Page 93 of The Otherworld

“So, why not? I mean, what harm could it possibly do? She doesn’t want to move out permanently. She just wants to see what life is like in our world.”

Adam gets all quiet and contemplative, stirring the eggs with a spatula while Mom divides the pancakes among plates. I’m about to consider myself the winner of this debate when Mom says, “It could do some harm. If her father doesn’t want her to go, and she goes anyway… it could drive a wedge between them.”

I wonder if that would be such a bad thing. I still stand by my opinion that the guy is an unreasonable dick. I could tell just by the way he looked at me, like I was some punk intruding on his life and violating his daughter by having a simple conversation with her.

“There’s no point talking about this,” Adam says, sitting down with his breakfast. “There’s nothing we can do about it.”

I tilt my head to the side. “I don’t know about that.”

He shoots me a no-nonsense look. “Stay out of it, Jack. I mean it.”

“Is that a threat?”

Mom sighs. “Boys.”

“No, seriously, I want to know. Why are you so defensive about this? The guy’s a lunatic—”

“Jack, let’s talk about something else.” Mom sets a heavenly-smelling plate of pancakes and eggs in front of me.

For her sake, I drop the topic. Adam and I aren’t going to see eye to eye on it, and that pisses me off. He may have spent more combined hours with Orca, but he doesn’t understand her like I do—he doesn’t see how unhappy she is, deep down.

Maybe I’m the only one who can see it.

Maybe I’m the only one who can rescue her.

30

The River Lethe

ADAM

Time off is the last thing I need right now, but according to the doctor, it would be “extremely unwise” to do any professional piloting until my ribs are fully healed. That means four weeks of no income, which is arguably more painful than the fracture itself.

But it’s not just the money I’m worried about.

It’s Orca.

All rest and no work means too much time to think about her—and everything that happened between us on the island. Too much time to regret every word, every look, every touch—simultaneously wishing I could turn back time and be with her all over again. Wishing what I wrote in that letter were true, that she and I lived in a world with just the two of us. No place to belong except in each other’s arms.

Damn it.

I’m supposed to be getting over her. I told myself I would. I told myself the memory of her would fade. But so far, it’s only grown more vivid. No matter how hard I try, I can’t get her out of my head. I start seeing her in my dreams—lucid visions of her standing on the rocks, singing with the orcas, or leaning against the railing at the top of the lighthouse, wind tangling in her wild hair.

Even when I’m up to my elbows in restoration work on my Beaver, I can’t stop wondering: what is she doing right now? Has she found the letter I left for her in my journal? What did she feel when she read it?

Sometimes, I catch myself smiling for no reason and realize I’m thinking about Orca. The way she looked in the greenhouse, butterflies all over her; or what she said about infinity and chaos; or the sweet music of her voice singing ballads from the kitchen while I slept on the couch; or the way she touched my face after I shaved that morning, her soft fingertips moving across my skin.

It’s over. She’s gone.

I tell myself that again and again whenever a memory comes back to haunt me. And each time, it feels like sticking a knife in my chest.

Sometimes I wish I could tell Jack, but then I think about how betrayed he would feel, knowing I lied to him before. It would only cause more trouble. So I keep my mouth shut.

* * *

I drive Mom home from work on Wednesday afternoon because her car is at the shop, and Dad is at the marina. It’s raining, as usual. I don’t say much on the drive; I just listen to the rain pattering the windshield and feel like I’m not here—like I’m dreaming, sleepwalking. Like part of me is still somewhere else.

With someone else.

---