“I’ll get along if he gets along.” I throw down the challenge.
“I’ll get along if she gets along,” Griffith tosses back.
And so my temporary protection plan is decided.
But Carl’s tense energy remains, so eventually, I beg off, claiming I need a shower—which I do—and try to slip away, but have to pause when Carl asks, “Do you need anything?”
“I’m good. Don’t worry about me.” But the words are empty because I’m not sure he’ll ever be able to stop. Maybe if I hadn’t gone into chaos mode when our parents left, then Carl would trust me to take care of myself. But I burned into his brain just how self-destructive I can be early in life, and then I left when I was eighteen, not giving him the chance to see firsthand how I’ve matured.
That’s what I remind myself of anyway when his hovering threatens to suffocate me.
“You can use the master bathroom,” Griffith offers. “There’s a tub if you need to get scaly.”
“Get scaly?” I glance between the two friends. “Oh gods, is that what you call merpeople shifting?”
Griffith smirks. “How else am I supposed to describe it?”
I roll my eyes and stalk from the room, choosing to simply shower in the bathroom connected to the office/bedroom whereI slept the night before. The water is a refreshing cleanse, rinsing away the clinging fear, sweat, and specks of blood Madeline missed when scouring my wound clean before sealing it. I revel in the water pouring over me, the way it soaks into my hair and turns the mass heavy, dragging in an almost-massaging weight against my scalp.
Makes me miss fully submerging myself.
Instinctively, I know exactly which direction and how far Lake Galen is from Griffith’s house. As a mermaid, the large body of water calls to me. I want to go so bad that my bones ache with the need.
But I’m too vulnerable right now. Terrified that a shift will worsen my wound.
And I’ve been training myself to ignore the call of water for years.
I spend more time in the shower than I probably should, starting to regret turning down Griffith’s offer of a bathtub. Maybe I can have a soak tomorrow.
And maybe, in the next day or so, Mor will find me a cure. After I’m healed, my first stop will be a dock to jump off of and lose myself in Lake Galen for a little while. April is still too early in spring for recreational swimming if you’re human. But I could dive into arctic waters and still be comfortable. My body, when it’s not injured, adapts.
The next morning, after a night of fitful sleep, I dress in a torn pair of jeans, plus a faded band T-shirt, and discover Griffith alone in the kitchen, eating a bowl of cereal. An army of boxes sits on the counter next to an empty bowl.
“After you eat, we’ll head to the bar.”
I glance at the clock above the stovetop that shows it’s barely nine. “You need to open for lunch?”
“Only on Saturday.” It’s not Saturday. “Normally, I spend the day brewing and bottling.”
I pause in the middle of dumping out a mountain of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. “You mean, like … you make the beer?”
He nods.
“Where?”
“Eat. Then beer.” He reaches down the counter and comes back with a shoebox. Inside is a set of slip-ons in the exact right size.
“Where did you get these?”
“The store.”
With anyone else, Griffith is happy to chat. But I get the stoic grump.
Makes me want to poke him with a stick.
“And you knew my size?” I slide my feet into the comfortable shoes. “You been staring at my feet? Taking pics for your personal collection?”
He scowls, but can’t respond until he swallows the bite he just spooned into his mouth.
