[photo by Stephan Valentin from Unsplash ]

Leni

Anticipation wakes me early Saturday morning. The sky is just paling to a warm grey when I reach the shoreline. I peal out of my coverup and pull the elastic band off my wrist, smiling as I gather my hair. It's an odd impulse, not my usual routine. Maybe some part of me is worried Topher won't recognize me if I let my hair get wet.

Ha. Unlikely. How many giraffe-tall women with freakishly pale eyes could there be?

I wrestle my curls into a top knot anyway, wade into the dark water and sigh. No more tight skin. No more itch that seems to come from some unfathomable cell level.

There was a time when I shared Dee's unwavering acceptance of my "differences" and even some of the awe. I would go back to that mindset if I could. I'd gladly let go of the questions—and the "obsessive need" to find my birth family. I bend my knees, letting the water coast over my shoulders. The waves are unusually calm—even for early morning. The tide must be changing.

Something brushes against my leg, startling me for moment. It happens all the time, but usually I sense the creature's approach. I scan the surface, expecting a second nudge. A curious dolphin will not be ignored.

"I don't have time to play," I announce.

Well, actually I have too much time. The sun is just peaking over the horizon. Why didn't I ask Topher for an earlier meeting?

"I changed my mind," I call out. "Come back and distract me." But the dolphin, or whatever it was, must've moved on.

That's fine. I'll just walk the beach looking for shells—for three and a half hours.

It's a good thing my coverup has big pockets.

"Oh!" That reminds me. I remembered my phone, as promised, but I should've texted Dee the moment I left the house. She's even more nervous about this meeting than I am.

I make my way to dry land, dig out my phone and of course there's already a text: Assuming you've gone for a swim. Please confirm. Did you even sleep?

Just barely. I type: Yes and yes.

The sun is fully visible now, skipping an orange glow across the ocean's surface that warms my heart—because it feels like a blessing. My phone pings with Dee's reply: I'm making a concerted effort to hold back advice.

I laugh out loud and send: thank you

I'm cooking Matt's favorite dinner tonight. There will be plenty if you get the urge to invite SOMEONE.

ha ha

The phone rings. "I'm not kidding," Dee says.

"I'm not either. It's not happening—not today."

"Tomorrow then?"

"You are making me about a thousand times more nervous. Bye, love you."

I end the call, tempted to go for another swim. But it's almost 7:00, and it stands to reason—considering how excited Topher was when I agreed to meet him—that he might already be on his way to the monument.

Is that reason or intuition?

Doesn't matter.

I pull on my coverup and head south, forcing myself to walk slow. And to collect shells—even though none of them are right for my current project: an intentionally beachy wedding frame to remind Matt and Dee of how they met.

The waves pick up momentum as I approach the bend and finally, something promising tumbles past my feet. I drop to my knees, trapping it with both hands. The next wave catches me off guard, soaking my entire left side, but it's worth it. The shell fragment is bone white, tumbled smooth, and so delicately worm-holed it looks like lace.

"What do you have there?"

I stand, clutching a hand over my heart, and Topher frowns.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." 

"No, it's..." He did startle me, but it's more than that. The sound of his voice has me instantly at odds.

It's probably just lingering unease from last night's "damage control" lecture. I take a breath and shut out Dee's warnings. This might be the day I finally find out who or what I am.

"It's almost heart-shaped," I say, holding out my palm.

He eases closer, looks at the shell and nods. "A good find. My mother would say..."

The rest of his sentence is spoken in a language I don't understand. But if I had to guess—

"It's a quote from an American author," he explains. "I can't remember the English version exactly, though. Something along the lines of the sea not rewarding those who are anxious or greedy."

"I can relate to that. Were you speaking Italian?"

"Yes. My mother is from Italy."

A chill races up my spine. My rosary, the only clue to my identity, is also from Italy.

"She still lives there," he says, "in her tiny sea-side village—without my father." Topher grimaces, like he's said more than he thinks he should. "Sorry. Not sure why that bit of resentment slipped out."

"It's..." My throat is tight, my voice croaky. I clear it and try again. "It's okay. But I'll admit, now I'm curious."

"It's a long story," he says, his tone a playful warning. "But if you're willing, I can reward you with breakfast. I've brought along a picnic of sorts." He points up the beach, toward the foundation stones. "Shall we walk?"

"Sure—yes."

I drop the prized shell into my pocket and set the pace. It's embarrassingly brisk, but he doesn't seem to mind.

"My parents lived in London for the first seven years of their marriage, but my mother was unhappy there. When I was five, she couldn't bear to be away from the Mediterranean any longer so she left him—in a sense. They never divorced and they still spend a fair amount of time together. They just don't live in the same country." He shrugs. "I suppose it would be more accurate to say she left England." 

"Because she missed the ocean?"

His forehead wrinkles and he nods. "It's a theory," he says, his tone almost dismissive.

But I'm nowhere near ready for a subject change. "It makes sense to me." 

"Does it?" he asks. Then he nods, adding, "Right," with a half-smile. "I suppose that would make sense—to a sea goddess."

And now his voice has that same almost-manic inflection it did on Thursday when he asked if I have super human strength. "Did you work the graveyard shift again?" 

"No, sorry. That's me, attempting to be funny. I'll stop now."

Good. "You don't sound half-Italian."

Topher's eyebrows plummet, but only briefly. "I was educated in London but I assure you, my Italian is flawless."

He grins, oh so proud of himself, and I can't hold back my smile.

"You can't deny..." He huffs out a breath, eyes dropping to his feet for a moment. "One more," he says, grimacing now. "Sorry in advance—and I'm only half-joking. You have the look, especially in this setting, of the archetypal mermaid. Right? I can't be the only person to say so." 

"No. Not by a long shot." 

"But I've seen you walk into the ocean and your legs didn't sprout scales," he says. "So perhaps that's something you can control?"

He lifts one brow, producing the corresponding dimple, and his tone says this is a challenge. Not my first. "My sister was convinced I was a mermaid," I say. "When we were teenagers." I stress the last word to make the point that his observation is childish.

"Your sister? Interesting. What evidence did she have for her conviction?" 

"What evidence do you have for yours?"

"Oh I'm not convinced. I'm merely curious."

Merely is an obvious understatement. Topher from London is not a good liar. Maybe he doesn't know any more than I do.

Or maybe this is some sort of test?

"I can hold my breath underwater for a long time," I say, keeping my voice light. And trying not to think about how hard Dee would be glaring at me right now.

"How long?" he asks.

"I almost gave my mom a heart attack the first time she witnessed it." 

"Hmm. Anything else?" 

"My physical appearance—obviously."

"Obviously," he repeats with a wide smile.

I shrug. "You don't need much when you're fourteen."

Topher takes a breath. His eyes are narrowed slightly, like he's about to say or ask something. But then he turns his attention to the arm I healed, massaging it with his other hand and my lungs go on lock down. I want to hear what he's going to say—if he's going to say anything. He didn't the last time we met. But Dee would want me to distract him. That's the plan. Steer him away from anything to do with everything I healed until we know we can trust him.

"That's the year I let her talk me into jumping off the Avon Pier," I say.

He drops both arms. "Seriously?"

"Yes."

"To illustrate what point?"

I shrug again. "That fairy tales and young adult novels weren't meant to be taken literally."

"Well," he says, amused but maybe also a little skeptical. "I'm happy you lived to tell your story." 

"I almost didn't. That's the best part. The fall knocked the wind out of me—I guess I landed wrong—but there was a guy nearby, fishing. He grabbed a buoy and jumped in to save me and now he's my brother-in-law. Almost. He and my sister are getting married in October." 

Topher processes for a moment, his eyes reading mine. "That's a brilliant story," he says, genuinely. "But you seem sad about the happily ever after."

"Yeah?" I ask, then I breathe out a laugh. "I thought I was doing a better job of hiding it. Matt is from Asheville. That's where they'll be living after the wedding. They want me to move there too, but..."

"But you are like my mother," he finishes. "Addicted to salt water."

My heart drops. And after Topher's eyes go wide with alarm, I realize my jaw has dropped open too.

"That was a bit of an exaggeration," he adds quickly. "I hope I didn't offend you."

"No, you didn't. I..." What I am is astonished. Is he exaggerating or does his mother need the ocean the way I do? "I like it when you talk about your parents," I say, because I don't want him to stop.

"My stories aren't as exciting as yours."

I lower my gaze to the sand. I may have opened up a little too much. But I don't regret it. How else am I going to get him to talk?

"Another gift from the sea?" Topher asks.

"Um..." I examine the stone in my hand. I pick them up so often it's become a reflex. This is a good one though: smooth and steely gray, speckled with tiny holes. "As my mom would say, 'This one's a keeper.'"

"The beaches along the Mediterranean are full of rocks like those. You can't even see the sand in some places. And..." He holds the pause until I glance at him. "The water there is the color of your eyes."

I stop. Topher walks on a few steps before he realizes and turns to face me, looking like he's ready to offer up another apology.

"I've had dreams about a place like that for as long as I can remember," I tell him. "Smooth pebbles instead of sand. Water so blue it doesn't look real."

There are infinite shades. Pale in the shallows, where the sun reflects on the ocean floor, but in the depths, the color is rich and vibrant, like the blue of Topher's eyes. As I stare into them, a warmth unlike any I've experienced spreads through my body. When I look away, he exhales a whoosh of air that sounds like relief and reminds me to breathe.