EVA GESTURES TO THE LOCK ON THE WINDOW. Instinctively, I flip it free, out of curiosity more than anything. She pushes the window open and then blinks into the sudden brightness spilling into the yard.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask as she folds her body through the opening.
“Emmy sent me over for a dozen eggs,” she replies. She tumbles onto my bed and looks around, legs crossed underneath her like I invited her over for a freaking slumber party.
“I’m assuming that’s a joke.”
She grins. “Yes, Grace, that’s a joke.”
“Ever heard of the front door?”
My tone comes out a little harsher than I intended, because her face falls and she looks down, picking a tiny hole just starting to form in the knee of her black jeans. She’s wearing black-framed glasses, a fitted black T-shirt, and black Chuck Taylors. It’s like she’s on some sort of hipster spy mission.
“Sorry, I’m just really tired,” I say, sinking onto the bed next to her.
“You did unlock the window.”
“Momentary lapse of judgment.”
“I’ll use the front door when I leave.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I wanted to ask you if I could see the lighthouse.”
“You saw it.”
She smiles. “I mean from the top.”
I lean against my headboard and rub at my sleep-desperate eyes. “Oh my god, who the hell are you?”
“Didn’t we already establish that?” She points to her chest. “Eva.” She points to me. “Grace.”
“I meant the question in more of an existential sense.”
“Oh, well, when you figure that one out, let me know. I haven’t got a damn clue. But my full name is Evangeline, if that helps. It was my mom’s middle name.” Her voice, teasing and even flirty at first, softens at the end, nearly tapering off into a whisper.
When I don’t say anything, she blinks at me, then looks away, folding her arms over her chest. “Sorry. I don’t know why I told you that.”
We sit there, drowning in a damn river of awkward for what feels like years. Do I say I’m sorry about her mom? Ask how she likes the cape? I’m about to offer something, anything, but she’s got this look on her face that makes me stop. It’s the same look Mom wears every November tenth—?my father’s birthday—?and every March twenty-first—?their wedding anniversary. It’s the Please don’t talk about it look.
“Listen,” I say, rubbing at my forehead with both hands. “I’m exhausted. The lighthouse is cool and all, but it’s my first night here, so—?”
“Will I get you in trouble?”
“I don’t know, will you?”
She smiles and slips off the bed, starting a slow amble around my room, gliding her hands over my few possessions. “Emmy’s a hard sleeper, and lately I can’t sleep. Plus, the ocean—?”
“Let me guess. It called to you.” Carpe diem, baby.
She tilts her head at me. “Yes, it’s been whispering sweet nothings in my ear since this afternoon. I had to see it.”
I shake my head at her, but laughter bubbles in my chest.
“Irresistible wooing notwithstanding, it does look beautiful under the moon.” Eva stops her tour and faces me, resting her butt against the dresser. “Come with me.”
“I’ve seen the ocean under the moon before.”
