Wrecked (25 page)

Coral glided below deck, and almost instantaneously emerged with two steaming mugs of tea.

“So, let’s talk,” Coral said, her tone more urgent than it had been in the car.

“About what?” Miranda asked, taking a sip of tea.

“About what really happened. I’m sure it would only be helpful to talk to someone . . . someone who understands. I know what it’s like to lose people you love. You don’t want to inflict your pain on anyone else, but if you just keep it inside, it could destroy you,” she said. A flash of sadness clouded her eyes and Miranda felt her heart clench. Had Coral lost someone, too?

“My first love,” Coral continued, as if answering Miranda’s silent question. Miranda started. Had she said it out loud? “He died,” Coral continued. “We were young, and we were
careless . . . these things happen. The details don’t matter,” she said in her hard-to-place accent.

“I’m sorry,” Miranda murmured. She didn’t want to be rude, but she
did
want details. That was the problem—once you’d actually lived through not one, but two tragedies that should only belong on a Lifetime Television special—hearing anyone else’s sad life story became an instant competition, even if you didn’t mean it to be. Coral had lost her lover. Miranda had lost her parents, her best friend, and was about to lose her boyfriend. Comparing was just what automatically happened.

“And then everyone thought I was heartless when I found someone new. But I wasn’t. It was because I’d loved the first man so much that I needed someone else. Someone to take my mind off the pain,” Coral continued, still deep in her memories.

“Oh,” Miranda said finally, unsure of what to say. That was the other thing: Just because Miranda had lived through a lot of tragedies, that didn’t make her automatically good at knowing what to say when someone else shared their pain. When she’d gone to her few physical therapy sessions at the Mount Pleasant Rehabilitation Center, the secretary there had told her all about her husband’s cancer, how her son had been kicked out of his community college for dealing weed, and how she threw out her back doing Zumba the other day. What was Miranda supposed to say to that? What could she say to Coral now?

Coral shook her head, as if she’d said too much. “But that was me. You cope the way you cope.”

“I met someone,” Miranda blurted, before taking a huge sip of tea.

“You did?” Coral smiled a half smile. “Who is he?”

Miranda shrugged. Talking about Christian would confirm what she feared, that she was crazy.
Really
crazy. “He’s just this guy on the beach. We’re just friends.”

“You met on the beach?” Coral asked.

Miranda shifted uncomfortably. If she told Coral, then Christian would no longer be a secret. But who would Coral tell? And maybe she needed advice.

“Yeah. I think he’s a runaway or something . . . he doesn’t talk about himself at all. But I ran into him on the beach once and ever since then I . . .”

“You understand each other,” Coral finished.

“Yes!” Miranda was relieved that someone understood. “And I loved Fletch . . . I mean, I
love
Fletch, but he’s not here and he’s not coming back, and Christian is and it’s just . . . it doesn’t feel wrong.”

“No, I’m sure it doesn’t. To you
or
to him,” Coral said. “So, what do you know about him?”

Miranda shrugged. “That’s the problem. I don’t really know anything.”

“So what do you talk about?”

“Well, we talk about stuff . . .”

“Stuff . . . ,” Coral said in a mocking tone, putting down her teacup and gazing at Miranda. “Current events? Geology? Your families? What does that mean?”

“We talk about the accident,” Miranda said nervously, taking a large sip of tea and feeling like she’d inadvertently stepped into some sort of cross-examination. “He listens,” Miranda said finally. A silence fell over them.

“What does he think about the accident?” Coral asked, tapping her fingers together.

“He thinks it’s an accident,” Miranda said slowly, unsure where the conversation was going.

“Yes, and of course, it
was
an accident, dear,” Coral said, placing her hand on Miranda’s arm. Miranda yanked it back. “But all accidents have consequences. And unfortunately for you, one of the consequences of the accident is being ostracized. And Christian, spending time with you, is risking his own consequences. It’s the way the world works. You don’t have to like it, but you’ll be well served if you learn that lesson now,” Coral said, her violet eyes gleaming.

“He saved me,” Miranda said stonily. What did Coral mean, all accidents had consequences? In her life, that had already been made abundantly clear.

“Did he!” Coral exclaimed. But she didn’t sound surprised. “And how do you think he feels about that?”

“How do I think he feels about him saving me?” Miranda repeated. “Good, I guess.”

“So you don’t think he regrets it?” Coral asked.

A sliver of fear lodged in Miranda’s stomach. “What do you mean?” she asked, setting her teacup down with a clatter. “Why would he regret it?”

“No, no!” Coral said quickly. “I don’t mean that he’d regret saving you. Of course he wouldn’t. All I mean is, often, people are pulled between two desires, one that’s correct and one that isn’t. I’m just saying that just because he saved you then doesn’t mean he would save you now.”

“I think he would,” Miranda said shortly.

“Good, then think that. But remember, everyone has a dark side and usually, it’ll end up hurting you. The trick is to realize which side you need to follow.

“Now, would you like any more tea?” Coral asked, as if she hadn’t just wondered out loud whether Christian regretted saving Miranda.

“I have to go,” Miranda said, a lump in her throat. She felt the familiar beginnings of a panic attack and knew she needed to get out. “Another time?” She gasped, throwing her napkin on the table and running toward the exit.

“Of course, darling. Any time you want to talk, I’m here,” Coral said as Miranda sprinted down the gangplank, into the car, and drove to Bloody Point.

T
HREE MORE DAYS
. C
HRISTIAN
’
S MIND WAS FUZZY
. H
E’D
been away from the sea for four days, and even the shallow swimming at Bloody Point wasn’t the same as being Down Below. Maybe he needed to go back. He needed to talk to Valentine and form a plan. He needed to remember his roots. And yet, every second Down Below was one second he could be spending with Miranda.

That was the tricky thing, with Miranda. He wanted to tell her everything. Every day that went by that he didn’t tell her everything—including the fact that he’d been sent on a mission to bring her soul back to Down Below—was living a lie. If there was a chance at a future, no matter how tiny, they had to have a foundation based on truth.

He fingered the gold heart chain he had in the pocket of his shorts. It was fragile, nothing like the jewelry he’d occasionally seen skimming the ocean floor, which were always large and substantial—they had to be, if they’d actually fallen to the bottom of the ocean. He knew he had to give the necklace back to her—he was going to, the day he got his freedom to be at the Surface forever. He smiled at the thought, running his index finger along the grooves of the engraving. The necklace reminded him of the hope he had to keep, the fact that in two days, he and Miranda would be free to be together, forever.

He needed a plan. He thought he’d come up with one Down Below, but he’d been wrong. Even though Up Above was too loud and too bright, making it almost impossible for him to think, he soon realized he’d already grown used to it. In contrast, Down Below was perpetual twilight. It exemplified the change that had occurred within him in just the past few days. Down Below, he’d known there was possibility somewhere, but it was just beyond his reach. Up Above, everything was illuminated, and if it wasn’t, humans would just create their light.

Christian gazed out to the water and saw a large yacht, rocking in the distance. He absentmindedly touched the matches in his pocket, feeling relief they were still there. The expanse of water was enormous, making Miranda’s boat look like a toy. It was also majestic, like the types that would sometimes fall to Down Below. A lone woman was on the boat, her blond hair
piled on top of her head. He thought that he was out of view, but suddenly, the woman looked up and waved, as if she were looking right at him.

Embarrassed to be caught staring, he allowed his gaze to drop down. And suddenly, he gasped.

The boat was named the
Sephie
.

“C
HRISTIAN
?” M
IRANDA CALLED
,
RACING THROUGH THE
palmetto trees toward the beach at Bloody Point. “Christian?” She called again. She heard a rustle from the trees, a few feet away from where she was standing. Nothing. Probably the wind. It had picked up, and the hairs on Miranda’s arms were standing on end.

Shivering, she sat on the piece of driftwood on the sand and hugged her arms close to her chest. Remnants of their fire from the other night were still visible—further proof that no one ever came to Bloody Point. Or maybe the only people who’d possibly come here were people like her and Christian.

She traced her initials in the sand, followed by the eternity symbol. Then she erased it with her palm. She knew what she
should
do: Call the hospital, visit Fletch, research brain injuries and begin to do whatever it took to help Fletch get better. Or begin to do whatever it was you were supposed to do as a good girlfriend when all medical advice and research shows that your boyfriend
won’t
get better. But she felt suspended in time, as if she
couldn’t
do anything until she saw Christian.

It would be easier if she could only
talk
about him to someone. This was the type of guy problem Gen’s mom, Jane, would love to gossip about. Jane loved talking with Genevieve and Miranda. So many times, Genevieve and Miranda would be sitting at the granite island in the kitchen and eating snacks when Jane would come into the kitchen, pull out a bottle of Sancerre, and interject her thoughts, wondering out loud whether relationships before college could
possibly
be beneficial, complaining about her ex-in-laws, and urging Genevieve and Miranda to play the field as much as possible.

What would Jane say about Christian? She’d probably pour out a brand new glass of wine, then dig through the Sub-zero refrigerator for cheese and crackers. “This,” she’d say, finally plunking a log of goat cheese on the table as if presenting an offering, “is going to take a while.”

She’d suggest Miranda needed to do some background intel, that the Prince Charming story was for idiots, and that a man who washes up on the beach is likely a washup, because
that word doesn’t come from nowhere.

“Miranda.” Miranda jumped. Christian was standing above
her, wearing the same baggy khaki pants with the belt as a drawstring and the sweatshirt that she’d given him last night.

“I was looking for you,” Miranda said raggedly. The exhaustion from being up all night and the disturbing conversation with Coral had caught up with her.