by Carrie Ryan
“It must be difficult being home after all this time,” he murmurs. And the thing is, I know he’s being earnest. That’s just a part of who he is—or at least who he was. But being earnest isn’t enough.
A streak of anger flashes under my spine. Because the Persephone took everything from me and nothing from him.
Which is why I’m here, I remind myself. To show him what it is to lose those you love.
I let one side of my mouth twitch up into a brief smile. A Libby trademark. “It sucks.”
That gets a soft laugh. He eases back onto his feet, standing slowly. Giant wet patches circle his pants from where he knelt, but he doesn’t seem to notice as he holds out a hand to help me up. We stand, side by side, staring back at the house. Even with the wind coming off the ocean at our backs, the sound of conversation and clinking glasses carries from the reception. Neither of us makes an effort to start toward the boardwalk.
Already, a stiffness begins developing between us again. I can almost hear the way his mind winds up, going through all the calculations of how to approach this situation.
How to approach me.
I don’t want him overthinking. It will only cause him to pull away, put distance between us. And that’s not part of the plan. I need more time with him first.
“I know most everyone is here just for the gossip.” I gesture toward the house and pluck at the damp hem of my dress. “But I’m a little afraid of what will happen if we go back looking like this.” The testy salt air has tousled my hair and I know my lower lip is swollen from biting back tears.
It looks like we’ve spent the past several moments rolling around in the sand together. A blush trails up his throat. He ducks his head and rubs his hand along the back of his neck as he lets out a nervous laugh.
It’s a gesture so familiar that I almost can’t breathe.
He must notice and think it’s the prospect of rejoining the reception that has me uneasy because he asks, “Do you want to walk maybe, instead? Let things dry out a bit?”
I smile, grateful. “Yes, thank you.” I slide off my sandals and he jogs toward the boardwalk and leaves them on the step along with his shoes and socks. When he rolls up the cuffs of his pants and shirt I notice that his legs are somehow already tan even though the summer season has barely begun.
A few clouds have drifted in over the course of the afternoon, the wind turning sharper. It’s enough to have driven the few beachgoers inside, and Grey and I have most of the long stretch of sand to ourselves.
After a long pause in which Grey clearly struggles to find something to say that isn’t about my prolonged absence from Caldwell, my father’s death, or the Persephone, the conversation begins almost unbearably stilted. “You planning to stay in town for a while?” he asks.
“For the summer at least,” I tell him. Which is the truth. “After that . . . ?” I shrug. “I’m still figuring it all out.” Also the truth. Because I really don’t know where I’ll be or even who I’ll be when fall comes. I could only plan so far ahead before the variables became so expansive I had to let go.
In reality, much of what happens next rests on Grey. How long it takes for him to let me in—how much force I need to apply before someone cracks and the truth comes spilling out.
“What about you?” I ask.
He keeps walking, hands shoved in his pockets and shoulders hunched. “Working on Dad’s campaign. Then USC Honors in the fall.”
“Not Stanford?” During the cruise he’d admitted to Frances how tired he was of his father’s expectations. Everything was already planned for him: same boarding school; same summer camp; same college. He wanted something different and far away, like Stanford.
He stops, turning toward me with a frown. No doubt wondering how I’d know all of this—wondering how much Frances must have told me of their conversations.
But to ask would be to bring up the Persephone. And I know the moment he realizes this because he presses his lips together and resumes walking.
Softly, I set my fingertips against his forearm just below where he’s rolled up the sleeves. The muscles tense under my touch as I turn him toward me. “This is either going to be a very long walk or a very short one if we try to avoid what we’re both thinking.”
Relief and wariness war in his eyes, which have turned the smoky color of the cloud-shadowed waves crashing to shore. His pulse thrums along his throat, but he says nothing.
“The Persephone,” I murmur. I didn’t even believe it was possible, but his expression becomes even more guarded, his jaw clenching. But still he remains silent.
I cross my arms and turn, looking out at the sea. The waves are now tipped with white, growing angrier as the gray sky on the horizon presses toward shore. I shiver, as much from the bite of the wind as the memory of the last time I stood with Grey as a storm approached.
We’d been kissing. His hand against the curve of my bare lower back, pulling me against him. It was the last perfect moment of my life before everything was shattered.
Something warm and soft falls across my shoulders, shrouding me in a familiar smell. It’s Grey’s shirt, and I turn to find him standing in a plain white undershirt that stretches tight across his chest, molding to his muscles.
“You were shivering,” he says, as though I’d asked for an explanation.
If I knew nothing else about Greyson Wells, I’d assume he was the perfect guy. Good-looking, wealthy, charming. Caring. Nice.
But that’s the problem. I’ve seen him lie—seen him stare straight at the cameras and tell the world that a rogue wave took out the Persephone. I know just how skilled he is at deception. How convincing.
For a while, he’d even made me second-guess my own memories from the night of the attack.
I realize now just how dangerous of a game I’ve begun. How easy it would be to forget who Grey really is and what he’s done. I tilt my head back, looking up at him and making myself appear small and vulnerable. “I don’t remember anything,” I tell him.
There’s a flash of confusion.
“About the Persephone,” I explain. After a beat I add, “Nothing.”
He steps back, raising his hand to the back of his neck and rubbing vigorously. “At all?”
I shake my head.
“How?” he asks.
I lift a shoulder. Tell him the perfectly crafted lie. “The doctors all have a different theory. Post-traumatic stress. Some argued I probably hit my head when the wave struck. Or that dehydration and malnutrition messed with things. Apparently maritime history is rife with stories of people lost at sea losing their minds. It’s not uncommon.”
He lets this sink in, walking toward the ocean until the tips of the waves slide around his toes. I stand slightly behind him, out of reach of the water, waiting.
A muscle twitches along his jaw as he clenches his teeth. “And Frances?”
ELEVEN
Something tight squeezes my heart at the sound of my name on his lips. I look down at my hands, fingers twisted in the hem of his shirt. Libby’s signet ring gleams in the dull light. “I remember a few things.” My voice comes out broken; it’s perhaps the most honest thing I’ve said to him so far.
“She didn’t say anything, though?” He faces me, scrutinizing my reactions. “When you were on the lifeboat together? About what happened on the Persephone when she sank?”
Shaking my head I tell him, “They tried everything to try to fix my memory: hypnosis, therapy, drug treatments.” I squeeze my eyes shut, taking a shuddering breath. “But I don’t want to remember. Please.” I feel the tears burning, forcing their way free. “Please don’t make me remember.” I swallow, thickly. “I can’t,” I add in a whisper, telling him what I know he wants to hear: that I’m not a threat. That whatever secrets he has can remain buried.
That he can afford to let down his guard around me.
His hands fall lightly on my shoulders, fingertips nudging me toward him. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, wrapping me against his chest. We stand like this for several moments, his racing heartbeat eventually slowing under my cheek.
Closing my eyes, with the sound of the waves as a backdrop, I can almost believe I’m back on the Persephone. Before anything went wrong. When my future was still a brightly coiled path of possibility.
“Trust me, you don’t want to remember.” He swallows several times. “It was awful,” he adds, almost silently.
I pull my head back and look up at him. He’s staring at the horizon, but his gaze is unfocused. I wonder whether, like me, his mind churns with images from that night. The terror. The confusion. The pain. It’s obviously all still there, grinding under the surface. The truth of what happened, struggling for release.
The trick is in getting him to confess it all willingly. “You’re right—I don’t want to know and I won’t ever ask you to remember any of it,” I tell him.
I can lie as convincingly as he can.
Because I know that if I ask him now, he’ll feed me the same lines he’s fed everyone else. About the rogue wave. About the miraculous rescue.
He needs to trust me first.
He needs to know me.
His expression turns grateful, the wariness almost gone. And I know I’ve achieved my goal—that I’ve put him at ease.
“They’ll probably start wondering where we are soon if we don’t get back.” I turn and start toward the house. In the storm-darkened evening the lights around the patio and pool have come on, turning the O’Martin estate into a beacon. I point it out to Grey, adding, “Don’t lighthouses usually signal danger?”
He chuckles. “Who’s to say that’s not accurate?”
I smile, allowing my shoulder to bump gently against his. This time, the walk in silence is amiable rather than awkward. But my steps slow as we leave the beach behind and make our way up the stairs to the boardwalk. Even with the turning weather the yard is strewn with people. Strangers. My stomach tightens and I honestly wonder what would happen if I just turned and started running. Never stopped.
If I could run fast enough and far enough that I could forget everything.
But it’s never worked before.
There’s only one path forward and I’m already far enough down it that the only option is to keep moving.
“I guess we have to go back in there, huh?” I ask. Grey’s shirt whips out behind me in the wind, the hem popping and snapping like a flag.
“Unfortunately,” Grey responds. He stands slightly behind me and I hear the way his voice shifts, a note of regret playing under the words as he adds, “I’m not sure familial duty ever ends.”
As a Senator’s son I’m sure much is expected of him. But there’s bitterness and anger in the way he says it, as though the sentiment runs deeper. I make a mental note before turning and letting his shirt drop from my shoulders, holding it out to him. Once he’s shrugged into it, I take my time slipping the buttons into place for him.
“Thank you,” I tell him. He frowns, confused, and I smile. “For making this”—I wave a hand between us—“bearable.” I lift one corner of my lips higher, the Libby trademark. “Maybe moving back home won’t be so bad after all.” His eyebrows rise in surprise, but before he can say anything his phone chirps in his pocket.
Almost apologetically, he slips it free and glances at the screen. He frowns. My dad, he mouths to me as he presses the phone to his ear. “Hey, Dad, what’s—” He swallows the rest of the greeting and turns slightly away, listening. A look of concern flashes across his face. “Is she okay?” He glances back toward the house, clearly anxious.
“Good.” After listening a moment more, he cringes. “Oh, um . . .” His eyes snap to mine. “No, I . . .” He takes another step away. His voice drops. “I left early—decided to walk home.”
He glances at me again. “No, I’m not—I’m . . . I’m by myself.” He rubs that spot behind his ear, shoulders pulled tight. It doesn’t take a master sleuth to figure out the other side of the conversation. If Grey’s lying, clearly he’s doing something he doesn’t want his father knowing about.
And I’m guessing that something is anything involving me.
The call ends abruptly and Grey inhales sharply. “Sorry about that,” he says, sliding the phone back in his pocket.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
He lifts a shoulder, having a hard time meeting my eyes. “My mom wasn’t feeling well so Dad took her home. He was just calling because he couldn’t find me at the party and was worried.”
I feign surprise. “Oh no, is your mom okay?”
“Probably just something she ate or a bug. Dad says she’ll be fine. But, uh, I should be going.” He takes a step backward and then another. There’s a stretch of silence between us and I can see the way his mind churns, trying to figure out how to fill it.
I wait, knowing that it’s in the silences where truth often comes.
But not tonight, apparently. He simply nods and then turns, jogging for home. And I smile, knowing it’s not the last I’ll see of him.
This is just the beginning.
TWELVE
I’m up early the next morning, anticipation making it difficult to sleep in. After showering I drive into town. Caldwell is a collection of small islands, some of them protected by Cecil’s conservation easements, but most dotted with high-end, expensive beach houses set on large lots. Though the town itself sits on the biggest island, it’s still only a few blocks long. I pull into one of the many open parking spaces along the street and make my way into the specialty food store.
The thing about small towns is that everyone knows everyone else. And while I may be a stranger, Cecil wasn’t. When I approach the manager, he greets me warmly, immediately expressing his regrets over my father’s passing. I tell him I’m looking for a get-well gift for Mrs. Wells and he helps me fill a sweetgrass basket with some of her favorite items: 80-percent-cocoa dark chocolate; organic scuppernong grapes; and several vials of Refreshergy, the energy drink she takes every morning.
“Looks disgusting,” I comment as the manager rings them up. He shrugs, claiming that the Senator’s wife swears by them.
Once I’m back in the car, I flip open the glove compartment and pull out another Refreshergy vial, tucking it into the basket with the others. Except for the fact that the seal is broken, there’s no way to tell the difference between them.
That done, I grab my cell phone and dial a number I’d memorized this morning. After two rings, a soft voice with a drawn accent answers, “Good mornin’, Caldwell Island Country Club, how can I help you?”
“Yes, this is Mindy Gervistan and I work for Harrison Cheefer, Senator Wells’s chief of staff?” I let just a touch of nervous energy come through in my voice. “I was just going over his calendar for the day and I have on here that the Senator’s playing golf, but somehow I don’t have the actual tee time. Do you mind letting me know when it is?”
“Of course,” the woman says. There’s a rustling of paper. “We have him and his son down for noon with their usual caddies.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” I gush, sounding relieved. “You’re a lifesaver. Thank you!”
She chuckles as she says good-bye and I check the time before slipping the phone back into my purse. It’s ten fifteen now, which means I’ve got at least an hour to kill. For a moment I think about heading toward the Caldwell Island Marina where the Libby Two is still docked, but I’m not quite sure I’m ready to handle that just yet. So I decide to wander my way back to the O’Martin estate—taking turns at random to familiarize myself with routes I’d only seen online. I drive past acres and acres of forest and marsh, all protected thanks to Cecil and managed by Shepherd. I smile, rolling down the windows and letting the fresh summer air play through my hair.
It’s so different here along the coast, that I still haven’t fully adjusted. I grew up in Ohio and my family had been solidly middle class, which meant access to the ocean was rare. And for years after the Persephone, the thought of living anywhere near the ocean terrified me.
I couldn’t even stand the taste of salt on my food, much less face the prospect of a horizon that never ended. Which is why when Cecil had given me my choice of European boarding schools, I’d chosen one tucked deep in an alpine valley, far away from the sea, from my old life, from anyone who’d ever known anything about me or Libby.
But I’ve always known that eventually I’d have to conquer my distrust of the ocean. It’s the only way I’d be able to get close enough to Grey and his father to implement my plan. Luckily, rage is a powerful emotion, strong enough not just to burn away pain but also to sear back the whispering tendrils of fear.
Back at the O’Martin estate I leave my car parked in the driveway before striking out on foot, the sweetgrass basket balanced in my arms. It’s not a long walk to the Wellses’ house—only a mile and a half—but for privacy reasons, most of the lots on this island remain shrouded with stunted pines that tangle the ocean breeze before it can make it to the road. I’m sweating by the time I turn into their driveway.
The Wells house is monstrous and modern—all sharp angles and slick panes of glass that do nothing but lash out against the natural curving beauty of the island coast. It clashes against the moss-draped oaks lining the long driveway, as though, like the family inside, it were determined to make the land bend to its will.
After ringing the bell I stand on the porch, waiting. Despite the fact that it’s still early in the summer, my sundress sticks damply to my back and already the late morning hums with the thickness of humidity and cicadas.
