“Easy, tiger.”
I growl louder.
“You don’t have to be her bosom best friend—”
“Did you just say bosom?”
He inhales deeply through his nose, a sure sign I’m annoying the hell out of him. It’s so damn fun. Plus, I’d rather not go down this path. It’s not that I’m opposed to new friends. Okay, maybe I am a little opposed, at least historically. And then there’s the fact that I haven’t told Luca I’ve already met her. I’m not sure why. Our whole interaction on the beach just felt sort of . . . I don’t know. Sacred. I got the impression that Luca and Emmy didn’t know she was weeping on a usually secluded beach, so I keep my mouth shut for now. Besides, it was just a few moments. Not a friendship.
“I’ve got to go,” he says when I don’t say anything else. Setting the guitar-string creation on my desk, he picks up my bottles of nail polish, base and top coats, and ragged nail file, and places them all in the little taco-shaped contraption.
I smile at him.
“You going to be okay?” he asks.
I look away. “I’m always okay.”
He frowns.
“Luca, I’m fine.” I stand up and stretch. “Just tired.”
“See you tomorrow?”
“Yup.”
After he leaves, I wait a good five minutes, listening for human sounds in the house.
Nothing.
I crack open my door and peer out. The hallway is clear and glowing slightly blue from the moon shining through the big living room windows. Jay’s door is shut and no light peeks out from the crack near the floor.
I run to the bathroom on my tiptoes, clicking the door closed behind me as softly as possible. I flip on the light and rest my palms on the counter, breathing in deeply through my nose. A laugh bubbles up as I envision myself skulking through my own house just to take a piss.
I wash my face with cold water. After I brush my teeth, I snap off the light and fling open the door, moving fast through the hall toward my room.
Except I run into a wall that reeks of Calvin Klein.
“Ugh, dammit, Jay.” His hands reach out to steady me, but I back up before he can touch me.
“Sorry.”
“Sure you are.”
“Grace, don’t make this weird.”
I peer up at him in the half-light. He peers back down at me, his dark eyes intense.
“I’m not making anything weird. I’m not making it anything. Because it’s nothing. You’re nothing and I’m nothing. In fact, this”—I wave my hand between us—“isn’t even real. Let’s just mind our own business, okay?”
I go to move around him, but he stops me.
“Don’t tell me you’re still pissed about that whole Tumblr thing.”
“Jay. Don’t. Just don’t.”
“It was a joke.”
“Ha-ha.”
“No one cares about those dumb texts.”
“I care.”
“You do, huh?”
Lightning fast, he reaches out and hooks a finger through my belt loop, pulling me closer.
“Let go of me,” I say, trying to untangle his finger. “If you rip my pants, I swear to god—”
“Come on, Grace. We had some good times. Don’t ruin my memories.”
“You’re the one who ruined it, you asshole.” I finally get my thumb under his finger and twist it free. He releases me, his mouth bending into a sort of sad-looking smile that makes me feel completely off balance. I cover it up with a string of obscene insults.
The sad smile vanishes. “You’ve got such a dirty mouth.” Then he’s back in his room, a door and air and dozens of feet between us that feel like they’ll never be enough.
My entire body hums from where his fingers brushed my hip. And not the good kind of humming. God knows, Jay’s fully capable of the good kind, but this is all wrong. That sad smile felt like some sort of slap in the face. Coupled with the almost-aggressive finger-in-the-belt-loop grab, I feel dizzy. But Jay’s always been a little confusing. One of those guys who knows he’s hot and can hook a girl with one lazy grin. But when we had sex for the first time, I was the one who initiated it. He asked if I was sure so many times, I snapped at him to shut up and kiss me.
When I get back to my room, I flop onto my bed and inspect my fingernails. As I expected, my forefinger is smudged from prying Jay’s claw off my shorts. I’m about to get up to fix it when I hear a tap.
I sit up, holding my breath and listening until I hear it again.
Tap, tap, tap.
I turn my head toward the window and nearly scream when I see a face peering back at me on the other side of the glass.
A girl’s familiar face.
Chapter Eight
EVA GESTURES TO THE LOCK ON THE WINDOW. Instinctively, I flip it free, out of curiosity more than anything. She pushes the window open and then blinks into the sudden brightness spilling into the yard.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask as she folds her body through the opening.
“Emmy sent me over for a dozen eggs,” she replies. She tumbles onto my bed and looks around, legs crossed underneath her like I invited her over for a freaking slumber party.
“I’m assuming that’s a joke.”
She grins. “Yes, Grace, that’s a joke.”
“Ever heard of the front door?”
My tone comes out a little harsher than I intended, because her face falls and she looks down, picking a tiny hole just starting to form in the knee of her black jeans. She’s wearing black-framed glasses, a fitted black T-shirt, and black Chuck Taylors. It’s like she’s on some sort of hipster spy mission.
“Sorry, I’m just really tired,” I say, sinking onto the bed next to her.
“You did unlock the window.”
“Momentary lapse of judgment.”
“I’ll use the front door when I leave.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I wanted to ask you if I could see the lighthouse.”
“You saw it.”
She smiles. “I mean from the top.”
I lean against my headboard and rub at my sleep-desperate eyes. “Oh my god, who the hell are you?”
“Didn’t we already establish that?” She points to her chest. “Eva.” She points to me. “Grace.”
“I meant the question in more of an existential sense.”
“Oh, well, when you figure that one out, let me know. I haven’t got a damn clue. But my full name is Evangeline, if that helps. It was my mom’s middle name.” Her voice, teasing and even flirty at first, softens at the end, nearly tapering off into a whisper.
When I don’t say anything, she blinks at me, then looks away, folding her arms over her chest. “Sorry. I don’t know why I told you that.”
We sit there, drowning in a damn river of awkward for what feels like years. Do I say I’m sorry about her mom? Ask how she likes the cape? I’m about to offer something, anything, but she’s got this look on her face that makes me stop. It’s the same look Mom wears every November tenth—my father’s birthday—and every March twenty-first—their wedding anniversary. It’s the Please don’t talk about it look.
“Listen,” I say, rubbing at my forehead with both hands. “I’m exhausted. The lighthouse is cool and all, but it’s my first night here, so—”
“Will I get you in trouble?”
“I don’t know, will you?”
She smiles and slips off the bed, starting a slow amble around my room, gliding her hands over my few possessions. “Emmy’s a hard sleeper, and lately I can’t sleep. Plus, the ocean—”
“Let me guess. It called to you.” Carpe diem, baby.
She tilts her head at me. “Yes, it’s been whispering sweet nothings in my ear since this afternoon. I had to see it.”
I shake my head at her, but laughter bubbles in my chest.
“Irresistible wooing notwithstanding, it does look beauti
ful under the moon.” Eva stops her tour and faces me, resting her butt against the dresser. “Come with me.”
“I’ve seen the ocean under the moon before.”
“Not with me. Not from the top of the lighthouse.”
She has me there, but still. I grasp for some fresh excuse, but something makes me keep my mouth shut.
She smiles a slow smile—she knows she’s got me.
This is ridiculous, I say to myself. But I need a little ridiculous right now. A leap off a balcony, of sorts.
I get off the bed, and her posture snaps straight, ready for action.
“Hold your wad,” I say, holding up both hands. “I’m not even sure how to get up there.”
“There’s a door on the outside,” Eva says. “Locked. But surely the current lighthouse keeper has a key.”
“I’m not about to go digging through my mother’s boyfriend’s trousers.”
She frowns but moves toward my door. “Let’s just look around.”
I hold up a finger and listen for a few seconds, straining my ears for music or low murmurs or creaking floorboards. Nothing.
“Fine. But when I open this door, stay quiet.”
She mimes zipping her lips.
“You’re not one of those elephant walkers, are you? These are old floors.”
“I assure you,” she says after a beat of silence, her voice suddenly dreamlike, “I’m like a fairy on my feet.”
I run my eyes down her long legs. She even stands gracefully. “Just be quiet.”
Eva hovers close to my back as I ease the door open. It squeaks and I stop, then try to open it an inch at a time.
“It’ll make less noise if you do it quick,” she whispers, and her breath tickles my neck.
“Lot of practice at this?”
“You could say that,” she says. “At least lately.”
I don’t even want to know what that means, but I’m starting to suspect that traipsing around the cape at night might be a regular occurrence for this girl since she got here. Stays in her room mostly my ass, Luca. Emmy would flip if she knew.
But I don’t say any of this. Instead, I yank the door wider. It doesn’t make a sound. We sneak down the hall, and I barely take a breath until we’re past Jay’s room and safely into the living space. Moonlight streams in through the wide windows, silver streaks through the blue-dark.
“It’s so amazing that you get to live here,” Eva says, stopping to stare out the window.
“Yeah, it’s a freaking miracle.” I tiptoe toward the kitchen. Mom and Pete’s room is around the corner, but I still don’t hear anything, so I assume they’re asleep. A light over the stove glows just brightly enough that I can look around.
“Did you find any keys?” Eva asks, coming up behind me so quietly I nearly yelp.
“Does it look like I found any keys?” I hold up my empty hands.
“Um, prickly.”
“Um, intruder.” But I’m smiling. She moves along, her fingertips on a delicate search through the moonlight.
“Here,” she says, pointing to the wall near the side door, and I walk over. Three sets of keys dangle from grungy brass hooks. One is my mom’s, adorned with a tiny red plastic flip-flop and packed with at least six different keys that have absolutely no current purpose, keys to old apartments and condos that she never gave back to the landlord. The other two I don’t recognize, but one has a clunky Ford truck key, so I assume those are Pete’s. The last set has only two keys and they look old. Not skeleton-key old. Just aged and well-worn.
I grab them off the hook and flip the deadbolt open on the door.
“Let’s go.”
Outside, Eva takes the lead. It’s cold as ass. I stuff my hands under my armpits and follow her around the side of the house. The salty wind bites through my tank top, and I’m a few muttered curse words away from going back inside when we reach the old wooden door on the north end of the lighthouse. To my right, high tide is at full throttle, and the ocean churns against the rocks that act as a barrier between the water and the lighthouse’s tiny yard.
“Keys,” Eva says, holding out her hand. I drop them into her palm, and she wiggles one and then the other into the lock. After a few jabs and twists, the door swings open. Cool, stale air curls out through the entryway. In the dark, I can just barely make out a spiraling staircase, cobwebs lacing in between the rails.
“This is a scene from a horror movie,” I say. “You realize that, right?”
Eva laughs and tugs on my arm, pulling me into the dark chasm.
Aside from a toolbox and a folded-up ladder in one corner, the space is pretty much empty except for the staircase, so we start climbing. We spiral up and up and up. The air grows even staler, mixing with salt and something softer. A musky, flowery scent I can’t pin down.
It’s dark and the stairwell narrows more and more the higher we climb. Relief filters through me when we reach the top, but there’s another locked door and my breath comes in short spurts again. Eva messes around with the other key. Despite the chill in the air, her body heat is all I can feel, and it’s making me sweat in that sort of way that precedes passing out.
Finally, the door bursts open, and we spill out onto the circular balcony. The space between the wall and the edge is about three feet all the way around, lined with flat cement. Above us, light sweeps over the earth and ocean, igniting the silvery dark with pale yellow every few seconds. It’s windy as hell, and, I swear to god, the lighthouse sways like a drunk idiot.
My lungs feel like they’re shrinking, and I press my back against the cool white wall. Eva props the door open with a brick before basically skipping to the edge, her hands curling around the railing as she looks out at the world. Her hair dances in the wind, dark swirls ignited every time the light grazes over the tips.
“This is amazing!” she yells, turning to look back at me. Her smile dissolves as she takes in my fingers clawing at the wall. “Are you scared of heights?”
I shake my head. I have no problem with heights in general. I do have a problem with heights that make me feel like I’m an apple balancing on the top of a toothpick.
She comes over and that subtle floral scent washes over me again. Like jasmine under a spring sun. She reaches behind me and grabs my hand. I let her guide me to the railing. My fingers close around the cool metal, and she settles in next to me, her arm brushing mine as she peers out over the side of the world.
I try to relax and focus on the water, the rocks below, and the sky above. Try to empty my mind of Jay and Mom and pianos. Strangely, after a few minutes of just looking, Eva warm at my side, I do. My shoulders descend and my eyelids feel pleasantly heavy, the salty wind and a formidable ocean whispering a gentle hush-hush.
“I can’t believe I’ve never come up here before,” I say.
Eva laughs. “I can’t either.”
“There’s a boring-as-hell museum on the main floor, but the top hasn’t been open to the public since—” A humid gust bites off my words, and my fingers tighten on the railing.
“Since what?” Eva asks.
“Since some girl jumped off the edge, like, a hundred years ago.”
Her eyes widen. “Are you serious?”
I nod.
“Why?”
“Everyone has a different story. Her lover was a sailor and he died at sea. Her father was a brute and was going to make her marry his brutish pal. She got caught with her girlfriend, and her parents were going to send her off to an insane asylum.”
Eva sucks in a breath. “Is that true?”
I let out a light laugh. “I don’t know. Hence all the conflicting stories.”
“God, that’s awful.”
“Which one?”
“All of it. And that no one really knows the truth, no one really knows her.” She gazes out at the ocean, her eyes wide and thoughtful. “I mean, her whole story is swallowed up by how she died. By that one thing. Nothing else really matters.”
“No, I gu
ess not.” I’ve heard all of these stories a million times. The lighthouse museum has little key chains with the brassy image of a girl in a long, old-fashioned skirt, her metal arm held out in front of her like she’s trying to hold on to something. The cape can’t even agree on her name. Harriet. Helen. Hattie. But Eva’s right. It is sad.
We stand there in silence for a while. Next to me, Eva inhales deeply and lets it out slowly, her breath matching the rolling waves below us. I try to think of something else to say, but, weirdly, it feels needless, like the words would be intrusive. It’s a peaceful kind of silence. Easy. And dammit if it isn’t nice to let something be easy.
“It makes me feel safe,” she says, leaning her forearms on the rail.
“What does?”
“This. Being this high, above everything, the world huge around us. Makes it seem like my life is small, you know? Like it’s not the only thing. There’s a lot more, more to be, more to experience. More to feel.”
I breathe in the briny air, and the world around us does feel big. It does make me feel small. Hemmed in by the vastness. It’s strangely comforting.
“Why are you doing that?” Eva asks, interrupting my calm. She taps the back of my hand and I look down, stilling my fingers that had been silently moving over the railing, a silent song pouring out of the tips.
“Oh. ‘Riverside.’”
She turns so she’s facing me. “Is that supposed to make sense?”
I laugh. “Not really. It’s a song by one of my favorite singers. She’s a pianist too, and this song gets stuck in my head all the time.” I don’t mention how effing gloomy the song is. It’s depressing as hell, but I love it, love playing it. I’ve even been known to sing it a little when no one’s around. Not that I’ll have too many opportunities to do that now that my piano is gone.
I stretch my fingers out, joints cracking. “I didn’t even realize I was doing it.”
“So you were playing this song? On the railing?”
I shrug. “Not note for note. It’s mostly in my head. Fingers just move a little here and there. It’s more nervous habit than anything.”
“It still looked pretty involved. Are you any good?”
Again, I shrug.
“Oh.” She gives me a slow smile. “You’re good.”
How to Make a Wish Page 5