When We Believed in Mermaids(65)

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?”

“Not so much. Only that you were looking for someone.”

“That’s my business, Javier. I only shared it with you because we were—” I struggle with why and give an exasperated sound. “That was very invasive of you.”

He seems unconcerned. “The good news is, he thought he recognized her.”

“I don’t care. This is my business, not yours.”

As if he doesn’t even hear me, he picks up my phone from the side table and hands it to me. “Take my phone number, and then send yours to me.”

I glare at him. “Who do you think you are?”

Finally, he inclines his head. “Are you angry, gatita? I only meant to help you.”

For a long moment, I only look at him, feeling invaded and upset and tangled and yet still so very drawn to him. “I’m not the kind of woman who likes to be shuttled along by a man.”

“I did not intend—”

“Please don’t get in my business like that.”

He sinks down beside me, tucks my hair behind my ear. “Don’t be angry.”

“I am, though.” I slap his hand.

Which makes him laugh. He tries to catch it, fails. “Sorry.”

“I’m not kidding. Do you understand?”

“Yes. I swear.” He holds up his hand, palm out. “I will not help you again.”

Relenting, I pick up my phone and punch in the numbers he gives me, then call the phone so he’ll have mine. It rings on the table in the kitchen. “There you go.”

He smiles at me, the expression slow and appreciative. “Tonight, then.”

I turn on my side to watch him go. My body is soft from making love, a delicious laziness in my spine. When he pauses at the door, I lift a hand to wave, and he blows a kiss.

Ridiculous. And lovely. I know better than to get mixed up with a charmer, to let down my guard, and yet—it’s limited by circumstances. I’m safe enough.

I roll over to look at the harbor. The water shines an opalescent deep blue. No sailboats this morning, but a sturdy-looking barge makes its way toward the open sea. Closer in, the offices are coming alive, and I watch a woman in a dark-blue pencil skirt bustle from her office into the hallway, then pop up in an office a little farther down the way. What would it be like to live her life, I wonder, a person who works in an office, at a desk, wearing fancy clothes? In Auckland.

Not my life at all. I don’t miss the ER, but it has been only a few days. I haven’t had much time to consider what else I might do, what kind of medicine might be calling me next. Or if anything is calling me. It’s possible that what I’m doing right now is giving me a chance to recharge my batteries.

If not for Hobo, I’d volunteer with services like the Red Cross or Doctors Without Borders. Maybe the Peace Corps.

But I can’t leave Hobo.

Speaking of my cat, I need to call my mother. Tossing off the covers, I pad naked into the shower, then dress and make a pot of coffee. As it brews, I text her to see if she’s free to FaceTime.

She rings in on my tablet almost immediately. “Hi, sweetheart!” she says, and moves the camera to show me a little black face poking out from beneath my bed. “Look, Hobo. It’s your mama!”