Page 47 of Make Out With A Merman

I feel the power still humming under my skin. Stillwaiting.

And all I can think is, I didn’t struggle to access it.

Iwantedto.

Some part of me wanted to move the water. To show the lake I still had it in me. To prove I could bend it to my will again.

That part scares the hell out of me.

Because if I stop being afraid of it, what else do I stop being afraid of?

What happens when the current doesn’t answer me?

What happens when itdoes, too much?

I remember the scream. The boy in my arms, blood in the water. My own hands trembling.

And worse, the moment of exhilarationbeforethe fear set in.

I dig my fingers into the dock rail, gripping hard enough to splinter wood.

I’m not a monster.

But I’m not sure I can keep saying that out loud.

Not when the deep wants me back.

Not when I might want it, too.

Later, I pass the arts-and-crafts tent on my way back from the shoreline patrol.

The wind carries laughter, high-pitched, familiar.

I pause.

Callie’s there, sitting cross-legged on the wooden bench, surrounded by three other counselors. They're painting rocks. Or maybe stabbing glitter into mason jars. Honestly, I can't tell what it’s supposed to be, but she's got paint on her nose and a half-finished tie-dye towel draped over one shoulder.

She’s laughing.

But it’s different.

Too quick. A little sharp at the edges.

I know that laugh.

It’s the one she uses when she’s trying to cover the ache.

When she wants everyone to think she’s fine.

I watch as one of the girls jokingly flicks a paintbrush at her. She dodges it, shouts something teasing back, even flashes that infamous Callie smirk.

But her eyes don’t catch light the way they used to.

She’s still the brightest thing in the room.

But something in her is dimmed. That usual spark in her eyes has gone low, quiet. Her heart’s not in it.

She’s going through the motions of being her usual, spunky self.

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