Page 71 of Fated

There’s a hypnotic rhythm to the thunderous waves. The foam glistens in the moonlight and the coral and shells tinkle musically as the waves tug them back into the sea.

McCormick is quiet. The deep quiet that you find in a sunlit glade in the middle of an alpine forest, or the quiet my mum loves, when you sit cross-legged at the Tor and bathe in the solemnity of centuries passing by.

After a short time dreaming of him I know a bit about McCormick. I know he loves his family. I know he thinks before he speaks. I know he’s careful, cautious. I know he’s given his trust to the wrong people. I know he’s patient and kind. I know he feels the pull between us, the ebb and tide of the sea, as strongly as I do. I know there’s a reason I’m dreaming of him.

But I don’t know what he’s thinking. I don’t know his story. I don’t know what he does when I’m not dreaming him, or even if he exists at all when I’m not here.

It makes me think of the quote Amy just gave, “Let whoever can do so deceive me, he will never bring it about that I am nothing, so long as I continue to think I am something.”

If McCormick believes heis, does that make him as real as me? Does that make all of this real?

I look to him then, glancing up at the line of his jaw and the rough stubble growing in. His hair is still damp, and it curls in black loops at the nape of his neck. My fingers itch to reach up and brush his hair back from his forehead. I’d like to hold his face in my hands, rub my fingers over his stubble, and press my lips to his. A gentle kiss that tells him it’s all okay.

He looks down at me, his brown eyes nearly black in the night.

A bird flutters in the sea grape bushes behind us. There’s a quick flapping of wings and then a white egret bursts free and sails high, a flash of white against the night. It veers toward the wetlands.

I press a hand to my chest, my heart pounding.

The right side of McCormick’s mouth lifts and I reach over and loop my hand in his.

My feet sink into the cool sand and I relax into the warmth of his fingers. I want to fold into him, hold myself to him, but I let the tangle of our fingers be enough.

McCormick stares at our locked hands for a moment and then lets out a long breath.

“I thought we’d lost her,” he says, and his voice still has the remnants of that broken anguish.

I squeeze his hand, clinging to him. “I wouldn’t have let that happen.”

I decide then that I truly wouldn’t have. I would have dreamed something else. I would have dreamed her back to life.

He smiles then. The smile that crinkles at the corners of his eyes, a surprised flash of laughter at the edge of his mouth. “You sound like you believe you can change the world with willpower.”

I glance up at the stars overhead. Venus is out, the brightest light in the sky, only dimmed by the moon. “Maybe I can. In dreams you can do anything.”

“Hmm.” He nods, looking out over the sea. “Except this isn’t a dream.”

I lean into him then, and he wraps his arms around me and pulls me into his warmth. I watch the slow slide of the ocean over the beach. I listen to the night frogs sing. I breathe in the salt and ocean scent of McCormick.

A dozen feet behind us, at the cottage, Sean’s bedroom window is open. We’ll hear him if he cries. But for now, perhaps for the rest of the night, he’s asleep.

I watch the sea.

I wait to wake up.

And when I don’t, I say, “You never finished telling me your story.”

“You fell asleep.”

“And then what?”

He tilts his head, studying me. “And then you woke up, hopped on your bike, and rode back home without a word. You didn’t speak to me again until we found Amy.”

“Why not?”

“You were with Robert.” He says this without inflection.

Robert claims McCormick doesn’t know he’s planning to run off to New York with me. I’m not so sure.

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