Sea Change

by Aimee Friedman

  “There’s something I want to tell you,” he said soberly.

  Suspense shot through me. What was Leo going to confess?

  “There are no other girls,” Leo said. “Not this summer. How could there be? Anyone but you would be ridiculous. Impossible.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling myself smile. I worried that my blush would burn his palms. I realized then that Leo didn’t care if I was in my pajamas, or if my hair was up or down, or if I wore makeup. That fact was plain in his eyes. He moved his hands down from my face and we entwined our fingers.

  “There’s been no one else for me, either,” I said. “I mean, there was this one guy, for a minute, that everyone else thought I should be with, but…” I shook my head, remembering T.J. and last night. “He wasn’t for me.”

  “I know.” Leo grinned devilishly. “Preppy summer guy with straight black hair?”

  My belly flipped over. I frowned, confounded. “Wait—how did you—”

  Leo shrugged, his eyes dancing. “I see things.”

  I rolled my eyes even as my heartbeat stuttered. I thought of the sliver of gold I’d seen in the ocean while on Bobby’s boat. “You enjoy being mysterious, don’t you?”

  “Me?” Leo teased. “Anyway, I didn’t think that guy was a serious threat. He’s not your type.”

  I tried to feign annoyance, but I couldn’t stop smiling. “So who’s my type?”

  Leo was still grinning playfully. “If I had to guess? Someone…studious.”

  Without wanting to, I thought of Greg—he’d been studious, all right, but he hadn’t been my type. My type, if I had one at all, was sitting right beside me.

  “What are you thinking?” Leo asked, watching me carefully.

  Greg. I felt myself swallow. Maybe, in a way, Mom had been right; maybe what had happened with Greg was affecting me more deeply than I had ever let myself believe. I stared at Leo, trying to decide if I was ready to admit what had been brewing inside me for so long—ever since May. I took a deep breath as nervousness bloomed in me.

  “Leo,” I said. I spoke quietly, even though it was only the two of us and the ocean. “Remember when, outside your house, I said all guys were creeps?” He nodded, growing serious. “I didn’t mean you,” I said, my voice steady. “Of course I didn’t. I—I guess I was talking about someone else.”

  “Who?” Leo asked, squeezing my hand.

  “Back during the school year, I had—a boyfriend.” I hesitated but Leo only nodded, so I went on. “My first-ever boyfriend. Greg. He was a senior. I tutor other kids in physics, and he was one of my students. When we started going out, it wasn’t like a roller coaster or fireworks or even—I don’t know—a low flame.” Leo chuckled, and I smiled, feeling some of my anxiety ease. “But it was so…so nice to have someone who wanted to kiss me and spend time with me.”

  I blushed deeply, but I had to keep going. Now that I was ready to tell my secret, not much could stop me. It was as if a faucet had been turned on.

  “I guess, at some point, he wanted to—you know—take the next step.” I cleared my throat. “But I wasn’t ready.”

  Leo nodded again, watching me closely.

  “We kind of fought about it, on and off,” I said, casting my memory back to the school year, to the sense of uneasiness I’d started to feel in the spring. “I didn’t want to stress about it—didn’t want to be the kind of girl who stressed over a guy.”

  “Even if you did stress over a guy, you wouldn’t be that kind of girl,” Leo remarked, with his crooked smile.

  I squeezed his hand and continued.

  “Then there was the night of Greg’s pregraduation party in May. His parents let him have the apartment for the weekend. He and I had been having a tiff earlier that day, about a physics exam he’d done poorly on, and he blamed me for it.” I shook my head. “I asked him why he cared, considering he’d already gotten into college. But obviously, it wasn’t about the exam. I figured that out later. During the party, we kept our distance. Greg had invited half the senior class—my high school is huge—along with some of my junior friends. Including my best friend, Linda.”

  “Oh,” Leo said.

  I nodded.

  “I was in the kitchen,” I said, remembering the crowd of kids, the smell of beer and cigarette smoke, the pounding beat of hip-hop from the living room. “Someone needed help opening their Corona, and Linda was excellent at opening beer bottles; that was her thing. She was always cooler than me, more confident, with her scarlet-streaked hair and her eyeliner.” I felt a lump start to form in my throat—tiny, inconspicuous. Smaller than a ghost shrimp. “I said I’d go look for Linda, and as I headed down the hall to the bedrooms, I realized I hadn’t seen Greg in a while, either. And, you know, I’ve always been good at math, but I didn’t put two and two together.”

  “Why would you?” Leo said supportively, frowning.

  I remembered pushing open the door to Greg’s bedroom, with its chess sets and Yankees posters and its bed on which Greg had asked, Come on, why won’t you ever take your socks off? and implicit in that question had been another one: Why wouldn’t I sleep with him?

  I’m not ready, I had said.

  But Greg had found someone who was.

  I remembered the cold sensation I’d felt in my gut as the door opened, and I felt it again now, a plunging coldness. Like diving into a pool.

  “I found Linda in Greg’s bedroom,” I told Leo. “She was with Greg.” I swallowed, trying to force down the ever-growing lump.

  Leo nodded, frowning. “Were they…?”

  “Not quite, but close,” I said, my face flushing hotter. “I didn’t even get a full picture. They were on his bed and some clothes were definitely off. But I didn’t need to process more than that. I got the general essence, you know?” I heard my voice crack.

  “What did you do?” Leo asked, leaning toward me.

  “I said I was sorry to interrupt. And then I turned and walked away. Ran, actually—I guess I’m good at running away from upsetting things. Greg caught up with me before I could leave his apartment, said that he was sorry and he hoped I didn’t hate him. I think he was expecting me to be crying”—on that unfortunate word my voice broke again—“and all hysterical, but that’s not my style. I told him that I understood, and that I hoped the two of them would be very happy.”

  The tears were encroaching now, coming on as certain as the current.

  “Miranda…” Leo said. He reached out his other hand to touch my face, but I looked down at the porch.

  “And I didn’t cry, even as I took the elevator down to the lobby and walked to the subway. I didn’t cry on the way home, and I didn’t cry when I got to my apartment and told my mother that I’d left the party with a stomachache. I didn’t cry when Linda called me on my cell, or when she cried and asked me to forgive her.”

  “What did you say to her?” Leo asked, his tone careful. I wanted to thank him for being such a good listener—I didn’t know boys could be such good listeners—but I was still afraid to look up at him.

  “I told her I felt like an idiot,” I replied, and the first teardrop fell and splashed down my cheek. All the shame, pain, and anger I had tamped down was bubbling to the surface. “I told her I was furious at myself for trusting her, for believing in silly things like friendship and loyalty. And I told her I never wanted to speak to her again.” I swiped at my eyes uselessly, sniffling.

  “And you didn’t?” Leo prompted.

  I shook my head, feeling the tears drip down my cheeks and land on my lips, their taste salty as seawater. “That Monday at school, I avoided not just Greg and Linda but all our friends. I clammed up. I was so afraid to show how hurt I was.” I remembered, again, the coldness—the loneliness—of those weeks. Walking through the hallways clutching my books to my chest, avoiding people’s glances, silent, wordless Miranda.

  “And you know what?” I asked, finally looking up.

  Leo raised his brows, his beautiful eyes full of empa
thy.

  “The whole time, I didn’t cry.”

  Then, the impossible happened. I started to cry for real, my shoulders shaking. I cried as if making up for all those swallowed-down sobs, for all those nights when I forced my mind to go elsewhere. And as much as I detested losing control in front of people, I knew I could cry in front of Leo. He wouldn’t judge me or think of me differently. So I didn’t resist when he pulled me into him and held me close.

  “It’s okay,” Leo said softly, his lips on my hair. “It’ll be okay.”

  “I’m getting your T-shirt wet,” I sobbed, moving my cheek so that it wasn’t pressing into his LEO M. tag.

  “Shh,” he said with a small laugh, and held me tighter.

  I wasn’t sure how long we sat there, Leo with his arms around me and me weeping into his broad chest. But soon my sobs started coming fewer and farther between, and my eyes began to feel drier. Once the tempest had passed, I drew back from Leo’s embrace.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “Better,” I affirmed, dabbing at my eyes with the back of my hand. I felt drained from my cryfest, but also somehow lighter. Free.

  “You know,” Leo said quietly, reaching out to caress the side of my face. “It’s all right to let yourself feel things. Even if it can be damn scary sometimes.”

  I nodded, smiling at him gratefully. “I think I’m starting to learn that.” I caught his hand and held it against my cheek. “I never thought I’d tell anyone that story. But I’m glad I told you.”

  “Same here,” Leo said. “And I’m so sorry about what happened. That guy—Greg—he couldn’t begin to deserve you.” Leo smiled back at me, his dimples appearing. “Miranda, you should know that not everyone’s going to hurt you. I mean, I hope you can still…trust people.”

  My heart felt full to bursting. “I trust you,” I told Leo, meaning it. “I trust you.” Even if I don’t totally understand you.

  Leo leaned close and kissed me. Once, twice, his mouth warm and inviting. We put our arms around each other, our kisses deepening.

  “What’s going on out here?”

  Mom’s voice sliced through the air, and I sprang away from Leo in shock. I turned my head and saw her standing in the French doors, wearing her bathrobe and a stern expression.

  “I thought you were sleeping,” I gasped.

  Mom crossed her arms over her chest. “I can see that,” she said crisply, shooting an unmistakable glare at Leo.

  “Mom,” I said, brushing the last tears off my cheeks. “We were just—”

  Leo leapt to his feet, his face crimson. He stuck his hand out to Mom, initiating a different kind of introduction than ours had been.

  “Hello, ma’am. Leo Macleod. I’m Miranda’s friend. I apologize for—”

  Mom didn’t take his hand. She ran her eyes over him, and her disapproval couldn’t have been clearer. “I think we met already. On Siren Beach?”

  “That’s right!” Leo exclaimed, still trying to sound positive. I twisted my hands together. I felt like throwing up.

  “Leo was just coming by to, uh—get his sweatshirt,” I improvised, also jumping to my feet. In the next second, I realized I had just given away my lie from the other night, and Mom narrowed her eyes at me.

  “But I should be heading back to work now,” Leo said, backing up toward the porch steps with his hoodie under his arm.

  “That’s a wise idea,” Mom said, staring him down.

  “Leo works at the marine center,” I told Mom, as if that would somehow smooth things over.

  “Are you okay?” Leo said to me as he walked backward down the steps. I could tell he wanted to come over and kiss me, but he knew better.

  I nodded and then, choosing to disregard my mother, walked down the stairs after him and grabbed his hand.

  “Miranda!” Mom snapped.

  “I’ll see you,” I whispered. “As soon as I can.” He had to know that Mom wouldn’t keep me away.

  Leo nodded. “The beach,” he whispered back. “Tonight. I’m going on a fishing trip with my father this weekend, so—”

  “Tonight,” I confirmed. I would make it happen. “What time?”

  “Anytime,” Leo said, starting to smile.

  That did it. I needed to put my wondering to rest. “How does that work?” I whispered. “How do you know when I’m there?”

  “I just do,” Leo said, his gaze holding mine. I couldn’t tell if he was joking or earnest. But before I could ask, he touched my cheek, glanced over at Mom, and was gone.

  I felt like I would explode. If only I’d told Leo what I’d imagined him to be—made myself speak the word merman. Although I was sure it was all in my head, I still wanted an explanation.

  But I had bigger problems to worry about now. Namely, my mother.

  I turned around with a sigh and climbed the porch steps. Mom watched me as I collected the empty water glasses and then stepped into the house, leaving the French doors open. The wind rushed in as we stood facing each other.

  “Let me guess,” Mom said icily. “That was who accompanied you to Fisherman’s Village the other night?” Disdain colored each of her words.

  I nodded, holding the glasses so tight I thought they’d break. I stared at my fluffy slippers, incongruously cheerful against the dark wood floor. I wondered if Mom could tell from my face that I’d been crying.

  “Miranda,” Mom said, her voice suddenly gentle. Her Southern accent had been returning more and more over the past couple days. I looked up at her, hopeful. “Tell me,” she went on, her forehead creasing as she frowned. “What are you doing with a boy like that?”

  Abrupt, hot anger surged in me, eclipsing my earlier sadness. I was certain there was fire in my eyes as I stared at my mother.

  “I can’t believe you,” I said. I hadn’t ever spoken to Mom this way, but I was determined not to cower. “You’re just like them—like Delilah and T.J. and all the summer people you said you wanted nothing to do with. You never raised me to think about things like class or money and status. You never cared about who or what was appropriate for me. Now that’s all you care about.” I let out a shaky breath.

  Mom blinked, clearly taken aback by my diatribe. “I only want what’s best for you, Miranda,” she replied. “Look. Your prospects with this boy are impossible. Think about it logically. We’re leaving here on Sunday morning—”

  “We are?” I asked, stunned. I had lost all sense of time. It was July fifth, I knew, but—“This Sunday?”

  Mom nodded, and I felt my stomach drop. I’d known, of course, that our departure was imminent. But Mom had said nothing about it in recent days. And we still had so much sorting to do around the house…and…

  And Leo. Leo.

  “Have we even sold The Mariner?” I cried in confusion. “I thought we weren’t going back until we found a buyer, and—”

  “I have work, Miranda,” Mom said firmly. “Do you know how many surgeries I’ve had to pass on to less capable colleagues?”

  “No,” I said, wondering how Mom’s colleagues would react if they’d seen her sleeping in that morning.

  “And you have your internship,” Mom reminded me. “You knew we wouldn’t be on Selkie all summer.” I squinted at her, trying to discern if she was looking forward to leaving or hating that we had to go; her face betrayed nothing. “This Leo boy,” Mom continued, making my heart skip, “his world is here. But someone like T.J., someone you have other ties to—”

  “Mom, I don’t want to be with T.J.!” I burst out. I was too upset by her news to soften my words. “We have nothing in common, nothing real, anyway. Not to mention, dating him would be completely”—I thought of the word Jacqueline had used at the Heirs party—“incestuous.”

  Mom raised her eyebrows, looking affronted. “You and T.J. are not related,” she said stonily. “If that’s what you’re implying.”

  My stomach turned. “No—that’s not what I meant,” I said, shuddering. “But I don’t understand what’s so wrong
about liking someone who’s different from me. Isn’t that human nature? Isn’t that how the species survives?” I gazed at Mom, willing the scientific part of her brain to follow.

  “Look,” she replied, sighing. “It’s also human nature to not relish the sight of your daughter making out with someone in your own house.”

  My blush returned, and I glanced away from her, over at the photographs on the mantel. It was funny that Mom hadn’t packed them away yet.

  “I’m sorry,” I muttered, glancing back at Mom. “I just—on some level, I wish that you’d be glad that a boy I like actually likes me. You were right—I have been lonely recently.” I drew a breath. Now that I’d spilled my secret to Leo, it no longer felt so heavy or so dark. “And yes, it’s because of Greg. Because Greg—because he hooked up with Linda.”

  Mom’s lips parted, and I felt a tremor of triumph at having successfully shocked her. “Linda Wu?” she asked. “Your Linda?”

  “Well, formerly,” I replied, relieved that I could smile about it.

  “That’s awful,” Mom whispered, her forehead creasing. “Why didn’t you say something to me sooner?” She stepped forward, her arms extended, but I stepped back.

  “I’m telling you now,” I said quietly.

  “God,” Mom muttered, and shook her head. “Linda! And Greg…he always seemed like such a nice guy.”

  “I know,” I said. “See? You approved of him, but he wasn’t so nice. Mom, Leo is a good guy. I know that. Can’t you be happy for me?”

  To my surprise, Mom was also looking at the photographs on the mantel. Her face was splotchy and a strange expression was in her eyes—regret mixed with recognition.

  “Mom?” I ventured.

  “I’m sorry, I suddenly have a headache,” Mom said, massaging her temples. “I’m going upstairs to lie down.” She walked up to me and squeezed my arm. “Miranda, I didn’t mean to be insensitive. If you ever want to talk more about what happened with Greg, you know I’m here.”