The Deep End of the Sea (18 page)

“Just this morning, in his sleep. Knowing what he meant to you, I made sure I was the one to ferry his soul to the Underworld. He felt no pain,
glykia mou
. He was an old man whose life had come to a natural end.”

As shocked as I am that Hermes just called me his sweetheart, I nod and blindly grope for my drink. Hermes gently shoves it towards me and I drink the rest of my champagne in one, two, three large gulps.

Mikkos, dead.

A horrible thought comes to me:
at least it wasn’t by my hand
. And then I regret it at the same time I rejoice, because death is still death, and Mikkos is still gone.

Warmth presses against my shoulders; I stand up and fall into Hermes’ arms. I cry then: cry for every one of the sixty-three lives I snuffed prematurely, and I cry for the one that lasted long and richly, but still gone too soon for a greedy girl like me. I cry for my youthful naiveté, for trusting a god who I believed to be a man, one who hurt me in ways I still feel to this day. I cry for a goddess who betrayed me after years of loyal service when I needed her compassion the most. And I cry for this god holding me, and for the goodness he’s forced me to continue to believe in when it would have been so easy to give in and wallow in misery for the rest of time.

During this release, Hermes holds me in a way that lets me know he won’t let go. He won’t let me down. He holds me and I cry and the weird thing, when my tears slow, I feel the most certain sense of safety.

A sense of belonging.

A sense of rightness.

He murmurs sweet words of comfort, ones that do not rush me to wrap up nor belittle me for my outburst.  And I know, just know, in this moment that I love him. That I am in love with him.

That I have been for a long time and too blind to see it before now.

It is a strange sensation, realizing you’re in love with your best friend; stranger still to understand it isn’t a recent development, but one born long ago and carefully cultivated. The more I reflect upon this as I lay in his arms on a large chaise next to the pool, the more I am assured of my feelings. I love Hermes. I’ve loved him for many years. I’ve just been too scared to do anything about it, be it from using my monstrous visage and deeds as excuses or fear for letting my heart be handled by anyone, man or god, again after what I’ve been through.

“Thinking of Mikkos?”

I am feeling bold with my new realizations and a glass of champagne under my belt and another in my hand. “Actually, I was thinking of you.”

“Favorably, I pray,” he murmurs, and it’s funny, because he sounds so serious. Like he’s worried that I might think anything other than favorable thoughts about him.

“I was thinking ... you are nothing like
him
.”

Hermes’ body stiffens for the smallest of seconds before he exhales in relief. He knows I do not mean Mikkos. “Praise Zeus for that.” His head drops closer to mine, so when he speaks, I can smell the champagne on his breath. “I will never hurt you, Dusa, nor allow anyone else to ever do so again. If you cannot believe in anything else about me, please believe in that.”

“I do,” I say, because it’s the truth.

He takes a sip of his drink and then stares up into the heavily star-laden sky. My eyes only follow his for a split second before falling back to his face. I love his face. It is perfect, that much is true—but it is also that of somebody whose beauty on the outside is matched, if not exceeded, by that on the inside. I’ve thought myself lucky for some time now, knowing this to be true. So many people don’t
know
Hermes, not the person he really is. There are myths and legends, statues and paintings, countless stories, but none of those people who did any of those, who have heard or seen them,
know
him. Not like I do.

He is loyalty and kindness, generosity and tenacity all rolled in one.

I love him. Stars above,
I am in love with him
.

I want to tell him, shout it out for everyone to hear, but how does one go from being best friends one day to declaring their love the other? I know he cares about me—I know this fact as well as I know my name, but ...
love
? Could I ever hope he could fall in love with me, too? I am not a goddess. There have been dalliances between the gods and mortals—even non-divine immortals in the past—but never lasting, meaningful relationships. And yet, I guess there has been one, because even if we are nothing ever more than just friends, Hermes has been consistent in his affection for me for ages. Is that enough though, now that I know I am in love with him?

I want to kiss him. Feel his mouth against mine. I want my hands in his hair and his in mine. I want my body pressed against his, his against mine. I want all of those things Poseidon ripped away from me on that awful night so long ago. He stole my innocence. I can’t offer that to Hermes, can’t offer it to anyone. He stole my first kiss, even if it wasn’t reciprocated or loving. As painful as those memories are, I wish so desperately to replace them with new ones made with somebody I love.

Kisses, in books and movies, are supposed to be heavenly. I want that experience. And I want it with Hermes.

I want to stop living in fear.

I drink more of the golden liquid courage in my glass and ask for the first time in our relationship, “Why aren’t you married?”

He stiffens once more. “What?”

I can’t look up at him, though. So I focus on the lights in the lagoon and keep my words light. “Most of your siblings are married. I am curious as to why you aren’t.”

He clears his throat. “They most certainly aren’t. Dite, yes. She’s an exception. The rest, though ... not married.”

“Hades and Persephone—”

“Not my siblings.” He’s amused. “But they are lucky exceptions, too.”

I try again. “Your father—”

“Also not my sibling. And ... unhappily married most of the time, I think. So he’s an exception of the exceptions.”

I have another sip of champagne. “All right. I stand corrected, but my question is still unanswered. Why have you never married? You ...” I quickly finish the rest of the glass. “You seem to be the sort that women would want to marry. What do they call that nowadays? A good catch. You’re an excellent catch.”

I can feel his surprise ripple through the lean muscles pressing up against me. And yet, he says nothing.

“You can tell me.” I swallow down the bursts of fear-laced anxiety threatening to surge up my throat. “I’m your best friend.”

He’s still silent.

A nearly hysterical laugh breaks free from my chest. I have to know the answer to this or I fear I might go as insane as so many people have thought me in the past. “I’ll go first. Obviously, the reason I’ve yet to marry is because I was a recluse of a monster living on an enchanted isle. Most men draw the line at scaly women whose hair can bite them during arguments and eyes which can turn them into stone—in a bad way.” Oh, stars above, did I really just say that out loud? I need more champagne, but that would require me getting up and going and getting it. And
that
would mean I might have to make eye contact, which would make all of this even more humiliating. I’m botching this; he’s got to be utterly confused over why I’m suddenly asking all these things I’ve left alone before. More hysterical laughter escapes me. Like a lunatic, I waggle the ringless fingers on my right hand in front of us. “Thus, my singleton status. Your turn. You’re not married or ... dating, I think?” I nearly groan at myself. Smooth moves, here, Dusa. That doesn’t sound like blatant prying at all. “You’ve never mentioned dating. Fess up, friend. What’s your reason?”

His hand comes up to meet mine, still dangling uselessly in the air between us. And then he laughs, too—that exasperated breath of a laugh of his that I’ve come to love over the years. “You really don’t know, do you?”

My heart joins the anxiety rising in my throat. What does that mean? “Well, we’ve never talked about it, so ...”

I feel the deep breath he takes, long and steady and calming. “Are you sure you want to know?”

Yes. But then ... not if it means my heart is going to break when he tells me he is in love with somebody who is not me. The chances are good—excellent, really. Just because he never admitted it before doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened. But even still, even under the threat of agony and despite how my heart has decided to leap out of my throat so it can run a marathon, I’m left dizzy as I lay still against him in the wide chaise in his aunt and uncle’s backyard, in desperate need of an answer. It’s funny, just flat-out ridiculous that I’ve had years and years to ask such a question, yet never did. And now I think if I don’t get one, I don’t know what I’ll do.

He’s my best friend, somebody who has seen me at my very darkest and weakest, and it’s only now that I am terrified of losing him.

I love him.

I love him.

I force myself to sound bemused. “I asked, didn’t I?”

His fingers knot in mine in our still raised hands. And then my breath leaves my chest to fly up toward the constellations when he pulls our enjoined hands down so he can kiss the back o mine. “The reason I’m not married is that you are my best friend.”

The back of my hand is on fire—aching, lovely, torturous fire. It spreads out until every last bit of me is consumed, which is so unfair, because here he is, telling me he is in love with somebody who apparently won’t marry him because he was foolish enough to become friends with me.

I have the worst luck. Absolute worst luck of anyone ever born.

My hand is still so close to his mouth, so when he exhales that exasperated, quiet sigh of his again, a shiver rips through my body at the mere brush of his breath against my skin. “Dusa ... how is it that this is so painfully obvious to everyone except you?”

How do people breathe in situations like this? I wouldn’t be able to catch my breath or slow my heart right now even if I tried. How do hearts break and race at the same time? I want to ask what he means by, about the girl who is cruel enough to withhold her love because of our friendship, but my words are disappeared just as easily as the air in my lungs.

He presses another kiss on the back of my hand, enflaming me once again. “You want to know why I haven’t married yet? Because I have yet to ask the girl who owns my heart entirely, let alone actually
tell
her what she means to me. I’ve been too selfish to do so, because I’ve been fearful that once I do, things will change between us for the worse if she does not feel the same way, and I know I can’t lose her. So I’ve held on to what we have, even though I want to be with her more than anything else in the entire universe. See, I am completely, irrevocably, in love with the best person I know. And I have been for a very long time.”

I hate her, HATE whoever this nameless girl is. How could she be so cruel? Hermes loves her.
Hermes
. He is the best person
I
know. I would trade places with her in a heartbeat. She has no idea how lucky she is. I’d like to see how she’d feel when she has no love, locked away on an island for years. Maybe she’d wise up then.

But for now, no matter who she is, if my friend is unhappy, then I will do anything in my power to change that situation for him. Even if it destroys my own heart. I say, shamed at how my voice cracks just as easily as the brittle muscle in my chest, “Maybe if I talk to her for you ... explain how things are between us ... she’d not object ...?”

He shifts in the chaise, rolling over to his side so he’s now facing me. I blink the tears back, praying he can’t see them, but it’s a moot point when he gently tugs my chin until I turn to face him, too, my body following suit.

His eyes are so green tonight as they pin me to where I lay. He’s so beautiful. So wonderful. The best kind of friend.

I love him
.

Our faces are so close to one another right now, and all I can do is selfishly think how easy it would be for me to lean forward and kiss him like I’ve dreamed about for the last couple of weeks. One kiss, and then I’d let him go.

One kiss, to replace the one stolen from me.

This would be my first kiss, not what happened with Poseidon. Because a kiss should be born from love, and want, and need. A kiss should be beautiful, something a girl can hold onto for the rest of her life, to pull out in her memory whenever she wants butterflies to come back. A kiss shouldn’t be roughly ripped away from her and turned into a thing of nightmares.

I want that kiss, and I want it from my best friend.

So I do it. I take the risk. I lean forward in the scant few inches between us until our foreheads touch and our champagne-tinged breaths mingle in the miniscule slice of space left between our lips. I don’t want to steal this from him, not like mine was stolen from me. I give him this moment to pull back, but ...

He doesn’t. Our hands, still clasped, are wedged in between our bodies. I can feel the beating of his heart right now against the back of my hand.

It’s racing just as fast as mine
. That’s ... good?