He responds by baring his teeth at me in a grin so exaggerated it’s borderline feral.
“Or not,” I say, trying not to laugh only to have it turn into a yawn.
He exhales sharply and sets the laptop on the dashboard. “It’s late. You’re tired.”
I am tired. My fifth—or maybe sixth—yawn in as many minutes proves it. But I’m not letting him shut this down. “Just read through it one more time,” I urge. “Try the jokes. See how it feels.”
He studies me for a long moment, taking in my slumped posture and the way my head rests against the passenger-side window. His gaze softens just enough to make me think he’s about to agree, but then he shakes his head. “You look like you’re ready to pass out. And I’m not about to sit you in my lap and carry you into your house.”
His engine rumbles to life before I can respond, the low purr vibrating through the truck.
“It is late,” I murmur, suddenly wide awake as my mind conjures an unhelpful image of me sitting in his lap, his arms around me. Heat floods my face. I press my palm against the cool glass of the window, hoping it will shock my brain back to order as Wren drives me home. My hand is on the handle, ready to hop out the second he parks.
But just as I’m ready to open my door, he stops me.
“The other day, you told me how hard it was getting back here, but you said there was no other option for you.” His voice is measured, unreadable. “Tell me why.”
I remember the conversation, and while I don’t understand why he’s choosing now to bring it up, I instantly know my answer.
“This place is important to me,” I say, my voice steadier than I expect. “My family built its legacy on this island; it may not be a historically celebrated legacy, but it’s still mine. And once I was old enough to understand what that meant, the generations that came before me, I wanted to know more.” I flip my arm over and trail my fingers over the faint blue lines of my veins, following the patterns I used to trace as a kid when I pretended I could feel my history running through them. “Nothing was more important to my dad than this place, and I wanted to be a part of that with him. So I read everything I could. It’s the only way I’ve ever felt connected to my dad.” I let my arm drop. “He wanted to show the world who our family really was, and I want that too. Isn’t this”—I gaze around us, taking in more than the cab of his truck—“the same for you?”
Something flashes across Wren’s face, but it’s gone before I can name it. His posture doesn’t shift, but there’s a stillness in the silence between us, like my words landed somewhere deeper than he’s willing to admit.
Then, his expression cools, his voice flat when he finally speaks. “Mermaids are my family legacy, and I’d just as soon the world forget about that. But if you want to dig into yours, be my guest, Tourist Girl. Just don’t blame me when you find out they’re exactly who the history books say they were.”
I should probably be put off by his warning, but I just smile. “‘Tourist Girl’? Still? I do have a name.”
“I know.”
For some reason that makes me smile wider.
“Still want to do it?”
“Research my family?” My expression becomes serious. “More than anything.”
His eyes trail over the blue veins that I showed him. “Then bring your dad’s stuff tomorrow. His notes or whatever he has on Kezia Gardner.”
I blink. “Wait, really? We’re actually going to start?” A burst of happiness swells inside me so fast it almost knocks me off my seat. I have the ridiculous, overwhelming urge to throw my arms around him and hug him. I grip the door handle instead, my fingers tight around the cool metal.
“Yeah,” he says, and it’s almost like my excitement infects him. His expression doesn’t shift much, but there’s something lighter in his eyes as he looks at me. The moment is gone almost as soon as it appears. He clears his throat.
“Does that mean I’m officially off probation?” I ask, barely containing my grin.
“It wasn’t probation.”
I shake my head, but I don’t argue. I don’t want to do anything that might break whatever this is—this quiet, unexpected moment when it feels like we might be on the same side.
Thirteen
Lili
While Wren turns pages in my dad’s notebook the next day, I allow myself to do a little poking around on the Shelves, as I’ve started calling them in my head. I’m having a pretty good time looking through the collection of books there too, until Wren barks at me to stop touching everything.
“I’m hardly touchingeverything.” I glance over at the neat stack of books I had started, and not even really old books, just interesting ones. I wasn’t going to so much as breathe on anything that looked old or fragile.
“Just stop moving around.” He frowns in my general direction. “You’re distracting me.”
I’m distractinghim? He’s the one who keeps snorting and making derisive sounds every time he reads something he doesn’t like, which is apparently often. I’m literally standing in front of a single shelf. He’s just looking for a reason to be grumpy. But fine, I can look with my eyes until he’s not paying attention.
