by Anna Banks
When he can’t take anymore, Galen plucks his phone from his pocket and dials, then hangs up. When the call is returned, he says, “Hey, sweet lips.” The females at the table hush each other to get a better listen. A few of them whip their heads toward Emma to see if she’s on the other end of the conversation. Satisfied she’s not, they lean closer.
Rachel snorts. “If only you liked sweets.”
“I can’t wait to see you tonight. Wear that pink skirt I like.”
Rachel laughs. “Sounds like you’re in what we humans like to call a pickle. My poor, drop-dead-gorgeous sweet pea. Emma still not talking to you, leaving you alone with all those hormonal girls?”
“Eight-thirty? That’s so far away. Can’t I meet you sooner?”
One of the females actually gets up and takes her tray and her attitude to another table. Galen tries not to get too excited.
“Do you need to be checked out of school, son? Are you feeling ill?”
Galen tosses a glance at Emma, who’s picking a pepperoni off her pizza and eyeing it as if it were dolphin dung. “I can’t skip school to meet you again, boo. But I’ll be thinking about you. No one but you.”
A few more females get up and stalk their trays to the trash. The cheerleader in front of him rolls her eyes and starts a conversation with the chubby brunette beside her—the same chubby brunette she pushed into a locker to get to him two hours ago.
“Be still my heart,” Rachel drawls. “But seriously, I can’t read your signals. I don’t know what you’re asking me to do.”
“Right now, nothing. But I might change my mind about skipping. I really miss you.”
Rachel clears her throat. “All right, sweet pea. You just let your mama know, and she’ll come get her wittle boy from school, okay?”
Galen hangs up. Why is Emma laughing again? Mark can’t be that funny.
The girl beside him clues him in: “Mark Baker. All the girls love him. But not as much as they love you. Except maybe Emma, I guess.”
“Speaking of all these girls, how did they get my phone number?”
She giggles. “It’s written on the wall in the girls’ bathroom. One hundred hall.” She holds her cell phone up to his face. An image of his number scrawled onto a stall door lights up the screen. In Emma’s handwriting.
* * *
Dividing waves as he tears through the water, his path leaves a frothy white line on the surface. Submerging when he sees a boat on the horizon, he pushes so hard he might not even appear on their fishing radar if they have one.
This is his second swim to Europe and back this week. Since tomorrow’s Friday, he’ll probably be doing it again. But no matter how far he swims, no matter how fast, it doesn’t relieve him of his tension. And it doesn’t change the fact that Emma has a date with someone else.
He senses other Syrena as he goes, but he doesn’t recognize them, and besides, he’s not in the mood to chat. In fact, solitude is more important to him right now than his next five meals. Trying to navigate the halls at school has been like wading through high tide wearing hiking boots filled with rocks—the human females have lost their minds. They locked around him in waves, grasping at him, shouting over each other, calling each other names that Rachel later clarified meant mating with more than one male—a lot. They only displayed unity when he tried to escape into the men’s restroom—or when he attempted to head in Emma’s general direction.
But he isn’t just tired of humans—it would be unfortunate for any Syrena to press him into a conversation at this point. And any passerby would inevitably be curious as to what brings a Royal this far from the caverns. His response right now wouldn’t win his brother the support he needs as a new king—and it just might push his father to cut out his tongue after all. And groveling at Emma’s feet without a tongue would be inconvenient.
Gritting his teeth, he pushes even harder, ripping through the water faster than any man-made torpedo. Only when he reaches what the humans call the English Channel does he slow and surface. As he approaches a patch of land he recognizes, he can’t even muster a half smile for the new personal record. From New Jersey to Jersey Island in less than five hours. The three thousand miles in distance he put between himself and Emma tonight is nothing compared with the enormous chasm separating them when they sit next to each other in calculus.
Emma’s ability to overlook his existence is a gift—but not one that Poseidon handed down. Rachel insists this gift is uniquely a feminine trait, regardless of the species. Since their breakup, Emma seems to be the only female utilizing this particular gift. Even Rayna could learn a few lessons from Emma in the art of torturing a smitten male. Smitten? More like fanatical.
He shakes his head in disgust. Why couldn’t I just sift when I turned of age? Why couldn’t I find a suitable mild-tempered female to mate with? Live a peaceful life, produce offspring, grow old, and watch my own fingerlings have fingerlings someday? He searches through his mind for someone he might have missed in the past. For a face he overlooked before but could now look forward to every day. For a docile female who would be honored to mate with a Triton prince—instead of a temperamental siren who mocks his title at every opportunity. He scours his memory for a sweet-natured Syrena who would take care of him, who would do whatever he asked, who would never argue with him.
Not some human-raised snippet who stomps her foot when she doesn’t get her way, listens to him only when it suits some secret purpose she has, or shoves a handful of chocolate mints down his throat if he lets his guard down. Not some white-haired angelfish whose eyes melt him into a puddle, whose blush is more beautiful than sunrise, and whose lips send heat ripping through him like a mine explosion.
He sighs as Emma’s face eclipses hundreds of more mate-worthy Syrena. That’s just one more quality I’ll have to add to the list: someone who won’t mind being second best. His jaw locks as he catches a glimpse of his shadow beneath him, cast by slithers of sterling moonlight. Since it’s close to three a.m. here, he’s comfortable walking around without the inconvenience of clothes, but sitting on the rocky shore in the raw is less than appealing. And it doesn’t matter which Jersey shore he sits on, he can’t escape the moon that connects them both—and reminds him of Emma’s hair.
Hovering in the shallows, he stares up at it in resentment, knowing the moon reminds him of something else he can’t escape—his conscience. If only he could shirk his responsibilities, his loyalty to his family, his loyalty to his people. If only he could change everything about himself, he could steal Emma away and never look back—that is, if she’ll ever talk to him again.
Tired of floating, he changes into human form and stands in the knee-deep water, squinting into the horizon as if he could see her if he just looked long enough. He should be getting back. Though he hasn’t sensed the stalker in front of Emma’s house for an entire week, it still makes him nervous to leave her unattended. But lingering around her balcony makes him just as uneasy—Mark has called her three times this week, according to Rachel’s phone-tap records. And she’s never mentioned Galen to him once.
As he shakes his head at himself for being a lovesick seal pup, he finally senses a Syrena he recognizes. Toraf. He waits for him a good ten minutes before his friend eventually surfaces.
Giving him a stout punch to the shoulder, Toraf says, “So, you decided to hold still for more than two seconds, minnow. I’ve been tracking you for the last five hours, but you were moving too fast. Where are we?”
“England.” Galen grins. He needs a good diversion, and distraction happens to be one of Toraf’s many talents.
Toraf shrugs. “Wherever that is.”
“So,” Galen says, crossing his arms. “What brings you across Triton territory this fine morning? You miss me?”
Toraf glances up at the moon and raises a brow. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
Galen shrugs. “It’s a lot quieter without all the obnoxious background noise.”
“Aw. You did m
iss me. That means a lot, minnow. I missed you, too.” He glances around the shore. “Where’s Emma? She doesn’t like Eggland?”
“Eng-land. She’s at home, probably sleeping peacefully. You didn’t sense her did you?” For a half second, his pulse spikes. She’s been getting in the water without him. Every time he gets close enough to sense, she gets out. Which is just fine with him.
“Oops. Was it my turn to keep an eye on Emma? I kind of thought you’d give me a break since you sent me to look for Paca and all.”
“Did you find her?”
Toraf nods.
“And?”
Crossing his arms, Toraf smirks. “Are you sure you want to know?” When Galen clenches his fists, Toraf laughs. “All right, all right, minnow. I can see you’re in a fighting mood, but I would rather save my energy for your sister.”
“I swear by—”
“She has the Gift, Galen.”
Instead of spiking, Galen’s pulse sputters. “Paca has the Gift of Poseidon? Are you sure?”
Nodding, Toraf says, “I saw it myself. She can communicate with fish. They do what she says. She demonstrated it to me and Grom and her father. She made a dolphin do tricks for us.”
“What kind of tricks?”
Toraf shrugs. “Anything she wants, I guess. After the first few, we were all satisfied. Amazed, actually.”
Galen crosses his arms. “Where has she been all this time?”
“Triton territory, staying on the coast of the long land. Said she hid out of the water in case King Antonis sent trackers after her. I only found her after she submerged to hide from some humans who caught sight of her camp on the beach. She seemed happy to see me.”
The Syrena know it as the long land. Humans know it as Florida. Where we found Emma. Galen is beginning to think Florida has some sort of power to create Poseidon’s Gift. “What does Grom say?”
“Grom says he hopes you won’t miss his mating ceremony. It would hurt his feelings.”
“He’s going to mate with Paca? You’re sure?”
“I wouldn’t have followed you across the world if I wasn’t sure.”
Galen ignores the twist of excitement in his gut. “She’s not a Royal.”
“And Emma is?”
“Good point.” If Grom would be willing to mate with Paca, who’s not a Royal, would he be willing to mate with Emma? It doesn’t matter, stupid. He’s mating with Paca.
“Anyway, the ceremony will be in two moon cycles. Grom wants to keep it a secret for now while he thinks of a way to present it to everyone else. The only thing he can think of is to have her demonstrate the Gift to an audience. Otherwise, he’ll have blood on his hands.”
“That’s a good idea.” Grom’s already treading in icy waters by taking a Poseidon mate against Antonis’s wishes. But because of who Grom is—firstborn, third-generation Triton Royal—he’s basically rendering the law obsolete by mating with Paca, who is, by the law’s standards, a Common. Which isn’t fair, since King Antonis’s refusal to produce more offspring forced him to this decision. But would the kingdoms see that? Would they see it as a self-sacrificing effort on Grom’s part to keep the benefit of the Gifts? Or would they view it as a power-hungry move to rule both kingdoms—especially given Jagen’s reputation for treasonous talk?
“He wants you and Rayna both to stay away until he announces the ceremony. I told him you had plenty to keep you occupied until then.”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you brainless as a reef, minnow? You can have Emma now. Why you’re wasting your time here in Eggland—Galen? Galen, wait for me!”
25
I’M NOT sure if all Syrena have bulletproof endurance or if Galen is particularly blessed with it. Even now, as I lock the front dead bolt while Mark holds his car door open for me, Galen is blowing up my cell. I slide into the passenger seat of the pickup truck and try to organize my face into a convincing expression of relaxed, even though my insides are twisting faster than a whirlpool.
I thought Galen had given up trying to talk to me. I mean, what else is there to say? He played me like an Xbox. A broom and dustpan couldn’t clean up all the pieces of my heart he shattered. I’ve been so stupid. But not anymore.
Keeping distance between us at school hasn’t been easy, but I’ve managed. And when I sense him in the water in front of my house, I get out. By Wednesday, he stopped calling me. He even skipped school today. So what’s his deal now? Doesn’t he see that I need to get away from him?
And why can’t I have an ignore button like my phone? As I hit it, his calls disappear from the screen and the ringing stops. But the tingles are still at my fingertips, as if he sent them through the phone to grab me. Shoving it in my purse—the pockets on skinny jeans must just be for show ’cause nothing else is fitting in there—I smile at Mark.
Ah, Mark. The blue-eyed, blond-haired, all-American quarterback. Who knew he had a crush on me all these years? Not Emma McIntosh, that’s for dang sure. And not Chloe. Which is weird, because Chloe was a collector of this kind of information. Maybe it’s not true. Maybe Mark’s only interested in me because Galen was—who wouldn’t want to date the girl who dated the hottest guy in school? But that’s just fine with me. Mark is … well, Mark isn’t as fantabulous as I always imagined he would be.
Still, he’s good-looking, a star quarterback, and he’s not trying to hook me up with his brother. So why am I not excited?
The question must be all over my face because Mark’s got his eyebrow raised. Not in a judgmental arch, more like an arch of expectation. If he’s waiting for an explanation, his puny human lungs can’t hold their breath long enough for an answer.
Aside from not being his business, I can’t exactly explain the details of my relationship with Galen—fake or otherwise. The truth is, I don’t know where we can go from here. He ripped holes in my pride like buckshot. And did I mention he broke my heart?
He’s not just a crush. Not just a physical attraction, someone who can make me forget my own name by pretending to kiss me. Not just a teacher or a snobby fish with Royal blood. Sure, he’s all of those things. But he’s more than that. He’s who I want. Possibly forever.
But I’m not in danger of becoming “that girl.” The one who throws away her college education in favor of marrying some guy right out of high school. The one who sacrifices everything she wants in order to make his dreams come true, to make him happy. The one who hangs on his every smile, his every word, bears his children, cooks his dinner, and snuggles up to him at night. Nope, definitely not in danger of becoming her.
Because Galen doesn’t want me. If that kiss were real, I might have thrown scholarships to the wind and followed him to our own private island or his underwater kingdom. I might have even cooked him fish.
Sure, Galen would love for me to do all those things. With his brother.
So it’s a good thing I’m being proactive about my own recovery by going on a date, even if it is a rebound—and even if I’m rebounding from a relationship that didn’t actually exist. My feelings were real. That’s all that matters, isn’t it? There’s no stipulation in the broken-heart rule book that states the relationship had to actually be authentic, right? Sure, I’m gray-shading the line that separates stable and crazy, but the point is, there is a line. And I haven’t completely crossed over to lunatic.
Mark sitting next to me proves it. I’m moving on. Getting on with my life. Staying in school. Enrolling in college. Cooking chicken instead of fish. Dating other people. And with enough luck, I’ll be kissing other people by the end of this date. Even if it doesn’t mean anything.
“Is everything okay?” Mark asks as we turn onto the interstate.
“Sure. Why?” But we both know why he’d ask.
Mark’s obviously too much of a gentleman to point out that I’m getting more space time than an astronaut. He says, “You just seem quiet tonight. I hope I didn’t already do something to screw this up.”
I laugh. “That
’s exactly what I was just thinking. That I didn’t want to screw it up, I mean.”
He nods, gives a knowing smile.
“What?” I say.
He shrugs.
“No. You gave me a look,” I say, crossing my arms.
“No I didn’t.”
“I don’t date liars.” Anymore.
He laughs. “Fine. If you must know, I don’t think there’s anything you could possibly do to screw this up.”
I can’t help but smile. “Oh, you shouldn’t have said that out loud.” Good-looking, smart, funny. And now sweet. So quit waiting for your purse to ring, stupid.
“You might remember that you forced me to say it out loud. But don’t worry. I’m not superstitious.”
“I’m not either.”
The drive to Atlantic City is just over an hour, and we pass it by playing Twenty Questions. Mark is the youngest of four brothers, wants to be either a physicist or an animator at Disney World—he promises to decide before he graduates college on his football scholarship—and his most embarrassing moment was when he walked in on his parents while they were doing the deed. Last week.
His questions for me are almost the same, word for word. Except the one he asks when we pull into the parking lot along the boardwalk strip. “Question number nineteen is, Who keeps texting you tonight?’”
Here we go again. Since Mark seems to saturate the air with easygoing, the whirlpool in my stomach had turned into no more than a swirl, as powerless as a flushed toilet, even when my purse beeped. But now that swirl is more like an island-swallowing vortex. Things are going too well tonight to ruin it with the truth, but since this could be the first of many dates with Mark, a lie would ruin it, too. “It’s Galen.”
Mark takes a sharp breath. “Okay. So I’m ditching my original question number twenty for a new question number twenty: Should I be worried about Galen?”
I laugh. “In what way?”
