Surprise momentarily relieves the sensation of claws scrabbling under my skin. Weirdly enough, I kind of want to go. I haven’t been to the beach in ages. And if it’s a private beach, there won’t be too many people around, so it’s less likely I’ll be triggered.
“Next weekend?” My episode should be over by then. “Sure, I’m in. I’ve got this new bikini I’ve been dying to wear.”
“Okay, or…” His eyes travel down to my bare shoulders, and his smile wavers. “Maybe, um…maybe wear a one-piece swimsuit…you know, if you have one.”
“Oh, right.” I press my fingers to my lips, letting my eyes widen with mock horror. “We wouldn’t want my exposed navel to cause a riot.”
He has the grace to look uncomfortable. “The dress code was Dad’s idea.”
“What doyouwant me to wear?” I slow-blink at him, a half smile curving my mouth.
Edgar flushes pink from his throat to the roots of his blond hair. “I…I, um… Wear whatever you want.”
“How twenty-first century of you. I think I will.”
He clears his throat. “Cool, I’ll text you the details. Same number?”
“Yup.” Same phone number, same email, same house, same job I’ve had for years. I’m stuck, a fish caught in a net, and I have no idea how to swim free.
Liberty takes money, which is in short supply in Wicklow.
Edgar’s younger sister, Isabella, bustles up behind him, looking angelically pious in a long, ruffled dress and heels, not a hair out of place on her golden head. She barely glances at me before tugging his sleeve. “Eddie, Dad needs you.”
“Duty calls.” Edgar gives me an apologetic wave and hurries away with Isabella.
I sink onto the very end of the back pew, where I can easily access the door if I need to. I’ve had to leave a service twice before. I claimed nausea the first time, but that gave rise to speculation about a secret pregnancy, so I used a migraine as my excuse the second time.
I guess I’m lucky all this didn’t start until I was around sixteen. After the first couple episodes, my parents figured out what I was and switched me to homeschooling. Mom stuck it out until I finished twelfth grade, and then she left. She’s living in England now,with some lady professor. They travel a lot, and there never seems to be a good time for me to go visit them. Not to mention the fact that being in a crowded airport would likely trigger multiple episodes—and I don’t want to think about what would happen if I had one of my fits while on a plane.
I’m happy for Mom. We FaceTime once a month, and I’m genuinely glad she got away and is living her best life. But I hate her for it too, the way I hate all people withoptions.
Aunt Nellie passes by, gives me a cheerful smile and a nod, but doesn’t stop to say hi. As a favored member of the congregation, she’s headed up front to chat with her friends. She’ll probably sit with Dad. They’ll talk about all the surface things of life, never once dipping into the matter of my oddness or his drunken rages. I’m not even sure how much she knows about his drinking. He’s good at keeping secrets.
Mrs. Coffey seats herself at the organ and begins playing one of the hymns I’ve heard all my life. No modern service here—it’s all the very oldest of old-school.
The words of the hymn are engraved into my brain, and they play in a doleful loop while I clutch the edge of the pew, my nails digging into the wood grain.
There is a fountain filled with blood
Drawn from Immanuel’s veins;
And sinners plunged beneath that flood
Lose all their guilty stains.
Fucking creepy. And gross. My brain won’t stop picturing a torrent of blood pouring out from between elevator doors like inThe Shining, and I want toscream. The urge to shriek aloud is tightening my lungs, throbbing in my chest. The creature inside me is crawling up my throat, claws slitting tissue as she climbs my gullet, heaves herself onto my tongue, pries open my jaws—
“That seat taken?”
The gruff male voice startles me out of my trance. The blood in my mind recedes, and the monster in my throat sinks back down as I swallow.
I look up at the man who spoke.
Heathcliff Lockwood looms above me, looking like sin incarnate in a clean white shirt and dark jeans. The shirt’s top three buttons are open, revealing the leaves and vines tattooed across his chest. There’s part of a wing, too—a crow, maybe? The crisp shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows, baring his brown, tattooed forearms. He’s got a few silver rings on his fingers—I didn’t notice them yesterday.
He’s pointing to the pew beyond me.
“You can’t be here,” I hiss.
