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There’s been no sign of Coach Zamora. Not yet. It’s not like I have a way to reach him either. A part of me thinks it was all a dream—the man showing up unannounced on my doorstep offering to coach me like he hadn’t disappeared from my life eight years ago without any explanation.

The last time I saw Javier Zamora, I was sixteen years old. We’d just finished practice. My mother paced the concrete on the edge of the pool, her words as sharp and cutting as always, pointing out our flaws and imperfections. Penelope, your fingers are limp. Sonora, see me after practice about updating your diet plan. Alejandra, you’re late. When she finished, she saved one last stare for me. Even then, it felt like I had done something wrong simply by existing.

After the click of her pointed heels had faded, Javier would walk over to replace her. I remember his black hair, thick and unruly, long enough to tuck behind his ears. With his beard, hairy arms, and stocky frame, it was easy to forget he was siren-born.

He’d look down at us, my sisters and cousins, and offer some gruff words of reassurance. Penelope, your arch on the jump was perfect. Sonora, the lines of your arms on the clam are exactly what the judges are looking for. Alejandra, do not give up. The timing will come.

Some days, those words from Javier at the end of practice were the only reason I got out of bed in the morning. They were what I thought about when my aunts would tsk at my posture and my boxy clothes. I played his words over and over in my head: Alejandra, do not give up.

And then one day, he was gone.

I’ll avoid him until the competition. He can stand there at the edge of the pool and take credit for my hard work—I don’t care. I don’t need him.

I did what the IASA asked me to do. There are no more excuses they can hide behind. They have to let me compete.

I can ignore him. I take a long drag of my cigarette, and pretend like my body doesn't buzz with interest.

According to the map, most of the sirens are housed on the outskirts of the village. The merpeople are nearby, their lodgings partially submerged caves in the wall of a secluded cove. The sirens are inland, each cabin built with access to a small, freshwater pond with about a half-mile distance from the next. Based on the instructions I got when I checked in with a parasol-toting vampire, mine is the last on the gravel path.

The cabin I’ve been assigned looks like a bungalow: a small wood structure with a peeked roof, big windows, and a little front stoop. I unlock the door and duck inside. I’ve slid one of my sneakers off when I notice I’m not alone.

Javier Zamora stands in the middle of the room.

The first thing I’d noticed when I opened my apartment door two days ago was how much Javier has aged. Deep lines radiate out from the corners of his eyes, and there’s a hint of gray at his temples that wasn’t there before. His hair is longer, drawn back into a ponytail at the back of his head. There’s an additional softness to his belly and chest that makes me wonder how it would feel to put my face between his pecks and…I’m not sure exactly what I want to do there. Take a nap? Nuzzle around a bit?

All of it—and him—sounds tempting.

In a lightweight fishing shirt with rolled-up sleeves and khaki shorts, Javier looks like a suburban dad on vacation. A part of me, the part that wants to forget the hurt and history, wants to tell him how stupidly competent he looks, and how all he needs is a fanny pack to complete the bit.

He’s also fucking hot, but that’s none of my business.

“What are you doing here?”

His thick fingers drum on a wooden countertop beside him, and my attention catches on a worn leather fanny pack. Of fucking course. His expression gives me almost nothing, but I hate the hint of concern in his eyes. “Apparently, this is where I am staying, too.”

“You’re joking, right?” In all of my times competing at the Clash, we have never, ever roomed with our coaches. Of course, I was a part of something then—a piece of an ensemble, a team who went everywhere and did everything together.

When I was on a team, it made sense for us to stay together. Now, because I’m here alone, I expected my lodging to reflect that.

It’s one thing to accept Javier is the only person willing to be my coach. It’s something else altogether to share a tiny room with him. This is supposed to be my moment. My redemption. I don’t think I can do it with him here, watching me with those dark, patient eyes that make me feel naked and exposed. I’ve gotten used to living a life where it’s me and Damian against the world. Being around Javier makes me want to hope that things could be different.

Javier has the decency to look apologetic. “This is where they sent me.”

“You should have said no!” I know I’m being petty, but I can’t stop myself.

Javier sighs.

I walk past him, careful to avoid brushing against his body. Ignoring the fact that I’m still wearing one of my shoes, I take in the kitchenette, the small two-seater sofa upholstered in a seafoam green that was trendy years ago, and an open door with a bathroom on the other side. A ladder leads up to a vaulted loft where I can make out the end of a wide mattress on the floor.

It’s nice. Simple. It’s the perfect place to focus and prepare to compete.

It’s definitely not designed for two.

I walk to the door, feeling like an absolute idiot as I put my one sneaker back on. “I’m going to talk to somebody.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know, Javier,” I snap. “But rather than sit here doing nothing, I’m going to go do something about it.”