by Anna Davies
“You met on the beach?” Coral asked.
Miranda shifted uncomfortably. If she told Coral, then Christian would no longer be a secret. But who would Coral tell? And maybe she needed advice.
“Yeah. I think he’s a runaway or something . . . he doesn’t talk about himself at all. But I ran into him on the beach once and ever since then I . . .”
“You understand each other,” Coral finished.
“Yes!” Miranda was relieved that someone understood. “And I loved Fletch . . . I mean, I love Fletch, but he’s not here and he’s not coming back, and Christian is and it’s just . . . it doesn’t feel wrong.”
“No, I’m sure it doesn’t. To you or to him,” Coral said. “So, what do you know about him?”
Miranda shrugged. “That’s the problem. I don’t really know anything.”
“So what do you talk about?”
“Well, we talk about stuff . . .”
“Stuff . . . ,” Coral said in a mocking tone, putting down her teacup and gazing at Miranda. “Current events? Geology? Your families? What does that mean?”
“We talk about the accident,” Miranda said nervously, taking a large sip of tea and feeling like she’d inadvertently stepped into some sort of cross-examination. “He listens,” Miranda said finally. A silence fell over them.
“What does he think about the accident?” Coral asked, tapping her fingers together.
“He thinks it’s an accident,” Miranda said slowly, unsure where the conversation was going.
“Yes, and of course, it was an accident, dear,” Coral said, placing her hand on Miranda’s arm. Miranda yanked it back. “But all accidents have consequences. And unfortunately for you, one of the consequences of the accident is being ostracized. And Christian, spending time with you, is risking his own consequences. It’s the way the world works. You don’t have to like it, but you’ll be well served if you learn that lesson now,” Coral said, her violet eyes gleaming.
“He saved me,” Miranda said stonily. What did Coral mean, all accidents had consequences? In her life, that had already been made abundantly clear.
“Did he!” Coral exclaimed. But she didn’t sound surprised. “And how do you think he feels about that?”
“How do I think he feels about him saving me?” Miranda repeated. “Good, I guess.”
“So you don’t think he regrets it?” Coral asked.
A sliver of fear lodged in Miranda’s stomach. “What do you mean?” she asked, setting her teacup down with a clatter. “Why would he regret it?”
“No, no!” Coral said quickly. “I don’t mean that he’d regret saving you. Of course he wouldn’t. All I mean is, often, people are pulled between two desires, one that’s correct and one that isn’t. I’m just saying that just because he saved you then doesn’t mean he would save you now.”
“I think he would,” Miranda said shortly.
“Good, then think that. But remember, everyone has a dark side and usually, it’ll end up hurting you. The trick is to realize which side you need to follow.
“Now, would you like any more tea?” Coral asked, as if she hadn’t just wondered out loud whether Christian regretted saving Miranda.
“I have to go,” Miranda said, a lump in her throat. She felt the familiar beginnings of a panic attack and knew she needed to get out. “Another time?” She gasped, throwing her napkin on the table and running toward the exit.
“Of course, darling. Any time you want to talk, I’m here,” Coral said as Miranda sprinted down the gangplank, into the car, and drove to Bloody Point.
THREE MORE DAYS. CHRISTIAN’S MIND WAS FUZZY. HE’D been away from the sea for four days, and even the shallow swimming at Bloody Point wasn’t the same as being Down Below. Maybe he needed to go back. He needed to talk to Valentine and form a plan. He needed to remember his roots. And yet, every second Down Below was one second he could be spending with Miranda.
That was the tricky thing, with Miranda. He wanted to tell her everything. Every day that went by that he didn’t tell her everything—including the fact that he’d been sent on a mission to bring her soul back to Down Below—was living a lie. If there was a chance at a future, no matter how tiny, they had to have a foundation based on truth.
He fingered the gold heart chain he had in the pocket of his shorts. It was fragile, nothing like the jewelry he’d occasionally seen skimming the ocean floor, which were always large and substantial—they had to be, if they’d actually fallen to the bottom of the ocean. He knew he had to give the necklace back to her—he was going to, the day he got his freedom to be at the Surface forever. He smiled at the thought, running his index finger along the grooves of the engraving. The necklace reminded him of the hope he had to keep, the fact that in two days, he and Miranda would be free to be together, forever.
He needed a plan. He thought he’d come up with one Down Below, but he’d been wrong. Even though Up Above was too loud and too bright, making it almost impossible for him to think, he soon realized he’d already grown used to it. In contrast, Down Below was perpetual twilight. It exemplified the change that had occurred within him in just the past few days. Down Below, he’d known there was possibility somewhere, but it was just beyond his reach. Up Above, everything was illuminated, and if it wasn’t, humans would just create their light.
Christian gazed out to the water and saw a large yacht, rocking in the distance. He absentmindedly touched the matches in his pocket, feeling relief they were still there. The expanse of water was enormous, making Miranda’s boat look like a toy. It was also majestic, like the types that would sometimes fall to Down Below. A lone woman was on the boat, her blond hair piled on top of her head. He thought that he was out of view, but suddenly, the woman looked up and waved, as if she were looking right at him.
Embarrassed to be caught staring, he allowed his gaze to drop down. And suddenly, he gasped.
The boat was named the Sephie.
“CHRISTIAN?” MIRANDA CALLED, RACING THROUGH THE palmetto trees toward the beach at Bloody Point. “Christian?” She called again. She heard a rustle from the trees, a few feet away from where she was standing. Nothing. Probably the wind. It had picked up, and the hairs on Miranda’s arms were standing on end.
Shivering, she sat on the piece of driftwood on the sand and hugged her arms close to her chest. Remnants of their fire from the other night were still visible—further proof that no one ever came to Bloody Point. Or maybe the only people who’d possibly come here were people like her and Christian.
She traced her initials in the sand, followed by the eternity symbol. Then she erased it with her palm. She knew what she should do: Call the hospital, visit Fletch, research brain injuries and begin to do whatever it took to help Fletch get better. Or begin to do whatever it was you were supposed to do as a good girlfriend when all medical advice and research shows that your boyfriend won’t get better. But she felt suspended in time, as if she couldn’t do anything until she saw Christian.
It would be easier if she could only talk about him to someone. This was the type of guy problem Gen’s mom, Jane, would love to gossip about. Jane loved talking with Genevieve and Miranda. So many times, Genevieve and Miranda would be sitting at the granite island in the kitchen and eating snacks when Jane would come into the kitchen, pull out a bottle of Sancerre, and interject her thoughts, wondering out loud whether relationships before college could possibly be beneficial, complaining about her ex-in-laws, and urging Genevieve and Miranda to play the field as much as possible.
What would Jane say about Christian? She’d probably pour out a brand new glass of wine, then dig through the Sub-zero refrigerator for cheese and crackers. “This,” she’d say, finally plunking a log of goat cheese on the table as if presenting an offering, “is going to take a while.”
She’d suggest Miranda needed to do some background intel, that the Prince Charming story was for idiots, and that a man who washes up on the beach is likely a washup, because that word does
n’t come from nowhere.
“Miranda.” Miranda jumped. Christian was standing above her, wearing the same baggy khaki pants with the belt as a drawstring and the sweatshirt that she’d given him last night.
“I was looking for you,” Miranda said raggedly. The exhaustion from being up all night and the disturbing conversation with Coral had caught up with her.
“I was looking for you, too,” Christian said, dropping his lanky frame next to her.
“Really?” Miranda smiled shyly. Even though their conversations could sometimes feel awkward, actions like this proved to Miranda they were on the same page, and that there was something between them besides the fact he’d rescued her. “I couldn’t go to school, and I just thought . . . I don’t know. What do you do all day, anyway?” she asked. The words came out like an accusation.
“Depends on the day. I plan, I figure things out . . . I think about you,” he confessed.
“You think about me?” Miranda said skeptically. She didn’t want to flirt. “No, I mean seriously . . . do you have a home?” she asked gently. A memory surfaced in her mind: It was first grade, and the teacher, Mrs. Bradley, had been reading The Secret Garden to the class, and had explained that Mary Lennox was an orphan, because both her parents had died.
Miranda’s hand had shot up. “Am I an orphan?” she asked.
“W-well . . . ,” Mrs. Bradley had stammered, turning bright red.
“Yeah, she is,” Alan Osten had lisped from the back of the room. “I want to be one, too!” he had added enviously.
Instead of being ashamed, Miranda had felt proud. No one else in class was an orphan. As soon as she got home, she bounded into Eleanor’s study, eager to share her discovery.
“You’re not an orphan,” Eleanor had said, a pained expression on her face. “Orphans don’t have anyone. You have me,” she’d explained.
Miranda had nodded, feeling vaguely disappointed. She’d wanted to be an orphan. Later, she realized that she was, and nothing Eleanor did, said, or bought her would change it. Then she’d hated the term. Ever since then, she’d blushed when someone had used the word to describe her. It sounded so tragic and Dickensian. But it was true. And she didn’t have anyone. Not really.
Miranda gazed at Christian, wondering if the term “homeless” might similarly set him off. But he had a bemused expression on his face. “I do have a home. At least I did when I left it.”
“You sound like a fortune cookie,” Miranda said offhandedly. It was one of those insults she’d toss off to Fletch to start a teasing war. Christian looked at her curiously. That was the thing with Christian. He was so brooding and intense, it was like he didn’t know how to joke. “But you sound like the good type of fortune cookie, that actually has a fortune and not just lottery numbers,” she said, smiling.
Christian gave her a bemused expression, the one she already realized meant that he didn’t have a clue about what she was saying. “What do you think? Do you think you’ll always live here?”
“Hell no,” Miranda shook her head. “I told you about everything going on . . . I just want to go somewhere where no one knows me. Where I can start over. Maybe far away from the water. Not like any of it makes any difference . . .” Miranda trailed off. “Have you ever had anything happen in your life that you really regret?” Miranda asked.
“Of course,” Christian nodded.
“And?” Miranda asked eagerly.
Christian shrugged and sank down next to her, draping his arm across her shoulders. “I don’t know yet. I’m still waiting. But I have to believe things will be okay. Somehow. Everything always corrects itself.”
“Maybe,” Miranda said uncertainly. “But what if it doesn’t?”
“It will,” Christian said sharply. It wasn’t a fight, exactly, but tension hung thick in the air between them. Her stomach rumbled and she realized she was starving. “Wanna get food?” Miranda asked.
“Food?” Christian repeated.
“Or not. Whatever,” Miranda said, sitting back down on the driftwood. “I just thought it might be good to get out . . . or something.”
“Sure,” Christian said.
“Okay,” Miranda nodded. “My car’s over there.” She jutted her chin to the grove of trees. Without waiting, she walked over to her car. They’d have to leave the island to get food. They couldn’t go anywhere on the island. You couldn’t go anywhere, not even the deli that sat in the other half of the tackle shop in Bloody Point, without running into someone. And people would talk. “Okay to go to the mainland?” Miranda asked as she slid into the car. Christian closed his door. It was funny being in an enclosed space with him. It felt even more intimate than lying next to each other on the beach. He smelled like salt water and it was clear that the seat was pulled too far up to comfortably fit his long legs. But Christian didn’t bother to move the seat. Instead, he sat with his knees comically wedged against the dashboard. Miranda laughed. Christian tried so hard to give off a rebel bad boy vibe, but then he looked so confused and uncomfortable.
“You can move the seat back, you know,” Miranda said as she turned the ignition and drove toward the ferry dock. She rolled up the windows, glad they were tinted so no one could see inside.
“I’m fine,” Christian said, shifting so his knees were facing her. On top of the crest of Faunterloy, Miranda could just make out the green and white ferry gracefully making its way to the dock. Oddly, the Sephie was nowhere to be seen.
“Weird,” Miranda murmured. In the past few days, she’d gotten so used to seeing its larger-than-life presence as part of the landscape at the harbor that it seemed odd that it was gone. She wondered where the Sephie went.
“What?” Christian asked.
“Nothing.” Miranda shook her head. “Fixations” was the word Dr. Dorn would have used to describe her sudden interest in the whereabouts of the Sephie. Dr. Dorn would say that it was just one more way for Miranda to maintain control of her environment.
The ferry had very few cars on board. By mutual silent agreement, Christian and Miranda didn’t go up on deck, but stayed on the car deck. They didn’t talk. It surprised Miranda how shy she felt with Christian.
He’s just a friend. It’s not a big deal, she reminded herself. She glanced over. Christian’s jaw was set, and he was staring straight ahead, as if he were frightened. Who was she kidding? Of course he wasn’t just a friend. They’d kissed. Her heart sped up whenever she saw him. She knew his collar bones sloped slightly before ending in his surprisingly sharp shoulder blades, concealed under just the right layer of muscle. And yet . . .
“You okay?” She asked finally, poking him hard in the arm. He jumped.
“Yes, fine,” he said shortly.
“Okay . . . ,” Miranda whispered under her breath. From the deck, the foghorn blew, signaling that it was time for passengers to return to their cars and get ready to disembark. Miranda sank down low in her seat, not wanting anyone to see her. It was clear her encounter with Christian last night had unleashed something with her. What was unclear was whether that was good or bad. When all her emotions were bottled up, she was robotic, but at least she didn’t make any scenes. Now, she felt like she was looking for a fight, even with Christian. It was as if Coral had pulled a huge Band-Aid off her emotions.
“All cars out for Johns Island,” the captain boomed over the intercom.
Damn it. Instead of the mainland ferry she’d inadvertently driven onto the inter-island one, which looped from Whym to Johns to Palmetto Cay, then back again. Even though it was only a few miles away, she always avoided Johns. She hated thinking of her parents, late at night in the front seat of their car, amped up after a late concert, driving off the dock. It didn’t make sense. Her parents were free-spirited hippies, but they hadn’t been idiots.
“I guess we’re getting off,” Miranda said tightly. At least this was more anonymous than hanging out on Whym.
Miranda drove down the tiny main street, which only held a post office, a gene
ral store, and a combined pizza place and bar called Boomers. The other half of the island used to be concert grounds, but now housed a summer camp. Miranda couldn’t help but wonder if the switch had been motivated by her parents’ accident.
“Boomers?” Miranda asked, nodding toward the weathered tavern on the corner. As if they had a choice.
Christian nodded. He kept staring out the window as if he were ready to jump out at any moment. On the beach, Christian seemed comfortable, both in his skin and his surroundings. And while his skin still had the vaguely glow-y look he had at the beach, he seemed cagey and restless, displaying none of the in-control calm he had at Bloody Point. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all.
Miranda drove into the almost-empty parking lot of the ugly brown building. There was a neon sign over the door, two of its red letters burnt out so the sign only read OO ERS.
Miranda elbowed Christian in the ribs. “Wanna buy a vowel?” She asked.
“What?” Christian asked, clearly confused.
“Never mind,” Miranda sighed. Something felt wrong. Since so much was wrong, she wasn’t sure what it was, beyond everything.
The inside of Boomers was dark and smelled like stale beer and cigarettes, and the floor was sticky. A thin layer of grime seemed to cover the surfaces of the red Formica tables. Already, a few grizzled men were sitting at the bar, drinking watery beers. The song “Carry On My Wayward Son” played from the jukebox, as if the entire tavern had been suspended in a permanent time warp. Miranda relaxed. No one would ever find them here.
Miranda grabbed Christian’s wrist, self-conscious at touching him away from the beach. It was such a couply gesture. But then he circled her hand with his, and they walked to a booth at the back of the restaurant. Miranda had never been here before, but Fletch and a few of the guys had, one time during the summer. They’d been psyched because—unlike all the places on Whym where the waiters pretty much knew on sight that they were underage—they’d actually been served beer. Miranda wondered if this had been where her parents had gone, too. The thought made her shiver.
