a kneelength black skirt and one of Steven’s old T-shirts, the one he used to wear at least once a week. I haven’t seen that shirt since last year. Since my seventeenth birthday. I wonder what else of his she’s kept.
My chest rises and falls rapidly, and I’m so close to losing it I want to just leave everything like this and run.
“Happy birthday,” she says, her voice trembling.
I blink.
There’s no anger to her words.
I clench my hands, desperate to hold it together. “How long are you going to do this?”
She tilts her head to the side and the light streaming in from their window catches the tears shimmering in her eyes. “Until I get my brother back.”
She spins around and walks away. I want to scream at her that I want him back as much as she does, that I never wanted to kill him and she doesn’t have to keep doing this to me, but I swallow the words.
One by one, the crowd disperses. I turn back to my locker, slam it shut, and stalk off in the opposite direction.
Happy birthday to me.
When I walk in the door at home, my gram is in her recliner, but her eyes are shut, and the st
eady sawing of her snoring fills the living room. I pause in the faded hardwood entry and watch her, my hands still gripping my heavy backpack.
Her gray hair is rumpled, her matching pink sweats and sweatshirt a little wrinkled, but she’s never looked more serene. I wish I could look that peaceful. Every limb, every muscle is relaxed.
I turn away and go to the kitchen, flinging open a few cupboards. Dinner. It will occupy my hands and my mind. I survey the options for a long moment, my arms crossed. I’m not in the mood to cook anything elaborate. I only want to get the meal over with, smile in a convincing way, and retreat to my room to wait out the hours until dusk. I grab beans, corn, some dry noodles, and stewed tomatoes. I’ll throw it all together with a little bit of frozen vegetables and call it soup. Gram loves soup.
I fill a pot with water and set it on the stove, twisting the dial to high. As I pull a ladle out of the drawer, a flash of pink catches my eye. I smile as big as I can manage at my grandmother as she shuffles toward me, hoping to hide the strain of my day at school.
“Lexi, honey, I didn’t hear you come in.”
“You were sleeping, Gram.”
She frowns. “You shouldn’t have to cook dinner on your birthday.”
“I know, but I like cooking.” I dump the noodles into the pot and then turn back to look at her. “It’s okay, really. You can sit down. It’ll be ready in twenty minutes.”
She shuffles away from me down the hall, her slippers swishing on the hardwood. I watch her until the bright pink disappears.
I twist back around and reach for the can opener, humming to myself as I open up the tomatoes and dump them into the pot. Everything about school sucks, but I find comfort in the normalcy of being at home. It’s so different from my intense, supernatural problems. When I’m here, I don’t have to watch my back.
I find the Italian seasoning jar in the cupboard and pour a bunch in. Then I lean a hip against the counter as I watch the soup come to a boil.
The shuffling returns. My grandmother’s face is hidden by a big box wrapped in plain brown paper. Her wrinkled, veiny hands grip it tightly.
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