“Why does she take such an interest in other people’s old memories?”
“She said she thinks someone needs to remember them.” Coral shifted, watching him. “If they get thrown out, it would be as if they never existed. My grandmother hates that. Maybe it’s because she’s old and sees an end to her own memory.”
He nodded.
Her heart twisted. He’d told her last week that some days he couldn’t remember the sound of his mom’s voice or the exact blue of her eyes. She asked him questions, letting him remember Lyn through spoken words. When they were apart, Coral wrote those words down, hoping to save them for Merrick. Wanting to make some part of his mom permanent for him, even if the woman never came back.
Merrick picked through the box with cobwebs stuck to its corners. A spider crawled out and Merrick flicked it away. He dug deep, withdrawing book after book, dusting each one off before setting it in a pile to the side.
The final book he recovered was one of those coffee table books with a bunch of professional photos in it. The title read Lighthouse Legacy.
Merrick stared at it as if he’d seen a ghost.
“What is it?”
“This photo,” Merrick said. “It’s . . . I’ve seen it before.” He dusted off the cover and plopped beside Coral on the floor.
They looked through the book together, with the spine resting between their touching knees. The photos on each page seemed to tell a story. Coral found herself getting lost in the images, in the captions that relayed the history of each abandoned place. One lighthouse, the same as the one on the cover, had been turned into a bed-and-breakfast and museum.
Merrick was fixed on it.
Coral stayed quiet. She didn’t want to interrupt the gears that clearly turned in his mind.
“I have seen this before.” Merrick held the page closer.
She leaned in. His scent drove her mad. She wanted to hide in his arms. She wanted him to assure her that, no matter what happened, he’d never leave.
Her own insecurities made her ill.
She moved away an inch.
Merrick didn’t seem to notice. He cleared his throat and stood, leaving the book on the floor.
Why did a treasure hunt always have to end?
Merrick needs this season to end. So he can start a new one, even if it’s one without his mom. Or me.
Coral rose and neared him. She placed a hand on his arm and tugged. “Talk to me.”
Merrick turned but didn’t meet her gaze. “This whole thing is . . . It’s pointless.” He punched an empty box and sent it flying across the attic.
Her hand rested over her heart. “Did something happen?” She tried to draw him in but he pulled away. Was this how he felt when she’d kept her distance?
“A lot of stuff happened.”
She wrung her hands, then shoved them into her back pockets. Coral tried to forget about the pearls on her wrist. The ones that served as a constant reminder he still hadn’t helped her find the prince.
He hadn’t kept his promise.
“I know,” she said.
“Do you?”
The words hit their mark. Because he was right. She didn’t know. Coral understood his sister had struggled with depression. That his dad was a jerk. And his mom was missing—left? But what else did Coral know about the boy she’d so easily fallen for?
No, easily wasn’t the right word. It hadn’t been easy. She’d never wanted to let him in.
But then she did.
“Maybe I need a break.” His heartless words fired at will.
Bursts of red splashed across Coral’s vision.
Red. Red. Red.
And the tide came crashing down.
“A break.” She repeated his word. It hadn’t been a question. “A break from me.” She held on to the wall to keep from falling.
“No.” He started toward her but stopped short. “I don’t know.” He held his head between his hands and shook it. Too much time passed before he met her eyes.
Red turned to a cool and numbing black. Unlike the night of her birthday, Coral did not fight the shadows as they closed in. “You don’t know.” Her flat words tasted bitter. He didn’t know.
He didn’t know.
“I don’t know what I mean.” Merrick took one step toward her. Two. “I care about you, but—”
“But,” she finished for him, “you don’t want this. You don’t want me.”
Coral wanted Merrick to refute the statement. To assure her it wasn’t that at all.
Instead, he said nothing.
She found the words for him. “You lied. Pinky promises?” She shook her head. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand. Coral couldn’t go on. She didn’t want to.
“I didn’t lie. I care about you. I’m confused. I’m exhausted. I’m . . .”
“You’re what?”
“I’m sorry.” His shoulders slumped.
And that was it.
Coral glanced at the open book on the floor, then back at Merrick. “Take it. Take it and go.”
She took the stairs two at a time and fled out the door and toward the beach. When she reached the water, she didn’t stop. Fully clothed and heart breaking, she dove beneath the waves. She stayed under until her lungs burned and the salt water stung her throat. When she finally surfaced, Coral gazed at the empty beach and, behind it, her grandmother’s cottage.
Both were empty.
And Merrick never returned.
Thirty-Eight
Brooke
After
It takes four hours to reach the Church in the Forest at Pebble Beach. It’s beautiful, full of light and giant windows looking out over the trees. The pews are packed so our group files into one near the doors.
I spot a familiar face a few rows ahead. Mee-Maw catches my eye before she faces the front again. We’ve talked a few more times over the phone this past month, but this is the first time I’ve seen her since I moved to Fathoms. I refused her visits at the hospital last spring. Now, as I take my seat at the end of a pew, all I can think about is how much Hope would urge me to make things right before it’s too late.
Music plays and a pastor stands to speak. I lean into the aisle and spot Hope’s dad at the front. He’s sitting with shoulders straight and face forward. I smooth my hands over my dress and convince myself to find him afterward. No matter how awkward or difficult, I know Hope would want me to say something to her dad.
Just as everyone bows their head in prayer, a woman rushes past me and finds a place at the end of one pew a few rows forward. I watch her through the slits in my eyelids. Her hair is the first thing I notice. The color of a summer sunset—the same color as Hope’s.
Her mom?
Rage ebbs and it’s all I can do to remain in my seat. I clench my fists. So much of me wants to storm the aisle and give this woman a piece of my mind. Now she shows up? Now? She couldn’t have shown up this summer when Hope needed her most? Or how about last year when the girl too young to drive a car or know anything about the world attempted suicide not once, but twice?
I’m fuming, trying my hardest to see her through the lens Hope wore. Hope, the smartest, brightest, most outgoing, encouraging, positive person I’ve ever known.
How did that happen? One of the few people who made an impact on my decision to stay, to try, to keep going, is the same person who left me behind because she couldn’t do it anymore.