Page 111 of When We Believed in Mermaids

“No.” I sip the coffee. “We’ve had a great time, but it’s just a holiday romance. He lives in Madrid.”

“So you’re not that interested?”

I shrug. “I don’t really get involved.”

“That’s a nonanswer.”

Something in me snaps. Irritably, I say, “It’s none of your business, actually.”

“You’re right. Sorry.”

The exchange reminds me of the reality here. We can’t just pick up our relationship as if nothing has ever happened. I feel myself lifting my shell, protecting myself against her long knowledge of me, her insight into things I work hard never to reveal.

Except with Javier. I frown.

We head off the highway to a smaller road. At a red light, she looks at me. “Have you had a serious relationship, Kit?”

She knows about James, and maybe she thinks that doesn’t count. I sip my coffee, look out the window. “Too much drama.”

“Not always.” The light turns, and she pulls forward. “Not every relationship is like our parents’.”

“I know.” I keep my voice light, unconcerned, but on the sidewalk is a man walking with the same liquid grace that marks Javier’s movements, and I’m aware on some distant plane of a low howl of yearning.That,it says.Him.Without rancor, I say, “Don’t try to fix me, okay? I’m fine. I love my job. I have a cat. I have friends and go surfing. Take a lover when I want one.”

“Okay.” She shrugs, but I can tell she has more to say.

I sigh. “Go ahead. Say the rest.”

“When I was watching you and Javier last night, I thought about what beautiful children you would have.”

And suddenly I can see them too. Sturdy little girls and plump little boys, all wearing glasses and collecting rocks and stamps. A welter of tears strikes the backs of my eyes. I have to look away, blink hard. “Stop it, Josie,” I say quietly. “You have what you want, but I don’t have to want the same thing you do.”

“Mari,” she corrects, and nods. “You’re right. Sorry. I guess old habits die hard.”

“I’ve done just fine without you, sis.”

“I guess you have.”

“Wow,” I say as we carry our boards to the beach. “Look at those waves.” They’re rolling home in steady, strong crests. A few riders are on the line but not as many as would have crowded the ocean in Santa Cruz. “Where is everyone?”

“Tourist season is heavy traffic,” she says, yanking herself into her wet suit, a high-end version with turquoise stylings, “but the rest of the year it’s pretty mellow.” She points out a bunch of cottages scattered on the other side of the road and up the hill. “Those are baches, holiday places. It’s amazing how many people have them here.”

She’s wearing a T-shirt over a bikini top, and I see her once-flat, once-tanned abdomen is networked with substantial stretch marks. Not surprising for such a small person.

“Ugly, right?” she says, but strokes them kindly. “But every time I look at them, I only think of my babies.”

I meet her eyes, start laughing. “Dude, did you really just say that?”

She shrugs. “It’s true.”

“That’s pretty cool.” I zip up my suit, braid my hair tight. The scents of ocean and wind play on my nerves, and I just want to get out there. “Ready?”

We wade into the cold water and then paddle over to the line. “You first,” she says.

“I’d rather just sit for a minute, watch the breaks.”

“Cool.”

We position ourselves a bit away from the main action, straddling our boards and watching the waves roll toward shore. Overhead, the clouds are looking meaner. “Is a storm coming?”