The calendar on my fridge mocks me with its red circle around tomorrow’s date. One week since his departure. The arbitrary milestone when I’m supposedly going to hike through unfamiliar coastal terrain to find a cthulhu’s hidden cabin.
When Roark first suggested it, it seemed perfectly reasonable—romantic, even. Now, in the cold light of day, I wonder what the hell I’m thinking.
And besides that, what does one pack for a cthulhu booty call? Extra protein bars and waterproof everything, I guess.
The afternoon tour group is a high school marine biology class. I walk them through the lighthouse with practiced patter, but my gaze keeps drifting toward the horizon. The day is clear enough that the water stretches endlessly, deep blue meeting the lighter blue of the sky in a watercolor blur.
Somewhere out there, he’s swimming. Hunting. Maybe thinking of me.
“Miss Morgan? You were saying something about the lamp?”
I snap back to the present, where a dozen teenagers stare at me with expressions ranging from boredom to mild concern. Their teacher, a woman with kind eyes and a weathered face, raises her eyebrows.
“Sorry. Yes, the Fresnel lens.” I return to my script, explaining the brilliant engineering that allows the light to be seen for miles, the history of the mechanism, how it saved countless lives during storms where visibility dropped to nothing.
“And did the lighthouse also help with, like, sea monsters and stuff?” asks a boy near the back, his tone suggesting he’s hoping for gruesome details.
My throat tightens. “The light serves to guide all who travel by sea,” I say carefully. “After the Great Unveiling, we learned that includes substantially more beings than we’d previously understood.”
“My dad says before the Unveiling, a lot of unexplained shipwrecks were probably monster attacks,” the boy continues. “He says Cape Tempest has more of those than anywhere on the East Coast.”
The teacher interjects, “That’s actually a good example of how scientific understanding changes over time. What we used toattribute to monsters or divine intervention usually has natural—”
“But now we know monsters are real,” another student interrupts. “So maybe those stories were true.”
I grip the railing tighter. “These waters can be dangerous, certainly. But most marine creatures—including intelligent species—aren’t interested in attacking vessels unless provoked.”
“Do you believe in sea monsters, Miss Morgan?” asks a girl with bright blue hair.
I meet her eyes. “I believe in respecting the sea and all its inhabitants. The ocean has taught me that anything that survives its power deserves our consideration, not our fear.”
The teacher smiles approvingly and steers the conversation to the mechanics of the light itself. By the time the tour ends, my shoulders ache from tension. Once they’ve loaded back into their bus, I climb to the gallery deck for a breath of air.
Below, the waves crash against the rocky shore, a familiar comfort. I scan the horizon again, knowing it’s foolish to hope for a glimpse of him. Knowing I’m doing it anyway.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. The reminder I set for the Maritime Festival committee meeting this evening.
Great. Two hours of small talk with Cape Tempest’s finest while pretending I haven’t been harboring—and falling for—exactly the kind of creature their ancestors made a sport of hunting.
I lean against the railing, suddenly exhausted. “Where are you now?” I whisper to the sea. “Are you watching?”
The waves don’t answer, but somehow, I feel less alone for having asked.
MainStreetlookslikea Norman Rockwell painting that got into a fistfight with a tourist trap. Quaint colonial-era buildings house saltwater taffy shops and T-shirt emporiums featuring prints of krakens and mermaids. Post-Unveiling, the town doubled down on its sea monster heritage, commodifying the very creatures their ancestors hunted to near-extinction in local waters.
The irony isn’t lost on me as I hurry past “Mystic Treasures,” where Sebastian Walsh’s assistant is arranging a window display of what they claim are authentic selkie pelts from the 1800s. I avert my eyes, wondering for the hundredth time what Roark would think of all this.
Town Hall sits at the far end of Main Street, a weathered brick building with white columns and too many steps. Inside, the meeting room is already half full, local business owners and community figures clustered in their usual groups.
“Ashe!” Marina waves me over to where she’s saving a seat. Her silver-streaked hair is pulled back in a braid, and she’s wearing a cable-knit sweater despite the warm evening. “Thought you might not make it.”
“Almost didn’t,” I admit, sliding into the chair beside her. “Last tour ran long.”
She studies my face with the same sharp attention she gives to selecting bait for different fishing conditions. “You look tired.”
“Busy week.”
“Mm-hmm.” She doesn’t believe me, but she won’t push. That’s why I love her. After Dad died and Mom disappeared into her grief and work, Marina became the steady presence I needed.
