[photo by Hans Isaacson from Unsplash]

Leni

The tea kettle is already on the stove top. I open the storage drawer beneath the oven anyway, activating the horrible screech. I lift one of the metal saucepans and let it clamor back into place for good measure. Then use my foot to slam the drawer shut. This should be more than enough racket to wake Dee, who's a light sleeper, but not nearly enough to rouse Matt, not when he's in vacation mode.

I transfer the kettle to the stainless-steel sink, watching Dee's bedroom door while it fills with water. She has to know I'm up. Is she ignoring me?

Fine. I clunk the kettle onto the burner as noisily as possible and turn on the heat. "Come on, Dee. Get out here and talk to me."

After Topher and I parted ways, I sent a text to let her know he was coming to dinner on Sunday. Her reply came almost an hour later: Great! We'll talk later. But when I got home, Dee and Matt were "napping." The walls in the cottage are alarmingly thin. So I left the house to give them some privacy. When I came home, they were in Nags Head having dinner. They were tipsy when they returned, giggling and ready for another nap.

The kettle starts to whistle and I open the pantry. There are at least fifteen different varieties of tea to choose from and I don't want any of them.

"It's three a.m.," Dee moans as she shuffles through the family room rubbing her eyes. The image evokes countless memories of elementary-school mornings—if I disregard the barely-opaque night gown.

She takes the obnoxious kettle off the heat. "Why have you summoned me with angry kitchen noises?"

"Because Topher is half-Italian."

It takes a moment for Dee's eyes to indicate her comprehension. They go wide, but only for a moment. Her eyebrows shift into concerned-mode. And then she frowns. "You could've texted that."

"You said we would talk. That's what I need. Texting is too..."

"I know." She opens the cabinet above the sink, collects two ceramic mugs and cradles them against her chest. "So Topher... Is that short for Christopher?"

"I don't know." I hadn't thought to ask, but it makes sense. "His mother is from Italy. He described a beach that's exactly like the one I've been dreaming about for as long as I can remember."

Dee sets the mugs on the stovetop and swipes a hand in the air, shooing me away from the open pantry. She pretends to study the tea selection, but this is an obvious farce—Sleepytime is the only tea Dee would drink at this hour. She's stalling for time to think.

"Let's say your rosary proves you're part Italian," she says, finally—and with barely camouflaged skepticism. "It's the other part you really want to know about, right? The supernatural part?"

"I'm not supernatural."

"The mermaid part, then."

I sigh to communicate my annoyance and hoist myself onto the square of counter space next to the fridge. "Topher accused me of being a mermaid. I told him the Avon Pier story."

"Ha," Dee says with a smug smile. "I'm still not convinced that jump proves—or disproves—anything." She grabs the box of Sleepytime, holds it under her nose and breathes in. My memory conjures the herby, minty smell, making me long to be sitting at the breakfast bar, sipping tea and watching Mom make cornbread on the stovetop in her favorite cast iron pan.

"What was Topher's reaction?" Dee asks, returning to the kettle.

"He compared me to his mom—he said she's addicted to the ocean."

Dee squints. "You do realize that's a thing people say—an exaggeration. I'm sure he just means his mother loves the ocean."

"I know." Topher said as much.

"Did he say anything more about his arm?" Dee asks.

"Almost. I deflected. But later we were talking about my job at the aquarium and he went off on this tangent about how he called his mom to ask her a question. Then he said he'd rather ask me. He wanted to know if I thought it was possible for someone to have an innate ability to accelerate the healing process."

"Well crap," Dee says, eyebrows high. "Did you answer him?"

"No, but I kind of regret that now—because what if it was a test?"

"Do you really believe that?" she asks, squinty eyes matching her skeptical tone.

"I don't know. The whole conversation was...well, obviously I was being evasive—as per your instructions—but he caught on to that. He pretty much called me out on it, but not in a pushy way. It was almost like he was being...indecisive? Like he wants to talk about it, but at the same time he doesn't want to. Does that make sense?"

"Not really. Tell me everything he said, word for word."

I groan. But I do it, of course. Or at least, I do my best.

"You didn't say how his mom answered the question," Dee says when I'm finished.

"He never got a chance to ask. She didn't answer the phone."

"Okay. But the fact that he was going to ask her means he doesn't already know. Right? It means his mom isn't like you."

"Not necessarily. Maybe he only said that so he'd have an excuse to ask me." I shake my head to that. "No. It wasn't a trick. He wouldn't do that."

"How can you possibly know that, Len? You just met the man."

"I just do. He's so open and honest—like when he told me he hasn't shared details with anyone. I know he was telling the truth."

"And you know that because..."

"It's a feeling. I can't explain it. I mean, other than the whole birthmark thing—which is pretty compelling, don't you think?"

Dee sets the tea box on the stovetop and plucks out two bags. Her jaw muscles are the kind of tight that happens when she's holding something in.

"Whatever it is that you're thinking, please say it out loud. That's why I woke you up. I need to hear it all."

"Okay," she says, her tone laced with a you-asked-for-it warning. "I know the feeling you're talking about because I came to trust Matt that way—after I'd known him for a couple of years."

"Well, obviously this is a different situation."

"Obviously. Matt and I don't have an otherwordly bond."

I frown because I can't argue Dee's point. There's no this-worldly way to describe my connection to Topher.

"And..." she says, dramatically extending the word. "I don't think you realize the effect this man is having on you. You've changed, Leni."

"I know. It's so weird. I want to tell him everything now. I already would have if he'd asked, but things were different after I invited him to dinner. The rest of our visit was mostly small-talk and I got the feeling he was being careful about what he said to me."

Dee pours hot water into one of the mugs, her forehead lined with deep-thought creases. "Careful in the way you are—like he's hiding a secret that could destroy him?"

"No. It was more like..."

"Careful like he's found a magical creature who's skittish and beautiful, and he doesn't want to do anything that might scare her away?"

I frown again because that feels like a very plausible scenario. "He did say he was beyond curious about our situation."

"There you go," Dee says, happily dunking her tea bag. "This is going to be the most interesting dinner I've ever hosted."

"I don't like that tone one bit," I tell her. "You better be on your best behavior. Matt, too. Oh—and Topher wants to know what he should bring."

"Aw, nice manners. I like him already." Dee picks up the mug—and then like it's an afterthought, she offers it to me.

"No, thanks." My chest is tight and my head is too full of possibilities. Tea is not the thing that's going to get me back to sleep.

"Tell Topher to surprise me," Dee says. She cradles the cup under her chin, closing her eyes a moment before she takes a sip. "I'm going to cook him something Italian."

The declaration makes me growl. "Does that mean you're finally acknowledging the significance? Because Topher being half-Italian is a huge deal."

Dee shrugs. "It could be."

Her tone is almost placating. "Why don't you think it's important, Dee? What are you not telling me?"

"You know I want you to have answers to all of your questions, right?"

"You want me to have all the answers but..."

"You don't seem to understand the effect Topher has on you."

"I've changed—you already said that and I agreed."

"Yes, but you don't see it the way I do, Len. You're acting—for the first time ever—like a woman who has a serious crush."

"On Topher? No. I absolutely am not."

"You really are."

"No, Dee. I can't have a crush on him."

"I don't think it's up to you. The birthmark has spoken."

"That is not funny—this is..." I shake my head. There's no point in trying to explain. "I'm going to bed," I say, already heading toward my room.

"Len, wait. I may be keeping it light, but I'm not joking. And please remember that you begged me to tell you what I really think."

I sure did. I spin around, giving her a go-ahead swipe with my hand.

"Think about everything you've already told me. Topher doesn't look like you. He doesn't share any of your attributes. And based on what you've told me, I don't think you're convinced he knows you healed him."

I shrug. I'm not not convinced. "What about my connection to Italy? What about my dreams?"

"I've always suspected those dreams were fueled by all the Internet pictures of Mediterranean beaches you consumed over the years. And your connection to Italy is a cheap souvenir, a string of plastic beads stamped with the name of a tiny coastal town. There's no doubt in my mind that you were meant to find Topher—for whatever reason—but the odds of the two of you being related are astronomically small."

"Pfft. The odds of my existence are astronomically small."

"All I'm asking is that you please keep an open mind. I want you to know where you came from—you know I do—but I'd be lying if I didn't tell you that the thing I've been praying hardest for is that you find what Matt and I have."

Dee sets her mug on the counter and spreads her arms to warn me that she's coming in for a hug. I sink against her, letting my head rest on her shoulder. And I let her have the last word, because there's no use in trying to contradict her. She'll never understand. I can't think about sharing myself in that way with Topher or anyone else—not until I have some answers.