When We Believed in Mermaids(90)

“Yes.” He sits back down and dives into his pasta. “Lots of them. Lacrosse is my favorite, but my dad likes us to swim because he has the clubs.”

“Hey, now. You’ll give me a bad name,” Simon protests, but he laughs. “You’re free to give it up anytime, son.” He takes a slice of garlic bread from a plate. “But that will guarantee that Trevor will take the lead this season.”

Leo scowls. “I’ll never beat him. You know I won’t.”

“You can do what you believe,” Kit says calmly.

“You don’t know how this kid swims. Everybody says he’ll be going to the Olympics one day.”

“He might,” Simon said. “You may as well give up.”

Leo shoots him an evil glance, and Simon chuckles. “That’s what I thought.”

It all goes remarkably well. Leo and Sarah clear the table while I make coffee. The other adults settle in the more comfortable lounge, and Simon cues some music from his phone, some midcentury jazz and pop that set a mellow stage. These are our habits, the dance we have created. When he comes into the kitchen, all feels completely normal until he asks quietly, “Why does this feel so stilted tonight?”

“Does it?” I look up at him guilelessly. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“You’re as jumpy as a cat. She must know a lot of secrets about you. Where all the bodies are buried.”

“Don’t be silly.” I wave him away. “Get back in there and entertain them.”

His fingers brush the top of my back, and then he’s gone. Laughter spills out in the other room. Leo asks if he can play Minecraft, and I dismiss him. Sarah isn’t finished circling the sun of her new idol, and she helps me by carrying a plate of petits fours into the other room.

“Don’t tell me you made these as well,” Kit says.

“No way. Simon picked them up at a bakery on the way home.” I pour and pass cups of coffee. “It’s decaf,” I say.

Sarah sits next to Kit, who says with some humor, “Your mother was the worst cook ever when we were young.”

“Really?”

Kit gives me a look and settles her cup on the table. “Really. Like, couldn’t even cook bacon.”

“Why didn’t you just put it in the microwave?”

“We didn’t have one,” Kit says, then recognizes her slip. “None of us did.”

“You didn’t?” Sarah echoes, wrinkling her nose.

And in that instant, with the faces of my sister and my daughter mirroring each other, both with the same nutmeg curls, the same tilt of eyes, the same freckles on the same nose, I recognize there is no way this secret can be kept. Sarah is Kit’s mini me, down to inclinations and eye color.

At that moment, Sarah says, “Hey, we both have the same toes!”

Kit looks at Sarah’s foot, held beside hers. One short leg, one long, the same second and third toes, such a specific genetic order, webbed in exactly the same way. Kit looks up at me, touches her niece’s hair. “So we do. That’s crazy.”

My heart speeds up, and under my hair, the sweat breaks out. I look at Simon, who gives me a perplexed shake of the head. He spreads his hands. What is this?

He speaks to Sarah, however. “Sweetheart, it’s time to go upstairs.”

She lets go of a huff, and I think she’s going to protest, but she only turns to Kit and says, “It’s adult time. I have to go. Will you come back?”

“I’ll do my best.”

Sarah hugs her, hard, and I see how it shatters my sister, the way she squeezes her eyes tight and her fierce arms circle my child. “It was so nice to get to meet you.”

“Bye,” Sarah says in a small voice, and heads upstairs.

A vast silence fills the space beneath the music as she departs. Kit glances at Javier, and he takes her hand in a protective way, moves closer.

At last Simon says, “She couldn’t look more like you.”

Kit bows her head, looks at me.

And here it is, the moment I must have known was coming. I’ve been feeling it bearing down on me for weeks, this collision of my old life and the new one. I take a breath, meet Simon’s eyes. “We’re sisters.”

He’s bewildered. “Why wouldn’t you just say that?”

I take a breath, unable to halt the tears that fill my eyes. “You said I could tell you anything, but—” I look up. “This is a really long story.”

Kit stands up, her hands fluttering over her skirt. “We should go. This is between you two.”

Simon waves her down. “Please don’t go yet. I’d like to know the story.”

She hesitates, looking first at me, then toward the stairs, then gives Simon a short nod. She tucks her skirt beneath her legs and perches at the edge of the couch, ready to flee at any moment.

A shivery fear makes my skin cold. “It would be better if we talked first, Simon. Seriously.”

He shakes his head.

I’ve already lost him. I can see it in the set of his shoulders and the loose, apparently relaxed way he holds his hands. He hates lying. He won’t tolerate it in employees or friends, and I’ve known that for almost as long as I’ve known him.

But not before I fell in love with him.