Page 70 of When We Believed in Mermaids

I touched each of three scars on his upper arm—all three burns. “Did somebody burn you with a cigarette?”

“Cigar,” he said. “What if you don’t have to say it and I just guess?”

“Why do you wanna know so bad? It was awful, but it’s over. I’m good.”

“You’re not, though.” He brushed my hair off my forehead. “You’re sad all the time, and doing things that aren’t really appropriate for your age.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I know. But if I tell you that it would feel good to talk to somebody, you need to believe me.”

“Talk to somebody? Like a counselor?” I looked up, horrified.

“You can just tell me.”

But I couldn’t. I knew he would tell. No one but me could keep a secret this big.

In the big pantry at Sapphire House, the memory rips through me. I suddenly miss Dylan so much it feels like a fresh wound. Sinking to the cold linoleum, I wrap my arms around my knees and let the tears fall.

I think now of my barely pubescent self having anxiety attacks and smoking pot to quell them and wonder again what the hell. Why didn’t he tell my parents, no matter how angry I would be?

But I also loved him, so very, very much. He would have said his first loyalty was to his promise to me. In his own scarred way, he was trying to protect me.

Dylan, Dylan, Dylan. So lost, so wrong, so misguided, but all three of the Bianci women tried to save him. None of us could.

In fact, I did the exact opposite. Because of me, Dylan died.

Chapter Nineteen

Kit

By ten the next morning, the cyclone has pushed through, leaving behind a glittery, humid morning. Javier doesn’t linger. “I have an interview,” he says, leaning over the bed to kiss me where I still sprawl. “Are you free tonight?”

His hair catches the sunlight, and for the first time, I see that it isn’t black at all but a very warm brown. I brush my fingers through it and tell myself I should say no, but I can’t find the discipline.

And anyway, one of the hallmarks of a great holiday romance is the immersion factor. “I’ll have to check my calendar,” I joke, “but I imagine I’ll be here.”

“Good. Someone told me there’s a very good Israeli restaurant nearby. Would you like to try it?”

“Absolutely.”

He straightens, tucking in his shirt. “What will you do today? More surfing?”

“I’m going to run down some ideas I had about finding my sister.”

He buttons his shirtsleeves, and I find myself wondering if I’ve ever slept with a man who owned a long-sleeve oxford shirt with crisp lines down the arms from ironing.

“Are you sure you wish to find her?”

I tuck the covers over myself more firmly. “No. But I have to follow it through now.”

“I looked for her yesterday.”

I frown. “What?”

He inclines his head. “Miguel has lived here a long time now. He had good ideas.”

I sit up. “You told Miguel about her?”