Page 111 of Fated

“Ah. It’s never too early for Dostoevsky,” I say, smiling at the tilt of her chin.

Then I stand up, my T-shirt falling over my thighs, take a step forward, and wrap Amy in my arms.

She stands in my hug, her shoulders hunched, and then she sighs and hugs me back.

“Love you, Mom,” she says.

I squeeze her tight, looking over her shoulder at the tiny room with the cracked plaster and the wedding photo on the wall. My heart flips in my chest as I hold her and say, “I love you too.”

At that she pulls away and gives me her brassy grin. “You better go. Dad’s already at the cove.”

38

The cove ison the northside of the island, and long ago someone decided to call it Camelot because it’s so beautiful, so unreal, that it seems to be made of dreams. Which, I suppose, it is. This is where beach weddings, family photos, picnics, and proposals happen. And where swim lessons happen.

Aaron stands on the soft white sand. It’s as fine as powdered sugar, still cool even in the morning sun, and it sifts softly beneath my bare feet.

Aaron’s back is to me. He’s looking out over the sea, and the wind whips at his black hair and tugs at his navy shirt and swim shorts. His back is broad, his shoulders stiff, and the rising sun falls over his bronze skin and the lines of black tattoos on his biceps.

He looks lonely. Or perhaps he just looks very, very alone. As if he’s wishing he were out in the ocean, swimming for hours and hours until he found who he was looking for. The line of his shoulders speaks of longing and wishes yet to unfold.

I step over the powder-soft sand and breathe in the scent of salt water, warming sand, and bright green sea grape leaves covered in morning dew. A blackbird sings in the stretching branches of an old ironwood tree shading a wooden picnic table. I set the picnic basket—made by Maranda—on the table. It’s full of water jugs, sliced banana bread, mangos, and bananas. The sweet scent of it floats up to me as I consider Aaron.

He knows I’m here. When I set the picnic basket down he stiffens at the noise. But he doesn’t turn. Instead he continues to look out over the sea.

It is beautiful here. It’s a horseshoe-shaped beach with the finest sand I’ve ever felt. The ironwood trees dapple the ground with shade and the sea grapes tint the air with a sweet, earthy smell. A long, wide stretch of coral limestone circles into the sea, forming a large C-shaped pool. Farther out the reef breaks the waves. But here, at the cove, the circle of coral limestone protects the beach. The limestone extends about thirty feet into the water and wraps around twenty feet more, so that the water inside the cove is mirror-smooth.

It’s a clear turquoise-blue, and from the beach I can see through the water, all the way to the sandy bottom. There are fish—canary-yellow, iridescent blue, orange and white—all flashing around the limestone and into small mounds of blue-green coral.

The sun has barely topped the water. It’s still peeking over the sea into the new day. Even so, it kisses me on the cheeks with a bit of golden warmth. So I pat the picnic basket and stride across the sand. My white cotton cover-up flutters against my thighs, and the string of my bikini pulls at my neck.

I stop next to Aaron, and when I do, he looks down and gives me a tight smile.

I wonder.

Last night I hurt Amy.

Maybe last night I hurt Aaron too.

“Are you ready?” he asks, his voice absent of the familiar warmth.

“Aaron?” I reach out to put my hand on his forearm.

He looks at me then, a quick glance, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly. “Not McCormick?”

Ah. So I did. The dream Becca said something last night to hurt him.

“No. Are you all right?” I ask, touching the warmth of his forearm with the pads of my fingers.

He lets out a breath at my touch and I think he’s going to touch me, say “Fi,” kiss me. But then he closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I can’t keep doing this.”

“What?” My heart picks up speed at the gravelly hurt in his voice.

He opens his eyes and looks down at me. There’s a raging storm in the depths of them. “This. This tug-of-war. This back-and-forth. I can’t keep doing it. Last night you kissed him. This morning you’re here.”

Kissed him?

Kissed Max?

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