I turn, thinking she’s finally found something. But she hasn’t moved.
“How long have we been doing this?”
I check my watch. “The museum closed an hour ago.”
“No, I mean all this. Kezia Gardner.”
I don’t know what she’s getting at, but I answer anyway. “Since the start of summer, I guess. Why?”
She slides the album in front of her and flips to the first letter, the one we’ve read a dozen times already and still can’t make sense of. “Do you know what I’ve figured out about this?” Her voice hardens. “Nothing. It’s all rambling. No reference to the war, the Prohibitory Act, nothing of importance. Look at how he starts it: ‘I hope this letter finds you in the best of health, as I remain, for the most part, in a state of tolerable comfort. It is no small matter that the wind has lately shifted with a rather peculiar disposition. I am not entirely certain of its cause, yet it brings to mind a most curious reflection on the state of my window shutters today, and though they have been in place for some time, I find them not so secure as they once were. It is likely of little consequence, but they may require adjustment before long. The clock upon the mantle also strikes with a rather unusual chime.’
“And it goes on like that for dozens of lines, talking about absolutely nothing. Why send something like that, much less preserve it well enough for us to be reading it two hundred and fifty years later?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, my frustration mirroring her own now. “That’s why we have to keep looking.”
Her gaze flickers, and she lets out a sad laugh. “You sound like my dad. He’d say there is always another book or another map or another piece of evidence and all we have to do is keep searching.”
I give her a tired smile and reach into another box. “In that respect, I’d say I agree with him.”
Her expression darkens, and she shakes her head, a deep sigh escaping her. “In that respect, and so many others, I wouldn’t.”
A tightness grips my chest as I push toward her, moving around to her side of the table. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means everything, all of this. I think my dad was wrong, and that maybe he even knew it, which would explain why he never let me come here.” Her voice cracks the slightest bit, but she shakes it off. “Maybe he realized that he wasted his life on this and couldn’t bear to look me in the eye when I found out he chose nothing over his family.” She sucks in a deep, steadying breath. “Maybe he sat at his ridiculously expensive desk, looked over his collection of books and notes, and realized he had nothing to show for it except a worn-out rug.”
“So, what, you want to quit?” I can hear the disbelief in my voice, the panic pouring out before I can mask it. “Just like that?”
“No, not just like that,” she counters, her voice thick with emotion. “I’ve been through his notebook backward and forward and I don’t know if there’s anything left to find. I hoped that maybe there’d be something in one of these boxes today, but there wasn’t. I just don’t think I can keep doing it, or...” She takes a deep breath. “Or keep seeing you.”
A ringing starts in my ears.
“Think about it. What have we actually accomplished?” She glances at a spot not ten feet away, where I once held not a box in my lap, but her. “I think we’ve done more harm than good, and maybe it’s time we walk away.”
One of my legs starts to spasm as I tense up.
“Wait, just hold on a second.” Blood pounds in my head, making it impossible to think clearly. “We had a deal. You were supposed tohelp me find something real for the museum, and I was supposed to help you figure out the truth about Kezia. Well, we’re about to dump another”—I bite back an expletive—“mermaid skeleton in the lobby, and this is when you want to give up?” Both of my legs bounce now, the soles of my shoes hitting the footplate with a loud, rhythmic thud. “Where’s my real piece of history? Isn’t that what you promised me?”
“I’m sorry you didn’t get much out of this,” she says, and I can tell tears aren’t far away. “But I think we both know this is the right thing to do.”
“What if I don’t? What if I say you haven’t held up your end of the bargain?”
“Then I’d say please, because I can’t stay here and watch you and Eryn try to go back to the way things were. You can’t ask me to do that.”
“Eryn,” I breathe, and the panic surges again. “This isn’t about Eryn.”
But it is. I know it is. Everything is about her. The guilt. The feelings that churn in my gut, twisting, making it hard to breathe. I press both hands down on my legs as they bounce harder. “Don’t do this now, okay? Not now. What about the number forty-three in your dad’s notebook? Or the rest of the diary pages he didn’t transcribe?” I’m reaching, but I can’t think of anything else to keep her here.
“You’re not hearing me,” she whispers. “I haven’t been staring at a notebook or diary all these weeks, I’ve been staring at you.” Her face flushes but she keeps going, “I’m not allowed to have these feelings for you, but I do, and I don’t know how to make them stop.”
I lean forward, gripping the edge of the table to steady myself, but I can’t. How can she leave now? We’re so close. We just need more time. I need more time. “So that’s it? Tourist Girl came, had her fun in the sun, and now she’s ready to let everyone else deal with the mess she’s leaving behind?”
“Don’t say that.” It’s maybe the most broken I’ve ever heard her sound when what I need is for her to get mad.
“Prove me wrong,” I say, when what I really mean isDon’t leave.
A tear slips down her cheek, but she brushes it away quickly, like she’s trying to hide the hurt. “Call me a tourist then. It’s what I am. But you know I’m right.”
Nothing about this feels right.
