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Authors: Carrie Ryan
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swallow, thickly. “I can’t,” I add in a whisper, telling him what I know he wants to hear: that I’m not a threat. That whatever secrets he has can remain buried.
That he can afford to let down his guard around me.
His hands fall lightly on my shoulders, fingertips nudging me toward him. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, wrapping me against his chest. We stand like this for several moments, his racing heartbeat eventually slowing under my cheek.
Closing my eyes, with the sound of the waves as a backdrop, I can almost believe I’m back on the
Persephone
. Before anything went wrong. When my future was still a brightly coiled path of possibility.
“Trust me, you don’t want to remember.” He swallows several times. “It was awful,” he adds, almost silently.
I pull my head back and look up at him. He’s staring at the horizon, but his gaze is unfocused. I wonder whether, like me, his mind churns with images from that night. The terror. The confusion. The pain. It’s obviously all still there, grinding under the surface. The truth of what happened, struggling for release.
The trick is in getting him to confess it all willingly. “You’re right—I
don’t
want to know and I won’t ever ask you to remember any of it,” I tell him.
I can lie as convincingly as he can.
Because I know that if I ask him now, he’ll feed me the same lines he’s fed everyone else. About the rogue wave. About the miraculous rescue.
He needs to trust me first.
He needs to
know
me.
His expression turns grateful, the wariness almost gone. And I know I’ve achieved my goal—that I’ve put him at ease.
“They’ll probably start wondering where we are soon if we don’t get back.” I turn and start toward the house. In the storm-darkened evening the lights around the patio and pool have come on, turning the O’Martin estate into a beacon. I point it out to Grey, adding, “Don’t lighthouses usually signal danger?”
He chuckles. “Who’s to say that’s not accurate?”
I smile, allowing my shoulder to bump gently against his. This time, the walk in silence is amiable rather than awkward. But my steps slow as we leave the beach behind and make our way up the stairs to the boardwalk. Even with the turning weather the yard is strewn with people. Strangers. My stomach tightens and I honestly wonder what would happen if I just turned and started running. Never stopped.
If I could run fast enough and far enough that I could forget everything.
But it’s never worked before.
There’s only one path forward and I’m already far enough down it that the only option is to keep moving.
“I guess we have to go back in there, huh?” I ask. Grey’s shirt whips out behind me in the wind, the hem popping and snapping like a flag.
“Unfortunately,” Grey responds. He stands slightly behind me and I hear the way his voice shifts, a note of regret playing under the words as he adds, “I’m not sure familial duty ever ends.”
As a Senator’s son I’m sure much is expected of him. But there’s bitterness and anger in the way he says it, as though the sentiment runs deeper. I make a mental note before turning and letting his shirt drop from my shoulders, holding it out to him. Once he’s shrugged into it, I take my time slipping the buttons into place for him.
“Thank you,” I tell him. He frowns, confused, and I smile. “For making this”—I wave a hand between us—“bearable.” I lift one corner of my lips higher, the Libby trademark. “Maybe moving back home won’t be so bad after all.” His eyebrows rise in surprise, but before he can say anything his phone chirps in his pocket.
Almost apologetically, he slips it free and glances at the screen. He frowns.
My dad
, he mouths to me as he presses the phone to his ear. “Hey, Dad, what’s—” He swallows the rest of the greeting and turns slightly away, listening. A look of concern flashes across his face. “Is she okay?” He glances back toward the
That he can afford to let down his guard around me.
His hands fall lightly on my shoulders, fingertips nudging me toward him. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, wrapping me against his chest. We stand like this for several moments, his racing heartbeat eventually slowing under my cheek.
Closing my eyes, with the sound of the waves as a backdrop, I can almost believe I’m back on the
Persephone
. Before anything went wrong. When my future was still a brightly coiled path of possibility.
“Trust me, you don’t want to remember.” He swallows several times. “It was awful,” he adds, almost silently.
I pull my head back and look up at him. He’s staring at the horizon, but his gaze is unfocused. I wonder whether, like me, his mind churns with images from that night. The terror. The confusion. The pain. It’s obviously all still there, grinding under the surface. The truth of what happened, struggling for release.
The trick is in getting him to confess it all willingly. “You’re right—I
don’t
want to know and I won’t ever ask you to remember any of it,” I tell him.
I can lie as convincingly as he can.
Because I know that if I ask him now, he’ll feed me the same lines he’s fed everyone else. About the rogue wave. About the miraculous rescue.
He needs to trust me first.
He needs to
know
me.
His expression turns grateful, the wariness almost gone. And I know I’ve achieved my goal—that I’ve put him at ease.
“They’ll probably start wondering where we are soon if we don’t get back.” I turn and start toward the house. In the storm-darkened evening the lights around the patio and pool have come on, turning the O’Martin estate into a beacon. I point it out to Grey, adding, “Don’t lighthouses usually signal danger?”
He chuckles. “Who’s to say that’s not accurate?”
I smile, allowing my shoulder to bump gently against his. This time, the walk in silence is amiable rather than awkward. But my steps slow as we leave the beach behind and make our way up the stairs to the boardwalk. Even with the turning weather the yard is strewn with people. Strangers. My stomach tightens and I honestly wonder what would happen if I just turned and started running. Never stopped.
If I could run fast enough and far enough that I could forget everything.
But it’s never worked before.
There’s only one path forward and I’m already far enough down it that the only option is to keep moving.
“I guess we have to go back in there, huh?” I ask. Grey’s shirt whips out behind me in the wind, the hem popping and snapping like a flag.
“Unfortunately,” Grey responds. He stands slightly behind me and I hear the way his voice shifts, a note of regret playing under the words as he adds, “I’m not sure familial duty ever ends.”
As a Senator’s son I’m sure much is expected of him. But there’s bitterness and anger in the way he says it, as though the sentiment runs deeper. I make a mental note before turning and letting his shirt drop from my shoulders, holding it out to him. Once he’s shrugged into it, I take my time slipping the buttons into place for him.
“Thank you,” I tell him. He frowns, confused, and I smile. “For making this”—I wave a hand between us—“bearable.” I lift one corner of my lips higher, the Libby trademark. “Maybe moving back home won’t be so bad after all.” His eyebrows rise in surprise, but before he can say anything his phone chirps in his pocket.
Almost apologetically, he slips it free and glances at the screen. He frowns.
My dad
, he mouths to me as he presses the phone to his ear. “Hey, Dad, what’s—” He swallows the rest of the greeting and turns slightly away, listening. A look of concern flashes across his face. “Is she okay?” He glances back toward the
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