Read Online Daughter of Deep Silence by Carrie Ryan - Free Book Online
Authors: Carrie Ryan
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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
“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
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