by L. E. DeLano
His lips press together into a thin line, and he gives me a nod before he stands up. “Very well,” he says. “I’ll return shortly.”
He strides to the door and walks out, shutting it behind him. I’m still staring at the door when I hear Ben take in a slow breath.
“So,” he says.
“So,” I echo. “I’m sorry. About last night. About it all. I never wanted you dealing with this stuff.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t blame you, St. Clair. I’m just glad the worst is over.”
I think about Finn’s warning about Eversor. “Let’s hope so.”
“So is he going to be sticking around for a while? Or is he finally taking off once we figure out what Eversor is doing?”
“I don’t know.” I say it, and I realize it’s true. Finn’s goal has been Eversor from the moment he got here. Once she’s out of the picture for good—what then? Something tightens my throat, and the words have a hard time coming. “I’m not sure if he’s staying,” I manage to say.
Ben is looking at me, and the silence hangs between us.
“He’s winning, isn’t he?”
Ben’s voice is soft, and I feel the sadness in it like a hand squeezing my chest.
“This isn’t a contest, Ben. You are who you are to me, just like he is who he is.”
“I can see what the thought of him leaving does to you,” he says. “And no matter how good it is between us, it’s all on the back burner the minute he shows up.”
We stare at each other and I force myself to hold his gaze when I really want to run away.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. And I am. Because he’s right. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. It’s just the way it is for you, right? The only time I get a shot is if I’m in a world without him around.” His hand is resting on his knee, and he curls it into a fist. I sit up straighter and he blows out a huff of air at my look of wide-eyed alarm.
“I’m not fixing to off the guy,” he says. “Although that particular thought has been cropping up over and over again lately.”
“That wasn’t you, that was Rudy,” I tell him. I move over on the couch so I can slide my arm around him. “You’ve been put through a lot. I’ve put you through it. I should never have—”
He shakes his head as he sticks a finger to my lips. “Stop it. You told me from the get-go that you’d give it a try. And I suppose you did. You tried to warn me away and I wouldn’t go. So I guess I’ve only got myself to blame.”
I pull his fingers off my mouth and hold his hand in mine. “Don’t say that. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Ben.”
The tears are coming now, and I bury my face in his neck. I feel him shake his head. “It’s okay, St. Clair. Some things just aren’t meant to be, right? Maybe there’s a whole universe of somebody elses out there for me.” He gives a little laugh, and it only makes me cry harder.
“Stop. I mean it,” he says. “You’ll get me crying, too, and I really make a lot of noise.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh, but that doesn’t stop the tears. I rub my face on my sleeve and look at him through bleary eyes. “Ben—can we—are we still friends? Can we be friends?”
“I don’t know.”
I suppose I deserve that. But the thought of losing Ben’s friendship is a hard price to pay for my choices, even if I know they’re the right ones. He stands up, and I slowly get to my feet.
“So … tomorrow,” Ben says. “The museum’s open from noon to four.”
“I really do think I should go along,” I say, walking Ben to the door. “If it turns out the mirrors aren’t from this guy Tizoc, we can send them back, but I think it’s worth finding out before you go to the extra trouble.”
“It’ll save me having to bring them to you,” he muses.
“I can always come to your house. I don’t mind.”
“I’d rather not, okay?” He rubs his hand on the back of his neck. “I need some time. I’m not saying we can’t ever be friends. I just—I don’t think we can hang together like we used to for a while.”
“I understand.” I swipe at my eyes, determined I’m going to keep it together.
“I think I just need some space. We’ve got all of Christmas break to get through. Give me time to think.”
I give him a shaky nod. “Okay.”
We look at each other, and then he gives me an awkward nod. “Thanks for freeing me from megalomaniacal mental manipulation.”
“Nice alliteration,” I say, forcing a smile. “See you tomorrow.”
“See ya.”
He turns and walks down the stairs, and I watch him go, feeling like I’m a hundred years old but a thousand pounds lighter.
* * *
“What is it that you’re working on?” Finn asks.
We haven’t spoken much since he got back from Mugsy’s. He’s not stupid—he can see the redness in my eyes, and it’s clear Ben and I didn’t have a great conversation. I expected him to start prying the second he got through the door, but he’s been strangely quiet, choosing instead to flip through the TV channels while I sit here at the table, sort of working on a story.
I say sort of because I keep getting distracted by memories and moments—the way he looked that first day on his ship when I met him, and again at the ball. Our dance on his ship yesterday and the way it felt to turn and sway in his arms. The way his lips tasted when they touched mine …
“Jessa?”
“Sorry,” I mumble, tapping my pen on my journal. “It’s a story. A memory.”
“Of…?”
I flush. “Of you.”
“Really?” He seems intrigued. “Care to share?”
My internal war must show on my face. “If it makes you uncomfortable…,” he says.
“No, it’s okay. You can read.” I get to my feet and walk over to the couch to sit next to him. Then I slide the notebook across to his lap, and he settles in, his fingers tracing the words I’ve laid on the page.
It was a warm day, and her bonnet was stiflingly hot. Her gloves had caused her hands to sweat, and she wanted nothing more than to tear off every bit of restrictive clothing and run free.
She glanced around, as if afraid someone had heard her thoughts, but that was silly. There was no one around. The cove below the lighthouse was private property, belonging to her family. There might be the occasional passerby walking the coastline, but it was a rarity, to be sure.
Still, she gave one last look behind her down the beach before she moved deeper into the cove. In the shadow of the rocks, she removed her gloves, shoes, and stockings, then took off her bonnet and let loose her hair. She hiked up her skirts and gripped them in her fist, eager to feel the delicious chill of the water on her overheated skin.
She gave an audible sigh as the surf swirled around her toes, then sighed again as she lifted her heavy hair in the breeze, letting it fly about her face as it fell. She laughed at the feel of it, at the joy of being here under the high overhang of the cliff walls, hidden from the view of her mother, who would surely be undone to see her daughter behaving like this.
“Don’t wade in too far,” a voice called from behind her, and she whirled, forgetting her skirts and letting them drop into the water.
He was sitting on a rock in the shade of the overhang, and her eyes hadn’t found him at first, coming from the bright light of the open beach. Now that they’d adjusted, she could see him clearly, one bare foot up on the rock and the other dangling carelessly off the side. His arm sat across his knee, and in his hand was a half-eaten apple. He was shirtless, and his breeches had been rolled to his knees.
He turned his face into the wind, and the breeze ruffled his dark hair, giving her a clear view of his profile. She realized she’d stopped breathing.
This would never do. For heaven’s sake—it wasn’t as if she’d never seen a man’s chest before. The men in the fields and down at the dock went about shirtless all the time.
No
ne of them looked like him, though. No one could look like him.
He turned his face back to her and gave her an apologetic look.
“Did I startle you, love?”
“This is a private beach,” she replied, trying to sound firm, but failing as his eyes stayed locked with hers. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s a devilish hot day,” he said with a shrug. “This is the only shade on the beach. It’s a good thing you didn’t arrive ten minutes sooner—you’d surely have had your delicate sensibilities offended.”
She felt her spine stiffen. “I’m not delicate.”
“No,” he said, studying her a moment. “I can see that you’re not.”
“You have a name?”
“Captain Finn Gallagher,” he said, getting up from his seat. He swept her a courtly bow.
“Have we met, Captain Gallagher?” She stared at him, trying to place him, for he seemed familiar somehow, despite his lack of a shirt.
“Now that,” he said, pointing his apple at her, “is a question, and a good one.” He took one last bite of the fruit before pitching it off into the sand.
“You have an accent,” she said. “Irish?”
“Aye. I’ve taken up a new route—my ship is the fastest solar schooner in port.”
“The tall one? With the tree painted on the mainsail?”
“That’s the one,” he said, grinning. She stared at the dimple that appeared on one side, just above the curve of his lip.
“It’s a fine ship.” She turned her head to look out to sea. “I would imagine you’ve had many adventures, with a ship like that.”
“I have,” he agreed, leaving the rock and stepping to the edge of the beach, where he offered a hand to assist her out of the water. “I’ve had a fair few without it as well. Would you like to hear about them?”
She couldn’t stop the excitement that leapt into her eyes. “I would. I want to hear them all.” She reached her hand out as she drew closer, and he grasped it gently, placing a light kiss on the backs of her fingers. He didn’t let it go.
“My name is Jessamyn,” she said, a little breathlessly. “But my friends call me—”
“Jessa,” he finished. And something inside her shifted at the familiarity of her name on his lips.
“You were so damned beautiful that day,” Finn says. “Not that you’re anything less any other day, mind you.” He traces the words on the paper. “But, oh, with the wind in your hair, and your skirts sodden and dragging at you as we walked the beach…”
“I—she—had a rash on her legs for a week after that,” I say, pulling up her memory. “It was worth it, though.”
He smiles. “Aye, it was at that. How do you come to have that memory?”
“The night of the ball—that last night I saw you—I was in the coach, riding to the party. I got bored and I was thinking of you and wondering how we met. This memory came back to me.”
I realize I’m discussing the last night of his Jessa’s life, and I don’t go on any further. I look away instead.
“You were thinking of me?” he asks.
I feel myself flush. “Well, you and I did have an interesting first meeting.”
He chuckles and reaches over, pushing my hair back so he can see my face better, tucking a strand behind my ear.
“Aye, that we did.”
The front door opens and suddenly we’re interrupted by Danny singing “I’ll Make a Man Out of You” from Mulan very loudly. Finn gives me an amused grin as I absently start mouthing the words and I shut my mouth and make an embarrassed face.
“Sorry,” I say. “Habit. He watches that movie all the time.”
“It’s a rousing good tune,” he says, getting to his feet. “How are you, Danny?”
“We’re having meatballs for dinner,” he replies as he heads into the family room. “Mom said so.”
“Okay,” I say, getting to my feet and pulling Finn along into the kitchen. “You want to stay for meatballs?” I ask him.
“Shouldn’t you ask your mother?”
“She won’t mind. It’s only meatballs.” I open a cupboard door and grab a drinking glass. “Want some iced tea?”
He makes a face as I pour myself a glass. “Why the devil d’you drink it iced? It’s bloody cold outside.”
“So you want a cup of hot tea?”
“I’ll take whatever you have that passes for tea,” he says begrudgingly. “I keep a tin of good, Irish tea on my ship that’s replenished on a regular basis. But here…” He shudders. “Perhaps I should take it iced. Might improve the taste.”
“It’s better iced.” I offer him my glass. “Try.”
He takes another reluctant sip and I laugh at the face he makes just as the front door opens.
“Jessa?” my mom’s voice calls out. “Are you home?”
“I’m in the kitchen,” I call back. I hear her close the door as Danny asks her about meatballs, and she walks into the kitchen, stopping short at the sight of Finn.
“Oh,” she says, dropping her purse and a stack of mail on the kitchen counter. “You’re not alone.”
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
“I got an e-mail from Mrs. Lampert at the school today,” she says, stuffing her car keys into her purse. “You were supposed to pick up that scholarship application three days ago. She was going to mail it home, but if it’s not postmarked by tomorrow, you’ll be disqualified.”
“It’s not a big deal—”
“Not a big deal? Jessa, what has gotten into you?” She looks at Finn while she asks that, but then turns her eyes back to me.
“I can probably download it off their website,” I tell her. “You’re blowing this out of proportion.”
“Am I? It seems like you’ve been scattered this last week. I know Christmas break has started, but you can’t be throwing it all away like this.”
“Throwing it all away?” I can’t believe she’s getting nuts about this.
“You need to develop some perspective,” she says, not willing to let this go. “You’ve got scholarship and college applications to be thinking about. You can’t afford to drop the ball now.”
“I need to develop perspective?” I counter with a laugh. “I didn’t start World War Three here!”
Finn sets the glass of tea down on the counter. “Jessa, perhaps what your mother is trying to say is—”
“Stay out of this, Finn,” I warn him. “She’s trying to say she thinks you’re a bad influence, that’s what she’s trying to say.”
“I didn’t say that,” Mom grits out. “But I do think you’ve been a little unfocused since Finn showed up again.” She turns to look at him. “If you’re really watching out for her, you’ll encourage her to stay on track. She’s got six months of high school left and she’s an honor student.”
“And you don’t want that put in jeopardy,” Finn finishes. “I understand.”
“I am not in jeopardy!” I say in exasperation. “For creep’s sake!”
“Why are you shouting?” Danny calls out from the other room.
“It’s okay, Danny,” Mom says. “Everything’s fine.”
“Is it my fault?” he asks.
Mom sighs. “It’s not your fault, Danny,” she calls back.
“Whose fault is it?”
I slam my glass down on the counter. “It’s mine,” I say loudly. I walk over and grab our coats off the back of the chair. “Come on, Finn. Let’s get you some decent tea.”
I don’t look back as he follows me out the door. He’s wise enough to let me get a few blocks down before he tries to talk to me.
“Jessa, at the risk of sounding trite,” he says, “she’s only looking out for you.”
I put a hand up. “Don’t.”
“I’m only saying—”
“You don’t know how it is with her,” I gripe. “No matter what I do, no matter how great my grades are, she’s always convinced I’m one failed paper away from ending up on the streets or diggi
ng ditches for a living. Nothing’s ever good enough.”
“That’s because she’s your mother,” he says. “It’s her job to want the best for you, aggravating though it may be.”
“She has no idea what it’s like for me!” I fume. “You try to write a paper or work on calculus with Mulan blasting in the background. You try to finish a big project when you have to pack up every other weekend and move to another house! And then I was stepping through mirrors and dodging maniacs who are out to kill me! Like I didn’t have enough to deal with!”
He reaches out, grasping my shoulders with his hands. “And you’ve borne it all with a tremendous amount of grace. But don’t fault your mother for being concerned when you aren’t yourself.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I do. But I think you’re inflating things a bit.”
“Inflating!” I pull away from him, raising my arms and slapping them down at my sides in frustration. “Look, you don’t have a mother like that, so you can’t really understand—”
“No, I don’t have a mother like that,” he snaps, and I can see the hurt in his eyes. “I grew up without any mother at all, but I believe I can still offer some insight.”
My face reddens with chagrin. “I forget what it’s been like for you,” I say by way of apology. “Don’t you ever get to have a complete family?”
He smiles slightly. “Here and there. But never for very long. There always seems to be something to pull me away or pull them away somehow. The only real constant in the vast majority of the realities I’ve seen is you. So I presume you’re as close as I get.”
There it is again, that swelling warmth inside of me that no one else can seem to tap into. I don’t like the idea of him being alone. He’s been alone too long. And if I’m the one who makes him a little less that way, I’m glad.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “It’s just … sometimes my mom rubs me the wrong way.”
“I can see that,” he says. “And just where the devil are we walking? I’d like to get out of the cold.”
“Wickley’s,” I say. “They have four different varieties of European tea. There should be something that you’ll like.”
“And then we’re going back home.” It isn’t a question, and he’s right. It’s not like I can stay out forever.