Daughter of Deep Silence (6 page)

G
rey 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.

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.

“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?”