Shining Sea (34 page)

SISTERS

Breathing hard, I stare at the desktop, images flooding my mind.

Nick Delaine, the serpentine tail of my nightmares . . .

With a ding, a new message appears in the bubble of the chat window.

IM with Jordan Summers Today 1:15 p.m.

Only it isn’t Jordan.

Knock, knock! Ari, it can be me and you again, the way we were. San Francisco? We can go back—we can do anything!

I can almost see her, raising her arms—hear the ripping sound as her wings tear through the back of the filmy summer dress. Glorious white-feathered limbs seem to surround me as I picture her. My sister. Not my sister. A Siren. A liar.

It’ll be awesome! The breath alone is worth it—Ahhhhhh . . .

The groan of pleasure that unfurls in the window implies ecstatic remembrance.

So she’s done it. She’s
killed
. I hadn’t thought, hadn’t expected . . .

The messages come faster now. I shrink back from the screen.

You’ve GOT to do it!

Although it does seem strangely incestuous, for me to Deepen you.

So you can choose
☺

Will it be the cutie—Cord? Please not Mia—she’s such a bitch.

We’ll truly share everything if Julian does it. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? Nice isn’t my favorite word, but you’ve always liked it.

Or Jordie! Of course! Oh yes! I’m asking him now. He’s saying no. He’s so humorless.

But don’t worry, Arion, I’ll convince him. He’s definitely the best—and hottest—answer.

And speaking of answering, what the hell? Why aren’t you writing back?

My new cell rings from the bottom of my backpack.
Where did she even get the number?

Pick up!

Think of the endless games we can play. Just like when we were little.

Follow the Leader ☺ You were always
so
good at Follow the Leader.

Nothing has to change!

Not now.

Not
ever
.

It could be me and you again.
Us
, like we used to be. The Rush Sisters.

Really, it already is!

Be home soon, little sis!

VISITOR

The black-and-white-striped tower blocks the worst of the wind today, and the afternoon sun hits the gallery deck at just the right angle, heating the iron. It may be the shortest day of the year, but the rays of the sun appear to be at their longest, golden fingers reaching across the sky.

“Hey,” Logan says from the doorway to the watch room. “Can I sit down?”

Somehow his unannounced appearance doesn’t surprise me, but that he’s asked if he can sit shows how much things have changed between us. As does the fact that he doesn’t sit too close when he finally lowers himself onto the blanket where I’m soaking up the sun.

I’ve been avoiding him. He knows it.

He thinks it’s because of Bo. It isn’t.

His eyes rove over my face. “You’re looking good, Rush, not quite so pale. Well, still pale. But you’ve lost that ghostly pallor you’ve been sporting for a while. Thought for a minute there you were going goth girl on me, Sarah style. Guess you finally decided to start breathing again?”

“Something like that,” I say, shuddering slightly at the reference.

“Great. Now you just have to start hanging out. Rejoin civilized society.”

“Does this count as hanging out? Wait—that would imply you’re civilized, and we both know
that’s
not the case.”

“Ooh, you’ve gotten quite sharp, I’m not sure I can keep up.”

“Don’t try, I had a good teacher.”

“Anything else you want to learn besides how to be a wiseass?” He arches one eyebrow suggestively. Then he says, “Be nice to me, it’s my birthday.”

“Happy Birthday.” I punch him in the arm. Then we grin at each other like lunatics.

“Miss you,” he says.

“Miss you too.”

“Cool.” Logan leans back against the bricks of the tower, clearly relieved but not about to make a big deal of it. He probably recognized the black-eyed dog lurking around me the last couple months. Not that he’d really been close enough to see it. I’d made sure of that.

I thought maybe Logan would come on strong after—but he didn’t. I felt him watching me in class, but he’d probably say he was watching
out
for me, just like Mary was.

“If I’d known it was your birthday I would have—”

Known it was Nick’s birthday too. Oh God. Logan.

“You would have what? Baked me a cake? Didn’t know you could cook. I gotta say, I can’t see you in the kitchen.”

“Ah—yeah, neither can I.”

“So then . . . what were you going to say?”

“I was going to say . . . that I would have gotten you a book. One of those old pocket paperback novels, like the kind you always carry around, something you probably do because girls find it endearing. A boy with a book, you know?”

“I do not know. Endearing, huh? Your feelings are showing, Rush.”

“I have no feelings.” I manage to say this with a straight face and am rewarded with a burst of laughter from Logan.

“How do you know they’re novels?” he asks. “How do you know they’re not, like, astrophysics texts?”

“They’re probably self-help books. If they’re not, they should be.”

“Such a pretty girl. Too bad she’s so mean.”

“Yeah, well, don’t take this the wrong way, but you look good too.” I pretend to examine him with a critical eye. “No scrapes and bruises.”

“Yeah, but maybe you should check me over, you know?” He starts to slide his jacket off. His leather jacket, which doesn’t look warm enough to begin with. I’m wearing a down coat. “Because no one’s been keeping an eye on me since you retired to your ivory tower here—”

“Okay, okay—keep your clothes on. It’s December.”

“Is that the
only
reason you want me to keep my clothes on? Because—”

“Yes! I mean, no! Come on, put your jacket on! It’s
winter
.”

“Yeah, now it is. But you’ve been holed up here since—well—for a while.”

The conversation stalls. We lean our heads back. Look up at the sky.

“What about the raves in Portland?” I say finally. “Where the fights break out. Have you—”

“Trying to quit. Bought a punching bag. Playing drums again. Just think, you’d already know all this late-breaking news if you ever hung out. Seriously, hibernating up here—”

“I am not hibernating. I’m—working. On music.”

“Huh. You’re working on music.”

“I am.”

“And I’m working on music.”

“So you say. Practicing drums again.”

“Kind of a cool coincidence, don’t you think? That we’re both musicians, that we have that in common?”

“Hmm . . . I guess. Especially since, you know, we don’t have anything else in common.”

Now he punches me in the arm. But lightly. “Let’s jam sometime.”

“Maybe.”

“Come on, Rush. You’ve got a guitar. And I know you can sing.”

I’ve been trying to match his tone, but as soon as he brings up singing, all I can think of is the real reason I’ve been isolating myself up here. “I’ll let you know,” I say, and look away.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Logan says, “about you and Bo.” I glance at him. He grins. “Okay, not really,” he says. “But I am sorry you’ve been hurting. Obviously you haven’t wanted to talk, but if you change your mind . . .” He bows his head a little, his hair falling around his face, the smell of his minty shampoo reminding me of another life. “At your service.”

“Yeah, no. I’m—” A mountain—an entire mountain range—fills my throat. “I’m good.”

“O-kay . . . if you say so.”

“I say so.”

I just wish I could say more. But how can I? How can I tell him his brother was alive, just like he’d thought, but that now he’s dead, for real, gone forever. Like Bo.

Bo. He’s gone forever from this place . . . But not from my thoughts. And neither has Nick, who’s left me with one last question.

“Logan?”

“Yeah?”

“Well . . . I don’t mean to, you know, bring it up, but . . .”

“It’s up. Go for it, Airyhead.”

“No, it’s nothing, I just—how come you never told me Nick was your twin?”

Logan is instantly alert. He doesn’t move a muscle, but something in his eyes—a sudden silvery light there—reveals the change, a change that, along with the sterling gleam, reminds me—for one or two pulsing seconds—of his brother.

“Nick,” he says, and I realize that he’s echoing me, repeating what I’ve said in order to draw my attention to it. I’ve called Nick by his name, as if I know him. As if he’s familiar to me. I didn’t say, “your brother,” which is what I should have said, which is what I
would
have said—before. Before I knew Nick.

My breathing becomes shallow as Logan continues to study me: my face, my eyes. He’s looking for clues. He’s suspicious. He has every right to be.

But. Nothing I can tell him will make things better.

I set my jaw, determined to remain silent.

Until the light in his eyes dims, and I’m reminded—as I so often am when I look into Logan’s eyes—of clouds, and rainy days.

“Logan, I’m so sorry!” My voice breaks a little. “I’m sorry, I knew I shouldn’t have brought it up. I—I don’t even know why I was thinking of him.”

But this last line? It’s a throwaway. It’s me scrambling to make things better but slipping up instead. It’s me lying. Because I do know why I was thinking of Nick. It’s because I always think of him—not always, but every day. I think of all of them every day. Every time I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye—a seagull soaring through my peripheral vision, a pine bough bending in the wind—I think of Nick, and of Bo, and of Jordan. I think of my sister. I think of all the Sirens every day, and I worry, and I
wait
.

Maybe Logan senses how upset I am, not that he knows all the reasons, because now, although he doesn’t quite release me from his suspicious gaze, he runs a hand along his jaw, along the blue shadow of stubble there, and says, “It’s okay. I guess I figured you knew.”

“You—you figured I knew what?”

My heart thumps almost painfully. Logan narrows his eyes just a little.

But all he says is, “I figured you knew that we were twins. Everyone—” He shrugs. “Everyone around here does.”

My heart slows. I want to apologize again, to say something, anything, to make up for my stupidity.

I’m never going to bring up his brother again, ever. Nick Delaine is dead, and he needs to stay that way. He needs to be dead to me. And especially to Logan.

Who stretches now—like he wants to literally reach outside this moment, reach for something different, maybe even just a different conversation.

And then he does.

“Don’t know if you saw this or not.” He digs a crumpled piece of newspaper out of one of his pants pockets and offers it to me. “Came out today. Thought you might find it interesting.”

“Thanks.” I scan the headline. Interesting doesn’t begin to cover it.

The Rock Hook Herald, Thursday, December 22

Rock Hook National Seashore Opening Delayed

By James Tabir

The superstorm of October 10 was a turning point in local history for Rock Hook Harbor residents. Due to record-breaking high tides at the time of the storm, the waters of Wabanaki Bay rose to unprecedented levels, destroying the land bridge that supported the narrow causeway connecting Rock Hook Peninsula to the mainland.

National disaster funds, still being allocated since the storm, continue to meet residents’ immediate needs and provided financing for the fleet of motorboats and water taxis that currently serve as a means for locals to cross the bay and attend to business concerns on the mainland.

Emergency funding continues to flow into Rock Hook Harbor’s downtown area and marina. However, the latest word from Washington is that monies will not be made available to assist with the opening of the new national park slated for this July.

Mayor Chase Waller—who has rejected bids for a bridge to span the bay, stating that they are simply too expensive—is in final negotiations with Overwave Ferry and held a press conference yesterday in Bangor, where he told reporters, “I don’t have time for broken promises. If Washington wants to hold back funds and delay the opening of Rock Hook National Seashore indefinitely, that means losing local jobs and income for the island—”

The island.

This part of the story isn’t news to me, of course, but the fact that Rock Hook Peninsula is actually an island now still amazes me, even nearly three months after its transformation.

Cord had been right. My pet peeve has been taken care of—in a big way—and for the present, the wild land surrounding the lighthouse will remain what it’s always been: the coast of Maine’s best-kept secret.

In my mind I give a nod to Neptune, which makes me think of Bo . . . Lilah is part of his family now, or maybe they’re part of ours. Either way—the thought makes me nervous.

Logan and I talk about the article, then run out of words. The silence feels awkward. I need to change that, need to reach out to him, the way he reached out to me, by coming over.

“Hang on, I’ve got to get something.”

When I return, Logan’s lying on his back. He grabs at my ankle—then, seeing I have my guitar, quickly sits up. “You’re going to play for me?”

Nodding, I sit down cross-legged and start moving my fingers over the frets, warming up my cold hands. Then I begin to play a chord progression that found me late one night, and start to sing . . .

“It’s a little push-pull
,

It’s a battle of our wills.

You will want and want more,

Like water washing on the shore.”

To my surprise, Logan starts to hum, his voice slightly husky, harmonizing with the second verse. Next comes the chorus. He goes still.

“It felt like we were making love,

It felt like you were in my blood,

Like there was something we both understood . . .

And oh, how I wish, that we could stay like this. First kiss
 . . .”

“That,” Logan says when I finish, “is a great song.”

“Really? I mean, you think so?”

“Yeah.” After biting his lip for a moment, he says, “You wrote that for him, didn’t you.”

I shut my eyes. The sound of the surf down below is surprisingly soft. “I did. I wrote it for him, but . . .” Eyes still closed, I form a series of chords with my left hand, the fingertips of my right hand plucking the strings almost anxiously. I let myself explore a little longer, until finally, my left hand finds a chord I don’t recognize.

Resting the palm of my right hand flat on the strings, I damp the echo of the unknown chord, and open my eyes.

“I wrote it for him. But I played it for you.”

“I’m glad,” Logan says, in the same gentle voice he used a minute ago when he was singing with me. “Play it again, will you?”

So I play “1st Kiss” again, and this time, the wind takes my words—scattering them out over the shining sea . . .

When I finish, we both sit back against the bricks of the lighthouse. The silence isn’t awkward now. It’s an invisible connective tissue between us, the same way the music was just a moment ago. The music . . . maybe you never really know who you’re writing it for.