Dark Water: A Siren Novel (10 page)

“All the reasons I’d given for waiting—we were too young, there was no rush, dating was fine for now—plus one more.”

I waited. She gently flicked the ring from her thumb; it fell to her chest.

“He was in love with someone else.”

I pictured a red rowboat. A beautiful girl with silver eyes and short black hair. Simon, leaning forward, closing his eyes … kissing her.

“Maybe he’s not,” I offered quickly. “Maybe he only thinks he’s in love with someone else—because he got cold feet with you.”

She gave me a sad smile. “Thanks. But believe me, I know him and I’d know if that were true. If there were any chance it was, I wouldn’t have let my dad talk me into this extended vayscape.”

“Sorry?”

“Vacation slash escape. We’ve consolidated syllables in the interest of time and painful reminders.”

As Natalie started to walk away, I thought her story explained why she was here in Winter Harbor. It might also explain why she was here at Betty’s Chowder House; last summer, I, too, had jumped in and accepted an impromptu job for distraction. What it didn’t explain was why she’d shared it with me.

“My boyfriend … my ex-boyfriend … he never proposed,” I offered.

She turned back. “But you still want to be with him?”

The answer was easy, automatic, but I couldn’t say it out loud. Fortunately, Natalie filled in the blanks.

“Then you better make it crystal clear. Because if you don’t … someone else will.”

C
HAPTER 8
 

L
ATER THAT NIGHT
, I stood in the lake house kitchen, staring at my cell phone screen. No matter how much I wanted them to, the words wouldn’t write themselves, but everything I’d tried in the past hour had sounded wrong. I needed to be casual yet serious. Charming yet sincere. Undemanding yet irresistible. And the longer I took trying to be all those things, the less time I’d have to enjoy the fruits of my labor. Assuming my labor paid off, which it might not. That possibility only made it even harder to figure out what to say.

You’re a siren
, I chastised myself.
Like it or not, this should be easy
.

I stared at the phone another minute, then put it down. Picked it up again. Opened the refrigerator. Closed it. Turned on the radio. Spun the dial.

I was trying to decide between jazz and oldies, the only two stations that didn’t sound like they were broadcasting from
the center of a funnel cloud, when there was a knock on the kitchen door.

My eyes locked on the shadowy outline behind the shade I’d lowered earlier for privacy. I reached reflexively for the ceramic jar of knives and wooden spoons, and when it wasn’t there, reminded myself that the surprise visitor was probably Anne, the realtor, or people who’d seen the for sale sign by the road and wanted a closer look.

As I headed for the door, I squeezed my phone in one hand and made a mental note to talk to Mom about this. After all, it was eight o’clock. The house was still ours. Just because we no longer lived in it didn’t mean anyone could swing by at all hours of the night.

“Vanessa. Hi.”

Unless, of course, anyone was Simon.

“She drives an Audi,” he said.

I leaned against the door for support. “Who?”

“Sorry.” He shook his head, motioned toward the driveway. “Your realtor. She drives an Audi. Black, with a roof rack. When I saw the Jeep, I didn’t know … I mean, I wasn’t sure … I just thought I should check and …”

“The Jeep’s mine,” I explained quickly. “It was a graduation gift from my parents.”

“Oh. Nice.” One side of his mouth lifted. “And in forest green. I’m pretty sure I know whose pick that was.”

I grinned, too. “The Dartmouth bumper sticker and antenna flag will be arriving any day. And the backseat is just big enough
to hold my new Dartmouth duffel bag when it’s stuffed with my new Dartmouth sweatpants, sweatshirts, towels, and pillowcases.”

“Pillowcases?”

“Those were actually my pick. They’re flannel and surprisingly comfortable.”

His smile relaxed, then faded. “Congratulations, by the way. On graduating. And Dartmouth, and everything else. Those are some major accomplishments.”

His words were happy but he sounded sad as he said them. I knew why. It was the same reason I’d accepted my diploma with tears in my eyes, and automatically dialed the Maine area code, then hung up, when I got the letter from Dartmouth.

He should’ve been there. And if last fall hadn’t happened, he would’ve been.

“Do you want to come in?” I asked.

He inhaled. “Do I
want
to?” His eyes met mine, stayed there. I held my breath, scared that if I moved even an inch, he’d talk himself into leaving. “Yes. But should I?”

And just like that, my words were failing me again. How did I convince him to come in without actually convincing him? What could I say to help him make the decision all on his own? Since talking to Natalie, I had to do something to make sure Simon knew how I felt, but after my conversation with Dad a few days ago, I still wanted him to have as many choices as possible. Which was why the plan for the night had been to simply let him know I was there. If he wanted to see me, he
could. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t. Whatever happened after that would be totally up to him.

“There’s a new shower curtain,” I finally said. “In the downstairs bathroom.”

“You mean the vinyl one with the pastel world map …?”

“Gone. Fifteen years was an impressive run, but our realtor said it’d make potential buyers put their wallets away, and Mom wasn’t about to let it in the fancy new house. So we threw it out. The replacement has stripes, not countries.”

He nodded slowly. “Now, this … I think I have to see.”

My heart lifted. Mentioning bathroom décor wasn’t exactly twisting his arm … so this was totally his call, wasn’t it?

I moved aside, opened the door wider. He took one step and stopped.

“Oh. You’re expecting company.”

His gaze was fixed on the table set for two. I’d brought dishes from the other house and had arranged them while procrastinating my perfect text.

“I should go.”

“No.” My hand was on his arm, my heart in my throat. “Don’t. Please.”

“Vanessa,” he said, his voice strained, “I know it’s been a while … but I can’t. I still can’t see you with …”

As he struggled to finish what neither of us wanted to hear, I realized three things. The first was that he assumed I’d arranged a romantic date—without him. The second was that he couldn’t have moved on, at least not completely, if he didn’t want to see
me with anyone else, nine months after watching me make out with Parker King, Hawthorne Prep’s water polo star.

The third was that I was going to blow this chance, if I didn’t do something—and fast.

“It’s for you,” I said. “Or at least I was hoping it’d be.”

His eyes moved from the table to me. I opened my cell phone and held it up so he could see the screen, which still showed the blank text I’d been writing. His cell number was displayed at the top of the white box.

“I was trying to figure out how to invite you over without actually inviting you over. Because I thought if I came out and said it, you wouldn’t come.” I closed the phone, looked down. “And I just … really wanted to see you.”

He didn’t say anything but he didn’t leave, either. Encouraged, I continued.

“Our new house overlooks the ocean. My bedroom’s so close, when the wind’s right, the spray reaches the windows.” I paused, fiddled with the phone. “I can hear the waves and tell when the tide’s coming in or going out. It’s slow. Consistent. Nothing like last summer.”

He was perfectly still. My eyes lifted to his chest; it didn’t move.

“Every night, I lie in bed listening to the water, and I think about how nice it would be to sit there, on the beach … with you. When the sun’s shining and the tide’s moving exactly as it should. We could just be together the way we used to be, before everything got so complicated.”

I stopped, waited. This was as much as I could say. Anything else would be like grabbing him by the arm and pulling him inside.

“We can’t go back,” he said quietly, a moment later. “Too much has happened.”

“I know.” I was only slightly aware of my pulse hammering in my ears. “But that still leaves forward.”

He looked at me. I leaned against the door to keep from launching toward him.

“As friends?” he said.

My pulse fell silent. “Yes. Of course as friends.”

His lips pressed together as he gave me a small smile.

“Do I smell garlic bread?” he asked.

I stepped into the kitchen and opened the door as wide as it would go. Happy tears sprang to my eyes as he came all the way inside, and I blinked them away before he noticed.

I’d gotten takeout from the Italian place in town and kept the food warm in the oven. We used paper plates I found on the top shelf of the pantry instead of the ceramic dishes I’d brought, and filled paper cups with water instead of the wine I’d taken from the beach house. Rather than sitting at the kitchen table, we wandered out back and ate on the deck steps.

One of my favorite things about being with Simon was the way we could be together and talk about nothing. It didn’t matter what we did; we could go hiking or watch a movie or hang out on the lake, and literally not speak for hours. The silence was always easy, always comfortable.

Tonight, however, we talked. About my last semester of high school. His classes at Bates. Dartmouth. His parents. My parents. Caleb. Paige. Music. Movies. The benefits of stick shift versus automatic, and other car-related issues. The only topics we avoided were those that would’ve reminded us why we had so much to catch up on, and that was fine by me. I’d spent enough time mentally replaying the exact moment at which I’d stopped kissing Parker and seen Simon’s Subaru speed away, and the second he’d said he needed space to figure out how he felt after learning who I really was, and the various other points at which everything went wrong. Right now all I wanted was to stick to normal conversation and hope that maybe, someday, everything could be right again.

And it seemed like I might not be the only one. Because two hours later, when I finally confessed to being cold and asked if he’d like to go back inside, which I’d been putting off for fear he’d realize how long he’d been there and decide to go home, he said yes without hesitating.

Moving indoors did interrupt the flow of conversation, but not uncomfortably. We were quiet as we cleaned up the kitchen together, making sure it shone until it looked like we were never there, and we returned to the living room. The silence didn’t make me nervous until I sat on one end of the couch and he sat on the other. Then it felt awkward, unnatural—just like the physical distance between us.

“Is this better?” he asked, a long moment later.

“Better?”

“Warmer?”

“Oh. Yes, much. Thank you.”

He nodded, then looked around the living room. I took advantage of the opportunity to watch him in a way I’d longed to for months. He wore dark jeans, a gray track jacket, and worn-in Nikes. His dark hair was longer than usual, curling slightly over the tops of his ears and against his zipped-up collar. Light scruff still lined his upper lip and jaw, but it was cut close to his skin. He’d gotten new frameless glasses that showed off his eyes.

He looked different. Older.

Even better than I’d remembered.

“It’s so strange,” he said.

My heart thrust against my chest. “What is?”

“Your family selling this place.”

My heart settled back down.

“I mean, no one else has ever lived here.” He crossed his arms loosely over his chest and rested his head against the back of the couch. “I didn’t think anyone else ever would.”

I looked around the living room. At the plaid curtains, the stone fireplace, the wooden ducks lining the mantel. Things we’d left, so potential buyers could get a feel for real lakeside living.

“Me, either,” I said. “But I guess my parents thought things would be easier this way. To be back here while still moving on.”

We were quiet for another moment. Then Simon said, so softly I almost missed it, “Just because you don’t see something every day … doesn’t mean you let it go.”

His head, still resting on the couch, turned toward me. I
lowered my eyes, afraid of what I’d say or do if they connected with his. I told myself it didn’t matter what I said or did, since, according to Charlotte, my abilities didn’t work on Simon; he’d fallen in love with me before I was fully transformed, so any feelings he had for me, good and bad, were genuine.

Which meant the choice was still his.

He stood up. Assuming he wanted to leave before we entered even more dangerous territory, I did, too. Keeping my gaze lowered, I started for the kitchen to show him out—and immediately stopped short to avoid running into him.

“Sorry,” I said.

I waited for him to continue. Stepped to the side when he didn’t. Nearly fell over when his fingers grazed my wrist.

“Simon—”

“I know.” His fingers slid across my skin, his thumb lingered lightly over my pulse. “I know what I said. But if it’s okay with you … I’d just like to see something.”