by Carrie Ryan
EIGHT
I run into Shepherd in the foyer. He’s wearing the same shorts and T-shirt from before, his feet bare. “The fund-raiser for Senator Wells starts soon,” I point out.
He glances at me, his eyes quickly taking in my appearance. A muscle along his jaw tenses. “And?” he asks.
“And you’re not ready.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “Right. Because I’m not going.”
“Why not? You’re the one running the conservation and the whole point of hosting this thing is because the Senator supported Cecil’s efforts along the coast.”
Shepherd stares at me for a long moment. “So you call him Cecil now?”
My fingers twitch, wanting to ball into a fist with frustration at the stupid misstep. I let my gaze fall to the floor, searching for a quick explanation. “I guess it’s easier to deal with the fact that he’s gone if I call him Cecil instead of Dad.” I add in a chin wobble and it’s enough that Shepherd doesn’t press the point.
“I’m not going to the reception because Senator Wells is a douche,” he says instead. I cough to cover my surprised laugh and his eyes lose some of their hostility toward me, but none of the passion for the subject. “He pays lip service to environmentalism and conservation, but does nothing to back it up. If anything, he’s a proponent of development. He’s been pushing bills through congress to expand drilling on protected land and even convincing his crony friends to build on Caldwell.”
“But don’t you think that if Dad were still alive he’d be the one hosting—”
He cuts me off. “Cecil hated the Senator—hated it when the guy built down the island. So, no, Cecil wouldn’t have done anything that involved Senator Wells.”
The doorbell rings, interrupting. I realize that in the course of arguing we’ve stepped toward each other and are now uncomfortably close. We stand that way for a beat longer than necessary. I let him take in the familiar smell of Libby’s shampoo, the soft scent of the rosewater sachet she hung in her closet. Even her deodorant is the same as it was four years ago.
Scent is one of the most powerful memory triggers and I know that right now Shepherd’s mind is on fire with memories of Libby. And now he’ll associate every single one of those memories with me: the young woman standing in front of him. Tying me in the present to the girl of his past.
He’s the one to step away, his expression somewhat haunted. His eyes sweep my face, a silent question in them. He blinks, and it’s gone. “You pierced your ears.”
I’m taken aback by the unexpected statement. “Yes,” I say, my fingers unconsciously lifting to twist at Libby’s mother’s diamond earrings.
He nods. “I guess you got over your fear of needles, then.”
I almost smile. It’s been a long time since I’ve learned something new about Libby. But I can’t have him dwelling on the inconsistency, so I give him something else to dwell on instead. I look at him pointedly. “I’ve gotten over a lot of things in the last four years.”
I’ve been standing in the foyer greeting guests for what feels like an eternity. I’d banked on my presence to induce a fairly high turnout, knowing that many in the state would pay good money to see a reunion such as this. The three survivors of the Persephone disaster, meeting for the first time since the ship went down four years ago. It’ll be the talk of the summer—already photographers from various newspapers stand poised, waiting.
Which is fine with me because every single aspect of this party is a ruse. Completely designed with one goal in mind. So while I wait for the unwitting players to arrive, I patiently shake hands, accepting condolences from strangers for Cecil’s passing months before. Giving them the bitter-sad smile they’re expecting in response, letting my eyes frost with carefully controlled tears.
And then the door opens. Everything in the world comes to a stop. Conversations fall away and it feels as though the air pressure in the room has dropped, every lung drawing breath at the same time. Holding. Watching. Waiting.
Senator Wells comes first, his presence larger than any television could capture. He wears a perfectly tailored suit, his “you can trust me” salt-and-pepper hair impeccably combed, and just the right amount of humble confidence furrows the ridge between his eyebrows.
I swallow thickly and square my shoulders as he approaches. He presses my hand between both of his. “I can’t thank you enough for your generous support of my campaign.” His words come out honey sweet, but if anyone else in the room could see his eyes they’d know the truth. That he’d rather be done with me, that our paths never cross again.
That he doesn’t trust me. And he shouldn’t.
But of course, the money from this fund-raiser is simply too much for him to pass up. Which is exactly what I’d been counting on. As the world turns and the sun rises and sets, politicians will always be in need of money. Senator Wells is no exception.
I smile, letting the corners of my lips wobble. “It’s the least I could do for all the support you’ve given my father’s conservation efforts.”
Senator Wells tips his head to the side, frowning slightly. He knows I’m lying. What he doesn’t know is why. “Though it’s belated, please accept our condolences on his passing.” He slips an arm around his wife and she nods as she takes my hand.
“It’s a shame your father isn’t here to see what a beautiful and gracious hostess you’ve become,” she adds. The problem is that she’s being entirely sincere. The back of my throat tightens unexpectedly. I know she means Cecil, but for a moment I can’t stop thinking about my real father. The way he’d take my hands and pull my feet on top of his and dance me around the room on Christmas Eve.
I close my eyes against the dizzying memory. “My beautiful Frances,” he’d say as we spun in circles.
It’s been so long that I can’t even remember his voice. All the different ways he’d say my name: to wake me up in the morning; to call me to dinner; to scold me; to cheer me on.
To tell me he loved me.
That, along with everything else, was taken from me on the Persephone.
How did I think I could come back and not be affected?
Mrs. Wells squeezes my hand and says, “I’m sure you miss him terribly.”
I nod. Words impossible.
And then, while I’m still reeling, a scent so intimately familiar washes over me. It’s as though I’ve been set on fire the way it causes my skin to burn. I open my eyes and he is there.
Grey.
He’s wearing pressed khakis and a light pink button-down shirt that emphasizes the width of his shoulders and the narrowness of his hips. His hair’s cut short, the bangs sweeping across his forehead already streaked lighter by the summer sun. I’d forgotten how improbably blue his eyes could be, how prominent his cheekbones and the slanted angle of his jaw.
I’ve imagined this moment so many times that it seems impossible it’s never actually taken place before.
Ever since the Persephone sank, I’ve daydreamed this reunion a dozen different ways. At first I pictured him sopping wet, shirt plastered to his chest, as he swept into the room and didn’t even hesitate before wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me in for a kiss as necessary as air.
Then later, as I began to understand more what it meant that he’d lied about the Persephone, I imagined tracking him in the dead of night, slicing a blade across his throat before he could even say a word.
Over the past four years Grey has been both my daydream and my nightmare, my fantasy and my darkest desire. He’s become my obsession—I’ve read every article with the slightest reference to him, tracked his high school sports teams, stalked him across every social media platform that exists.
I thought I was prepared for him.
I was wrong.
Standing in front of me, he simply occupies more space than I expected. It’s one thing to see a picture of a b
oy full grown, but it never completely erased the way he’s always been in my head; what his bony shoulders felt like cupped in my palms, the angle my head tilted to meet his lips.
It takes everything I have to keep my expression calm and neutral when everything inside me is strung tight enough to snap. I want to leap across the distance between us and claw my nails down his cheeks and demand answers. How did he survive? Why did he lie? Did he know it was going to happen?
What is he hiding and why?
A warm flush pools along my lower back, spreading out in all directions. I want to run. Hide. Take a moment to regroup, refocus. But I can’t do any of these things and so I stand, feet rooted in place, and wait while his gaze sweeps over me.
Frances flexes under my skin. See me! she screams when Grey’s eyes finally find their way to my own. A slight frown pinches the skin between his eyebrows and my breath comes faster—needing him to believe the disguise, but wishing that he’d remember me well enough to see through it. For a moment, we share the same stunned expression: something disquieted if not a little startled.
“Libby.” The name escapes his lips on a breath of air, and behind me comes the collective movement of each guest straining forward to hear.
His voice triggers something inside me, a flood, hot like adrenaline. But there’s a taste there as well, a slow contraction of my stomach. I can’t help it, my eyes fall to his lips.
A memory from the cruise rises unbidden: the two of us together on deck, the night sky infinite as he kisses me for the first time. His forehead had been pressed against my own for what felt like an eternity. The distance between our lips minuscule, yet infinite. His fingers found their way to my temple, slowly sweeping my hair back behind my ear. Goose bumps trailed in the wake of his touch.
Please, can I kiss you? he’d asked, the question whisper smooth. I’d barely begun to nod when his mouth met mine.
It’s hard to believe there was ever a time when the biggest questions in my life were as simple as this: Please, can I kiss you? My back stiffens and I force a well-practiced smile.
“Grey,” I respond with a dip of my chin.
NINE
Grey opens his mouth to say something but whatever it is is lost to the sound of his father loudly clearing his throat. Something shifts in Grey’s expression, a controlled tightness taking over.
Before he can slip away into the crowd I lean toward him, placing the tips of my fingers against his bare wrist. Tension roars around me, a battle between the knowledge that he is one of the only people who truly knows what happened on the Persephone but is also someone I can never speak to about it.
Not yet, at least.
“Thank you for coming,” I tell him. I let my eyes linger on his for just a moment longer, watching as his pupils dilate ever so slightly.
Then I turn to the next guest in line. A small frown flickers across Grey’s face at my dismissal, confusion as though our meeting wasn’t as he’d expected. The room hums with disappointment, silence giving way to rabid whispers.
Grey follows his parents through the foyer to the open living room. Every few feet someone stops his father to shake his hand. The Senator thanks them all by name, the consummate politician. Martha Wells plays the part of the Senator’s wife perfectly, freshly starched and styled, jewels glittering at her throat and her heels impossibly steep.
It surprises me how well Grey fits in with them, how smooth his smile is as the other society wives flirt with him shamelessly. He responds easily, keeping them at bay while not exactly pushing them away. There’s nothing of the awkwardness or hesitancy I remember from the cruise ship.
As I rotate through the reception I steal glances at him, envious of the confident ease with which he controls the room. Libby had been like that, the girl everyone else clamored to be around. I’d experienced it myself the first moment I’d met her on the Persephone.
The captain’s voice drones hollowly through the loud speaker as everyone on the ship files somewhat reluctantly into the dining room, the rain having forced the safety drill indoors.
“Let’s go, little sailor,” my father says, nudging me forward. He’s actually wearing the glaringly orange life vest whereas most everyone else just carries theirs. “Where’s your spirit of adventure?” he asks me, and he’s grinning in that way that makes it obvious he knows he’s stepped over the edge of embarrassment.
The room is crowded and warm, and to my dismay the average age of the occupants is well north of forty and probably solidly past fifty. As I’m trying to hide my disappointment, a girl squeezes next to me in line, knocking me slightly off balance. I’m taken aback by her—she seems to be about my age with strikingly similar features. It’s as though I looked into an aged mirror fogged by steam, except she’s poised and polished and I’m . . . dull and frizzy. If we were in a magazine, I would be the “before” photo and she’d be the “after.”
“Lamest way to start a cruise ever.” She lets out a huff before shaking her life jacket. “Like we’re ever going to need this stuff. And seriously, if I’d wanted to get rained on I could have just stayed home and stood in my shower fully dressed.”
My first thought is that she can’t be talking to me and I glance at her ears, searching for signs of earbuds or a hands-free headset. But then she holds out her hand to me, her grin earnest and lopsided. “I’m Libby.”
Libby’s attention was like a spotlight that made anyone caught in its glare feel somehow more than. More interesting, more important, more special and pretty. I knew even then that I’d never be like her—I could try to mimic her walk, her expressions, her favorite phrases, and I’d never achieve what she had: the ability to make other people want to know you.
That realization had left me aching then, and still does now. Because no matter how hard I try to become Libby O’Martin, I will never be more than a shell of what she could have been.
When Grey finally steps toward the patio, I make my move, careful to get the timing right. We reach the open French door at the same time, our shoulders colliding. Before he realizes it’s me he’s run into, a smile begins to light up his face. It freezes the moment recognition hits. Awkwardness slams down around him.
As he begins to fumble out an apology I let my breath hitch, allow a bit of panic to seep into my eyes. I press a hand to my chest, talking over him. “I’m sorry,” I say, stepping away. “It’s just . . .” I wave generally toward the crowd of people inside and shake my head as if it’s all too much.
Instantly he’s concerned and begins to ask if I’m okay but I don’t give him the chance to finish. I’m already halfway across the patio, trying to keep from breaking out into a run. When I reach the boardwalk I crash my toes against the bottom step, tripping forward and catching myself on the railing. I pull myself up and rush down the old wooden planks past the dunes to the beach.
And then it is there in front of me: the wash of ocean. It’s the closest I’ve been to it since being rescued. Even now I feel some sort of tug, as though it had laid claim on my life four years ago and intends to collect.
“Not now,” I whisper under my breath. Not yet, I add silently.
I force myself forward, pushing the fear under a layer of cold determination—focusing on the plan rather than the way the pulse of waves matches the beat of my heart.
The tears come freely when my feet hit the sand and I’m almost at the water’s edge before I let myself crumple to my knees. In front of me, the ocean stretches out seamless against the sky and the taste of salt claws at my throat. I press my face into my hands, as though to block out the world.
Knowing this is how he’ll find me and that he won’t be able to resist offering comfort. Grey never could pass up a damsel in distress.
I hear his footsteps first, the gait uneven as he jogs through the soft sand after me. Even though I hear him call, “Libby,” I don’t turn. He slows as he comes near,
but he doesn’t stop until he’s by my side.
This time when he says, “Libby,” like a whisper, I tilt my head up toward him. He towers over me, his eyes scanning quickly across my face: the tear tracks, the openly exposed misery. The loneliness. Instantly he crouches, not caring that the damp sand soaks the cuffs of his perfectly ironed pants.
But he hesitates as he reaches for my shoulder. He starts to say something, ask if I’m okay, but whatever it was is swallowed when I fall against his chest, my arms trapped between us.
In this I give Frances rein, allowing her misery to seep through so that the tears and anguish are authentic. Over and over again I tell him I’m sorry, the words muffled against his shoulder and he just responds with “It’s okay,” as he keeps his arms awkward and loose around me.
It was one of the things that had drawn me so fiercely to Grey on the cruise ship: his compassion. Nothing triggers it so as much as a girl in tears. There’s a part of me that hates that I’ve used this against him. That this is how I’ve laid my trap.
But there’s another part of me that only cares that, after all these years, I’m finally in his arms again.
TEN
I keep myself pressed against Grey a few moments longer before letting out a flustered laugh and pushing myself free of his arms. Keeping my head ducked, I bite my lip and squinch my eyes closed, as though I’m too embarrassed to face him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “I didn’t realize how hard it was going to be to come back. All the memories of my dad and everyone talking about . . .” I trail off, letting the Persephone go unspoken.
“No, it’s okay.” His fingers flutter against my upper arm. Now that the tears have passed he’s unsure of how to handle me. There’s no protocol for this sort of situation—no guidebook for what to say when a girl you once met four years ago and left to die out on the ocean abruptly comes back into your life.
It was Frances he’d been close to on the cruise, not Libby. To him Libby had been more of a third wheel. It’s not that he’d only tolerated her—he’d been more friendly than that. But it had always been clear that, given the option, he’d have rather had Frances to himself.
