Ripple

Chapter Twenty-Eight

After nearly twenty minutes in relative silence—in which we both simply swing back and forth, staring out at the ocean—things become uncomfortable. Those three little words are jammed between us. I wonder if he’s still waiting for me to say them back.

I consider telling Erik not to worry about it, that we can pretend he didn’t say it, but I don’t know if that would make things better or worse.

Finally, when I can’t take it any longer, Erik speaks. “Sienna mentioned Port Street last night.”

“Oh?”

He nods. “I was thinking we could wander around there today. It sounds fun.”

I nod. I’m relieved, because he’s acting like nothing happened, as if he didn’t just say something that requires an answer I didn’t give.

Port Street is the boardwalk area, super close to where the festival was. It’s the tourist trap, filled with its saltwater taffy stands, antique shops, and souvenir stores stuffed with things like dried-up sea stars, vials of dyed beach sand, wooden sailboats, and kites.

And that’s why twenty minutes later, I’m standing there, finding it a little ironic that he’d bring me to the most ocean-centric place in this whole town, but I try to think of it in a different way.

He’s trying to do normal things. Things our classmates have done all their lives. Hang out. See the sights. Besides that, he knows how obsessed I am with the ocean. I hate it because of my curse, but he thinks just because there’s hope that he can cure the curse, I’m free to love it.

It rubs me the wrong way that he’s never asked if that’s how it is for me. He assumes I love it, but he seems to have forgotten it’s still the place where I killed someone.

Why hasn’t he ever asked what happened that night? Why has he never asked who I was before he came here?

But I’ve never asked him, either. I never thought of who he was at his old school.

Was I so dazzled by living a normal life that I never looked at the guy standing right next to me?

Erik pulls me along the sidewalk, and I try to stop thinking about . . . about everything. He’s trying. He really is. And he loves me. Or so he thinks.

But I still don’t know how I feel about him. The past few weeks have been like a fairy tale, but there’s a reason fairy tales aren’t real. They seem . . . amazing in the books. But who bothers looking beyond the surface? Who even knows anything about Cinderella’s Prince Charming—other than he’s a handsome prince?

This morning’s confession has suddenly shoved that all in my face.

I swallow and try to turn my attention to the place Erik is pulling me toward. I’ve lived in this town so long, and yet it’s been years since I’ve walked this particular strip. The left side of the street has the shops and restaurants. The right side is the marina, where the chartered fishing boats are always moored. At this time of the year, things are quieter, most of the boats sitting idly along the docks, the salt water lapping at the sides of the boats.

My hand rests in Erik’s, our fingers intertwined. It feels different today. Like he’s holding on tighter.

I wore a long sundress today, one with quarter-length sleeves and a skirt that graces my ankles. It’s a little cool for it, so I added a cardigan, and some cute flats. I guess I’m wishing for summer, something more carefree. Erik is wearing Doc Martens, dark indigo jeans, and a deep hunter green sweater. The sweater’s short zipper is left undone, so that the wide collar falls over his shoulders. We must make a cute couple, the two of us. Him, with his Adonis good looks, and me, the siren, always pretty no matter what. Every time he turns toward me, smiling in that warm, happy way of his, I have to catch my breath—his eyes remind me so much of my own.

He’s been so sweet, trying to fit into my clique, taking me on so many dates. He’s done everything I’ve asked for, and he’s never asked for anything of his own. So why don’t I feel more strongly about him?

Erik and I walk into a gift shop. He lets go of my hand and walks over to the saltwater taffy. He raises one of his dark, thick eyebrows at me and nods in the direction of the taffy. I shrug and then nod, so he grabs one of the clear bags and a big metal scoop, and sets to work dumping a mixture of flavors into the bag.

I wouldn’t have pegged him as a taffy kind of guy. For some reason that fact sticks in my head. I don’t know what kind of candy he likes. Whether he’s from a big family. What the last eighteen years have been like in his life, if they’ve been filled with as much tragedy and heartache as my own. He said his dad is a nix and his mom is a siren.... Are they still in love? Does he love them?

I turn away and walk across the room, picking up the various overpriced novelties. I start with a sand dollar. It’s smooth, flawless. I run my thumb over the top of it, staring at the star in the center. It was alive once.

I plunk it back down in the bin. This whole section is stocked with sea stars, shells, even dried-up puffer fish and sea horses. It’s ugly in its beauty. I want to throw the whole bin in the trash even as I want to buy everything, bring them to the beach, and find some way to make them alive again.

If sirens were smaller, more plentiful, maybe they’d dry me up and put me in a bin right next to the seashells.

Erik walks up, wraps an arm around me as if it’s the most natural thing in the world and holds up the bag of taffy. I nod. He doesn’t even glance at the bins next to me.

I watch him walk away and remember what he looked like in the tuxedo last night. And then I think about how I’ve spent the last hour with Erik, acting like a normal teen, the one thing I’ve always wanted.

And yet despite all of Erik’s promises, everything he’s given me, I feel strangely . . . unfulfilled. Restless. Sometimes, being with Erik is no different than being the ice queen. He doesn’t push me like Cole does. Doesn’t want to know what I’m afraid of.

He doesn’t even know who I am, and yet it doesn’t seem to bother him. It’s not about who I am to him.

It’s about what I am.

Erik takes his bag of taffy and leads me outside. My flats slap against the pavement as he pulls me up against his hip. Again, he smiles in that warm, inviting way of his that always seems to put me at ease. His smile is like wading into the water for the first time in hours.

I smile back at him as he opens the door to an ice-cream parlor for me, and I step into the artificially bright space. He’s talking. His lips are moving as he stares straight at me.

And then I realize I haven’t heard a word of what he’s said to me in the last ten minutes.

And then I realize he hasn’t noticed.