“You’re with Orchid,” I repeat.
James laughs and steps away from me. I watch him go, more confused than ever. Because that laugh hadn’t been mocking or dismissive. It had been hopeless.
Before he reaches the path leading to the campus, he stops and turns back to me, yelling, “Don’t do that again, Gwendolyn. Orchid likes her roommate—no more suicide missions in the name of toned arms.”
I laugh, surprising myself. He winks, once, and wheels around, strolling toward the campus.
Leaving me wondering what the hell is going on.
Again.
The boat deck creaks, and I go still, waiting. I know every sound that she makes, the soft splash of waves hitting her sides and what they sound like when the ocean turns savage. I know how the riggings sound when they are dry, wet, or—the perpetual state of being—damp. I know how the stairs to the cabin shriek in the night, how the door sounds when it slaps closed, and the steady thrum of the ocean.
I even know the way the wood sounds when it cracks, what noise it makes when a knife is slammed down against it.
I know every sound the Second Star makes, as well—maybe better—than I know the sound of my heart beating and the rasp of my breath when I’m nearing the edge of sleep.
And this creak is the noise of someone creeping along the deck, someone who has not yet announced themselves. Someone who shouldn’t be here. I shift minutely, silently, on the dirty bed, and I wait. Two more quick steps, the soft thump of a body landing on the balls of its feet. My heart jerks unsteadily.
I clench the knife hilt, my fingers so tight they begin to go numb. And I wait.
The third creak is on the stairs. I bolt from the bed, moving with clumsy, sleep-heavy motions. Fear makes my blood pound, my entire body tense as I plaster myself to the wall by the door. There's a fourth—final—creak, and I wait, not even breathing, as whoever is on my boat hesitates on the other side of the door.
It's been three weeks since the Boy vanished. Leaving me alone on this fucking boat. Is he back? Or is it the other men—the ones he says were Mongolian pirates. I don't know who they were, and I don't care. I know the results, and they are horrible enough to deal with.
A crackle comes from the other side of the door, and I stumble back. It's not a normal noise, not on Second Star. It's the sound of...a radio? I jerk the door open and come face to face with a gun barrel.
I scream, my shrill shriek rising above the man's foreign shout, the sudden clatter of footsteps on my boat's deck. The cursing and someone is retching, and I am still screaming.
Trust them, he said. They will come and you can go home.
But no one was supposed to come home—no one left the island. That's what I was told, by all of the others who were there. The Boy never spoke of it, but I know—I know, and yet the officials are standing in front of me.
I stop screaming, abruptly, and push past the sailor—he wears a uniform, so military of some nation. I don't bother looking for identification. Because I can still hear others moving around the deck, and that means they'll be found.
I burst onto the deck and slam into a pair of inflexible arms. I shriek, fighting the grip. On the other side of the deck, I see a cluster of sailors around the pile of tarps. I can see the rusty brown staining the canvas, leaking onto the once-pristine decks.
"Leave them alone," I scream. That's when they realize I'm still holding the knife.
A door opens, and I stir from where I'm sitting in the shower. The water is cold, I realize, pelting me like tiny droplets of ice. Orchid pokes her head into the bathroom, eyebrows drawn together in worry.
Poor Orchid. She had no idea, when they assigned us as roommates, that I was fucking insane. She deserves a refund of some sorts.
I giggle. I would like to trade this roommate in for a less batshit crazy one, please. Bet the registrar didn't get that request often.
"Your brother is here," Orchid says, not commenting on the fact that I'm almost blue, that I’m shaking, or that I'm sitting down and I've been in here for hours.
I blink at her, and she frowns. "Micah, Gwen. Do you want me to send him away?"
I shake my head, pushing to my feet. She backs out hastily, and I turn the water off. My teeth start chattering as I rub myself dry and pull on my sleep shirt and a pair of panties.
My brother is sitting on my bed, his fingers drumming on my textbooks impatiently. I snag my robe off the back of the door and try not to shiver as I curl into his side, cuddled close for warmth.
"What's wrong?" he asks, his voice low.
"Nothing," I say immediately.
He sits up, glaring at me. "You skipped all of your classes, Gwen. Missed your check in with Grayson. And Orchid says you've been in the shower since she got in from her last class."
I stare at him, and he adds, "That was two hours ago."
Really? That makes me nervous. I'm not comfortable when I lose bits and pieces of time. It reminds me too much of being on the boat, and my time at Pembrooke. I keep a rigid schedule to prevent this from happening.
And Micah knows it. He knows I'm unraveling.
I take a deep breath. "It's nothing, Micah. I just—I'm tired, and I forgot my meds yesterday. It's got me a little off balance."
A look of alarm crosses his face, and I hurry to add, "I missed once. It's not a big deal. Even Grayson would say it's not."
"It is if you’re this off by it," he says.
I hate that he's right, so I shrug. "I'll be fine. We all have bad days, Micah."
"Not everyone has a million-dollar corporation riding on her sanity," he says, and I flinch. That was almost cruel, and Micah is never cruel. He is patient and understanding and takes care of me. He does that because no one else will. What the hell is this?
I look away, and he sighs. "Get back on your meds, Gwen. Keep your shit together. We can't afford for you to go back to Pembrooke. The company can't."
"Is that all you care about?" I ask, softly, the question slipping out before I can stop it.
Micah stares at me for a long minute, and then he rises, wordlessly.
"Micah, stop," I say.
"Not tonight, Gwen. I'm not up for this tonight," he says, not facing me. His tone is unspeakably weary and sad. I feel a bolt of shame, and I drop back onto my bed. He leaves, and I don't try to stop him.
I look at the tiny bottle of pills next to my bedside. On her side of the room, Orchid is a quietly watching presence. I dry swallow a pill, my motions sharp and jerky, tears stinging in my eyes. I can't look at her, and I can't face my brother. I wrap myself in the itchy blanket and will myself to sleep.
Chapter 7
Every day is a blank page. You set the tone, with your first actions—ink on a page that can't be erased.
It was one of the things Grayson repeated ad nauseam in Pembrooke. So when my phone buzzes near my ear, and I stare at the message from Micah, I struggle.
Micah: I'm not up for it today. We'll row on Monday.
I stare, wondering how to make this day better—how do I set the tone when it's already carrying a shadow?
I roll out of bed and change into running pants and my running shoes, a green t-shirt. Tucking my key into my bra, I head out, stepping over hall girl as I leave.
The air is fresh, crisp, and I inhale the chill as I jog across campus, following the dips and rolls of the soft hills. A few birds are still lingering, their chirps providing a soothing backdrop as I run.
Exercise has been my way of self-medicating for a long time. Since I realize that when my muscles were weak with exhaustion, trembling from a workout, my mind shut down.
It's better than self medicating with drugs. Even Grayson approves, as long as I don't overdo it.
There aren't many other runners out, this early in the morning, and I enjoy the quiet. I don't ever want it to end. I don't want to be forced to think. It hurts too much. I have to deal with James and that stupid fucking kiss.
Orchid might hate me after she learn
s about it. And there is Micah.
It wasn't fair, to ask that. I know it, and he knows I know it. My brother has been the only person to care for me in years.
I shouldn't be so lost in memories that I've forgotten that truth. The Boy, for all that he has never left me alone, has not cared for me the way Micah has.
I manage to avoid everyone until lunch. I'm sitting outside—it's one of the last days itll be nice enough to before winter sinks her claws in, so no one can say I'm being odd.
A body drops down next to me, and I pause in the middle of a bite of yogurt.
He is brightness, all golden skin and hair, and shiny teeth in a wide smile. His eyes—a boring brown—don't glitter with sly wit. They just smile, a bright smile.
"You’re a freshman. Right? Rooming with Orchid Lewis.”
I nod, and he leans back on his elbows. "I'm Lane Peterson."
"Gwen Barrie," I say. Belatedly, I realize I'm holding the spoon still suspended. I lick it clean and drop it into the container, setting it aside.
"It's really nice, right? I think this is our last summer day before we get winter."
I smile, amused that our thoughts are so similar.
"So we should celebrate."
I arch an eyebrow. "How so?"
"My team and I are doing a bonfire tonight."
"Team?" I say slowly.
He grins. "The rowing team? I've seen you down on the beach, Gwen Barrie."
I smile. "Have you been watching me?"
He flushes. "No. I mean. Not really. I see you and that guy—Micah. I talked to him. We'd love to get him on the team, but he's being pretty resistant."
"Are you asking me because my brother told you to?" I ask abruptly.
"That's your brother?" Lane asks, startled. I nod and he shrugs. "Nah. I mean, that's cool and everything, but I'm asking cause you’re gorgeous."
I smile, realizing this is the first time I've had a conversation all week where I wasn't worried or stressed.
And that, more than anything, makes me say yes.
Lane stops by the dorm to pick me up at nine. James and Orchid are sitting her bed, arguing in low voices, and I'm at my desk, working on a paper and wishing he'd hurry the hell up—being around James is awkward, even more so because he's acting like the incident on the beach never happened.
The rap on the door halts their quiet fighting and has me leaping from my chair to answer it.
Lane is in a sweater and jeans, with no hat. I smile at that—hats annoy me.
"Can we help you?" James asks coolly. He must have learned that from Orchid.
"He's here for me," I say, snagging my coat and phone. "I'll be back later."
I see their startled expressions as I pull the door shut, and Lane laughs softly next to me.
"They're protective."
"Just not used to me going out. I'm sorta a homebody."
He grins happily. "Then I'll have to show you a good time, to make sure you come back out."
I smile, a slightly strained expression. He doesn't notice, or if he does, he doesn't comment. Instead, he grabs my hand and leads the way through the dorm hall.
It's cooled considerably outside, and I'm glad I brought a sweater. "So why did you just watch? Why didn’t you talk to me?" I ask.
Lane flicks a glance at me. "Because you’re gorgeous and way out of my league."
I blush. I'm not—I'm too thin and not nearly curvy enough, my hair isn't blonde or brown, it's some indecisive color between. My eyes are bright, and I like them—but that's not enough to cover the other ordinary aspects.
"Come on," he says, grinning.
I can see the fire from a distance, a brilliant splash of orange on the beach, silhouetting laughing men and giggling women, and I feel my stomach bottom out. This isn't just a quiet date with Lane—of course it's not. I don't even want it to be.
I just didn't realize there would be this many people.
Music is playing loud enough to drown out the crash of the ocean, the fire a hot presence of it's own as Lane leads us into the crowd. Some of the guys crow his name, and a girl comes over, giggling and hanging on him until he draws her attention to me, still holding his hand at his side. Her eyes widen and then get very cold before she stalks off.
"An ex? I ask.
He gives me an apologetic smile. "Yeah. Sorry, I didn't think she'd be here."
“I don’t mind,” I tell him. And I don’t. Because as nice as Lane is, he’s a distraction. Nothing more than a way to ignore the problems with Micah and Peter.
I’m using him, and I should feel bad about that. But right now, I don’t mind, because I need the distraction. And he’s not pushing me for more than I can give.
“Want a beer, or hard cider?”
“Cider, please,” I say, even though drinking while I’m on my meds is a bad idea. I’ll just hold the drink.
“Wait right here,” he says and hurries off. I glance around. A couple of girls are dancing on the far side of the fire, swaying to the too loud music. Beyond them, and the fire, I see the ocean.
Grayson and Micah have never understood my fascination with the ocean. By rights, I should hate it. But I can’t. She is too closely tied to things I loved.
The Boy, his eyes ancient and sad, staring at me as he crouches on the deck.
I shake my head, hard, forcing myself into the moment. I can’t give in to the siren song of the past.
Lane comes back and passes me an unopened hard cider. I smile my thanks, and he takes my hand again.
I don’t mind it. Most of the time, men touching me makes my skin crawl—not because I’ve been violated, but because it feels wrong to touch anyone who is not the Boy.
There’s an empty blanket near the fire, and Lane nods at it. “Wanna sit?”
I don’t—I want to wander down and dip my toes in the ocean. But I say yes because I don’t want to come across as too crazy.
“So, Gwen Barrie,” he grins, “tell me about yourself.”
I blush and look down, letting my hair fall in my face. “There’s not much to tell. I’m from New York City. Spent most of my life there.”
“What do you like doing? Did you row in high school?”
What kind of pretentious school did he attend, to have a rowing team? “No. I got into it on my own. Micah picked it up with me. We’re pretty close.”
“You must be. Twins?”
I shake my head. “He’s a year younger. I deferred after high school.”
“Traveling?”
I smile and sip my cider. “What about you?”
Lane starts talking about his high school years, and I let myself drift on his words, staring at him and smiling. It’s nothing earth shattering—the youngest of four boys, a sports star in his high school, an undecided major.
He’s here to party and live, and I wonder, vaguely, if I have ever been that carefree. Maybe, before the accident, and the Boy. Before Pembrooke.
“Hey,” Lane says, leaning toward me. I can smell sweat and the fire burning, and beer. “Where did you go, Gwen Barrie?”
“No sadness tonight,” I whisper, and his eyes go wide. I take another sip of my cider—meds be damned—and come up on my knees.
A shrill whoop comes from the darkness as I hover over him, our lips almost brushing. It makes me shiver, because I’ve heard cries like that before. Under a different sky, next to a different ocean.
Why are your stars different?
Not real.
Lane is staring at me as I lean over him, my lips close to his, but not quite there. Hunger and surprise war in his eyes, and I lean across the small space, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. His hand comes up, catching my hip. It doesn’t cause me to shudder—it doesn’t cause any reaction.
He’s staring at me, amused questions in his eyes, when I sink back to sit on my side of the blanket. The cries are picking up, filling the night. I shiver.
“Are you cold?” he asks, a slight rasp in his voice the only way I know he�
�s affected by the kiss.
I summon a smile. “No. It’s perfect. This is perfect.”
He flashes a smile and stands. “I’m gonna get another. You want anything?”
“I’m good,” I say.
Another cry from the night. I glance out, past the fire, and meet Peter’s eyes.
It doesn’t surprise me. Only that it took him so long to get here.
I stand and brush the sand from my butt. In the darkness, Peter watches me, his eyes the only brightness. I should apologize to Lane—I don't want tonight to be a fleeting kiss and a blow off. But I need to deal with this.
I pick my way through the crowd and down to the beach, letting the dark water pull me like a lullaby. The farther I get, the more I can hear the water instead of the steady thrumming of the music. The cries have fallen silent, but it's a kind of waiting silence, the tense pause before all hell breaks loose, and somehow I know that it has something to do with Peter.
He drifts up behind me as I touch a toe to the icy water.
"What are you doing, Gwen?" he asks.
"What a normal college student would do," I answer. "I'm going to a party with a guy."
He makes an aggravated noise. "Will you fuck him? He doesn't deserve you."
"It's none of your business," I say firmly. I should be furious, but I can't find the energy. I'm buzzed. I should go back to the fire, but I want to stay here and argue with Peter.
"Why are you doing this?" he asks, and his words stir my hair. I can feel the heat of him, too close to me. I can step away—into the water—and I don't think he would chase me. But I don't.
I'm playing with fire.
"Because I want to be normal, Peter. I want to have a normal life and not the memories of Pembrooke and a boy who isn't real. Lane is real."
"And he’s a douche who isn't good enough for you."
"Says my very own stalker," I say, my voice teasing.
Peter laughs, a soft noise that I feel as he slips his arms around my waist, pulling me back against him. "I can be normal, Gwen. I can give you more than memories."
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