Outside, Eva takes the lead. It’s cold as ass. I stuff my hands under my armpits and follow her around the side of the house. The salty wind bites through my tank top, and I’m a few muttered curse words away from going back inside when we reach the old wooden door on the north end of the lighthouse. To my right, high tide is at full throttle, and the ocean churns against the rocks that act as a barrier between the water and the lighthouse’s tiny yard.
“Keys,” Eva says, holding out her hand. I drop them into her palm, and she wiggles one and then the other into the lock. After a few jabs and twists, the door swings open. Cool, stale air curls out through the entryway. In the dark, I can just barely make out a spiraling staircase, cobwebs lacing in between the rails.
“This is a scene from a horror movie,” I say. “You realize that, right?”
Eva laughs and tugs on my arm, pulling me into the dark chasm.
Aside from a toolbox and a folded-up ladder in one corner, the space is pretty much empty except for the staircase, so we start climbing. We spiral up and up and up. The air grows even staler, mixing with salt and something softer. A musky, flowery scent I can’t pin down.
It’s dark and the stairwell narrows more and more the higher we climb. Relief filters through me when we reach the top, but there’s another locked door and my breath comes in short spurts again. Eva messes around with the other key. Despite the chill in the air, her body heat is all I can feel, and it’s making me sweat in that sort of way that precedes passing out.
Finally, the door bursts open, and we spill out onto the circular balcony. The space between the wall and the edge is about three feet all the way around, lined with flat cement. Above us, light sweeps over the earth and ocean, igniting the silvery dark with pale yellow every few seconds. It’s windy as hell, and, I swear to god, the lighthouse sways like a drunk idiot.
My lungs feel like they’re shrinking, and I press my back against the cool white wall. Eva props the door open with a brick before basically skipping to the edge, her hands curling around the railing as she looks out at the world. Her hair dances in the wind, dark swirls ignited every time the light grazes over the tips.
“This is amazing!” she yells, turning to look back at me. Her smile dissolves as she takes in my fingers clawing at the wall. “Are you scared of heights?”
I shake my head. I have no problem with heights in general. I do have a problem with heights that make me feel like I’m an apple balancing on the top of a toothpick.
She comes over and that subtle floral scent washes over me again. Like jasmine under a spring sun. She reaches behind me and grabs my hand. I let her guide me to the railing. My fingers close around the cool metal, and she settles in next to me, her arm brushing mine as she peers out over the side of the world.
I try to relax and focus on the water, the rocks below, and the sky above. Try to empty my mind of Jay and Mom and pianos. Strangely, after a few minutes of just looking, Eva warm at my side, I do. My shoulders descend and my eyelids feel pleasantly heavy, the salty wind and a formidable ocean whispering a gentle hush-hush.
“I can’t believe I’ve never come up here before,” I say.
Eva laughs. “I can’t either.”
“There’s a boring-as-hell museum on the main floor, but the top hasn’t been open to the public since—?” A humid gust bites off my words, and my fingers tighten on the railing.
“Since what?” Eva asks.
“Since some girl jumped off the edge, like, a hundred years ago.”
Her eyes widen. “Are you serious?”
I nod.
“Why?”
“Everyone has a different story. Her lover was a sailor and he died at sea. Her father was a brute and was going to make her marry his brutish pal. She got caught with her girlfriend, and her parents were going to send her off to an insane asylum.”
Eva sucks in a breath. “Is that true?”
I let out a light laugh. “I don’t know. Hence all the conflicting stories.”
“God, that’s awful.”
“Which one?”
“All of it. And that no one really knows the truth, no one really knows her.” She gazes out at the ocean, her eyes wide and thoughtful. “I mean, her whole story is swallowed up by how she died. By that one thing. Nothing else really matters.”
“No, I guess not.” I’ve heard all of these stories a million times. The lighthouse museum has little key chains with the brassy image of a girl in a long, old-fashioned skirt, her metal arm held out in front of her like she’s trying to hold on to something. The cape can’t even agree on her name. Harriet. Helen. Hattie. But Eva’s right. It is sad.
We stand there in silence for a while. Next to me, Eva inhales deeply and lets it out slowly, her breath matching the rolling waves below us. I try to think of something else to say, but, weirdly, it feels needless, like the words would be intrusive. It’s a peaceful kind of silence. Easy. And dammit if it isn’t nice to let something be easy.
“It makes me feel safe,” she says, leaning her forearms on the rail.
“What does?”
