The Rattled Bones(9)

I wave him off. “No, that’s fine. None of my business anyway.” I take a step closer to the waterline. Now all I want is to comb through the water, return home.

“Going for another swim?” Sam scans my wet hair.

“Not today.” Maybe never.

He gestures toward my lobster boat. “Is that you? Rilla Brae?”

I nod.

“It’s a good name for a boat.”

“Thanks.” My father thought so. I cast my eyes to my boat, the ocean, all the things I never thought would bring me sadness. “I should be getting home.”

“Will you be out here again?”

I don’t know. “No.” And then, “You?”

“For the next few months. I’m researching the island for my summer internship.”

“This island?” I’m not sure it would be possible for me to sound any denser.

“This very island.” His gaze lifts toward the highest ridge of trees. “A lot of history here.”

I think he must be mistaken, that his professor gave him an errant assignment, but it’s not for me to say. I take two quick steps toward the shore before turning. I squint against the glare of the sun. “Is it just you out here?”

He laughs then. “I told you, I have come to the island sans baby.”

I’m surprised by the hint of a smile that plays on my lips. “I mean do you have a research assistant or something? Or does your professor ever come with you?”

“Nah. Just me. There’s no money in the budget for anyone else. Hell, they’re not even paying me.” His smile is so quick and easy it jumps like it’s a living thing.

“So you haven’t been here with a girl?”

His eyes narrow as his wide smile broadens. “No girl. No baby. Are you asking me if I’m single?”

Oh God. That’s the last thing I’m asking. “No, it’s just . . . I thought I saw a girl out here the other day.” And only moments ago.

He pats his satchel. “Just me and my tools.”

“Yeah. Okay . . . well, I should be getting home.”

“I don’t blame you. It can get pretty boring out here.” He gives me a short salute and sets off toward the center of the island.

I watch him put distance between us and know that “boring” is no longer a word I would use to describe Malaga Island.

I row out to the Rilla Brae, scanning the waves, waiting still for the keeper of the song to rise.





CHAPTER FOUR


“Rill?” Reed’s warm breath sweeps across the back of my neck, and I open my eyes to the settled dark of the pre-morning. “You awake?”

Reed is behind me, his torso snug against my back, his knees tucked into the bend of mine. His toes press against my underfoot, wordlessly reassuring me that everything is the way it used to be. In this early slip of time before dawn colors the sky, all I know is the softness of our shared sleep. But it is only a moment. Maybe not even a full minute before my grief awakens, ripping through me with its gale-force reminder that my father won’t be in this day. Or any other.

“I’m awake.”

“You okay?”

“I am.” Lie. Lie. Lie.

He rounds one hand over my hip, pulls my body tighter against his. His fingers play at my neck. They trail along the path to my shoulder. A familiar warmth spreads under and along my skin. I want to lose myself in Reed’s touch.

Except.

“Don’t. Please.” I pull the sheets around me as I turn to him. His eyes drop with sadness or confusion. Maybe both. The sharpness of his cheekbones will never stop amazing me; they are too beautiful to sit on a boy. I stroke his face, first one side, then the other.

“Don’t kiss you?”

“No, I like the kisses. It just can’t be . . . more.”

His body hardens, pulls away. It’s a fraction of movement that cuts a ravine between us.

“I’m sorry.” I’m not sure that’s the truth. “My head’s too messed up.” Full truth.

Reed props himself against my headboard made of forgotten picket fence. When he stuffs a pillow behind his back, a draft creeps into the space between our bodies. He stares out at the water, even though there’s nothing but blackness. “Whatever you need,” he tells me. Like always.

“I’m not sure what I need.” Full, full truth.

He gathers me to his chest, my ear coming to rest over the steady thump of his heart.

He whispers “It’s all good” into the tangle of my hair, kisses me through the curls. “You’re my moon, Rill.” My heart hitches, reminding me that there is still space in my chest for something other than grief and doubt.

The first time Reed told me that I was his moon, we were only months into hooking up. It was sophomore year, and a part of me was still convinced we were doing what we were doing as a kind of taunt against our families. Asserting our independence and all. We’d been watching the stars from the deck of his boat and he told me, “The way the moon pulls the tide, you know. I feel like that when I’m with you. And even when I’m not . . . it’s like I’m forever getting pulled to you.” It was the closest Reed ever came to poetry, and that was okay. Better than okay, if I’m being honest.