Текст книги "The saltwater course"

Автор книги: Avian St. Graves

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

18

Cindi

It took a total of seventeen hours to get from San Diego to Shanghai. I spent the thousand-and-twenty minutes shaking, thinking Tommy or his family would appear out of thin air and drag me back to the mansion.

I never saw a single Gallagher. Not when I found a place to stay, two cities over, or further north, when I was too scared to stay stagnant for another day. It wasn’t until I saw Matthew—one of Tommy’s friends—in the crowd while I was at the market.

Every day since the night I killed Tommy has felt much the same, paralyzed by fear and paranoia.

Except now.

For the first time in a year and half, I let myself simply be. I feel…safe, like I can finally take a breather from running and looking over my shoulder. Like there’s someone else in my corner looking out for me.

I could get addicted to this.

Three bags rustle against the currents, oscillating and pulling against Ordus’ powerful propulsions as air bubbles climb over the oxygen dome over my head. The nonperishables and food in wrappers are in the nylon bags strapped to his back. The waterproof one has the basic necessities.

My legs tremble around his waist from the hour we’ve already spent in the sea on the way back to the island. Pain lances my arm, from my shoulder all the way down to my fingers. My elbow throbs from the use, and the cold is making it even worse. The wetsuit isn’t helping nearly as much as I want, and I don’t want to admit how much I want Ordus’ suckers to do that thing it does that makes my arm hurt less. Being carried bridal style isn’t an option when he’s holding a gallon of mineral water in each hand.

To add insult to injury, it feels like someone lit a fire on my tattoo, then took a grater to it. At least I feel the best I have in days—it was probably the chicken essence. I can hear Dad’s “I told you so” from the grave.

Still, I feel sick to my stomach. What might have happened if Ordus never intervened? What would those guys have done to me the night of Nat’s birthday? What if I decided not to run that day, and some man showed up at my house? I could have found out firsthand what is worse than death.

Silver lining? I have a semblance of a plan when it comes to preventing death by lack of food and water.

I packed some plastic containers to collect rainwater. I managed to find my old, barely functioning tablet to access the internet. Reddit suggested filtering seawater with a T-shirt, and in my nonprofessional opinion, it sounded like bullshit. If I’m desperate, I’ll give a solar a go.

If all else fails, Ordus can swim to the mainland to get me another couple gallons of distilled water.

The crappy, lagging, jailbroken iPad also helped teach me how to start a fire so I can cook water and fish—shit, I forgot seasoning. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. This is one long episode of Survivor. I’m not about to fuss over the fact that I can’t have sambal with crab.

But chances of me successfully starting said fire? Closer to zero percent than a hundred. I’m crossing my fingers the matches and lighter I packed stay dry.

A cramp goes through my whole body, and I bite back a whimper. I untuck myself from his neck to glance at the surroundings. Sunlight streams through the waves. Silver beams of light illuminate the surrounding blue.

Minutes pass. I stare over his shoulder, waiting for pops of color or evidence of sea life, but…nothing? Just trash floating around like water bottles, cigarette buds, straws, plastic, the occasional wreckage of what I can only assume came from a boat.

No fish. No reef. No evidence to suggest we’re swimming though something other than a graveyard.

It continues for miles. It’s like a wasteland—rocks, sand, the corpses of animals long dead.

Are these the side effects of global warming scientists warned us about? Where are we on the map? Are we going north through the Java Sea, where we’d eventually hit Borneo or Sulawesi—or the Philippines, if we’re going through the Strait? Singapore if we’re heading northwest.

Or south toward the Indian Ocean. Or southeast to Australia.

All I know is, the scenery doesn’t change as we head further away from Bali, other than there being less and less trash the further away we get.

“What happened here?” I ask, more to myself than to Ordus. I can’t hear much of the other side of the bubble, so consider me unnerved when the dome expands, and suddenly, another person’s breathing fills the small space. I lurch back to put distance between our faces—as if I hadn’t spent the past few hours leaning my head on his shoulder.

“My kingdom is now known as the Dead Lands,” he says quietly, as if he doesn’t want anyone to hear.

I’m sorry. Did he say his kingdom? The proper noun or whatever would be our pronoun—as in us krakens’ kingdom, right? It’s a slip of the tongue.

“Now? Has it always been so…” Don’t say dead. “Barren?”

He shakes his head once, watching me closely from the corner of his eye. He’s on edge, stiffening every so often, darting his gaze all around. It’s putting me on edge.

What if Ordus isn’t the biggest creature out there? I tighten my grip on him.

“My territory was booming with life fifty years ago. Game was ripe. There was coral of every color each way you looked.”

My.

I swallow. “Global warming?”

His brows pinch in confusion. “A Curse,” he says, like he isn’t sure if they’re the same thing.

The air in the dome grows frigid, but the water’s temperature increases with the shifting landscape. It rises by at least ten degrees, rapidly ticking upward until it feels like I’m swimming through a hot pool in my wetsuit.

Worse is the scene below. The sand changes from grey to pitch-black, broken only by the protruding white bones.

The energy feels all sorts of wrong. The atmosphere is staticky, cloying, like stepping into an abandoned hospital, or standing alone in a forest when all the insects have got silent.

Ordus stops us before it reaches jacuzzi level. I slowly pry myself away from him. The reprieve of moving my aching limbs is instantaneous. One of his tentacles helps me turn to survey the area, still close enough to him that the air dome remains around us.

In the distance, a single boat lies on a pile of animal corpses. It looks like one of those traditional Balinese fishing boats, the old-timey ones that often find their way to the bottom of the ocean, except this one has more color and parts.

Dad’s buddy Marcus would take us out on his boat every summer to go fishing or tubing with his two kids. When I was nineteen, Dad, Marcus, and a couple of their other friends took us snorkeling at Wreck Alley.

Majority of us were way too beginner to check out the Ruby E, but Dad’s biker friend Saul had been snorkeling since birth and showed us the pictures he took after he went down.

The Ruby E looks nothing like the fishing boat in front of us. The photos showed the deck and hull covered in pinks, yellows, and greens from algae, every inch of surface left exposed to the unforgiving elements.

This boat isn’t blanketed in moss. Streams of green aren’t floating off it or winding around the lines. The lines of blues and reds painted on the bow and hull look like they could’ve been done in the past year. It isn’t rusted either.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the boat just went down in the past day.

“What is this place?” I whisper. It doesn’t feel right to talk here.

Sensing my unease, Ordus draws me closer to him. I shouldn’t be breathing a little easier with him near, but nothing about this place is natural.

“Fifty years ago, a kraken killed the daughter of a sailor.” His voice is low. I watch him over my shoulder, listening intently. “He stole her from the ship and killed her before swimming away.”

My lips part as I shift my attention back to the boat. Are there dead people in there? I instinctually move closer to Ordus.

“My mother, the queen—” His mother, the queen? Excuse me? “—wasn’t aware of what he had done until that very vessel returned a month later, bringing with it the woman’s mother. A witch. An incredibly powerful one.”

Witches. Queens. Krakens. I clench my jaw and silently urge him to continue.

“And so started the Witch’s tirade for revenge. She didn’t care who the offending kraken was. In her eyes, all kraken-kind was complicit, all suffering for the crimes of one. She sacrificed her crew, used the energy from their souls to kill my mother and cast a Curse over our territory for all plants to wither and die so krakens will starve to death or succumb to the Waste,” he says, like he’s repeating a story out of a kid’s book, not something he’s lived through.

I stare at the boat. His story makes sense. In a way.

It justifies the miles upon miles of desert land we passed. It explains this eerie place, the lack of vegetation on Ordus’ island.

I believe him.

“My sister was agile.” There’s the first inflection in his tone, a dip that says this isn’t just a story for him. “She snapped the Witch’s neck, but it was too late. The damage was done. My mother was dead, and our territory cursed. It is why…” He clears his throat. “Why my kingdom is known as the Dead Lands.”

I’m not sure whether I’m more shocked by the fact that one witch could cause this much destruction, or that Ordus is a fucking king.

“Forever?” I whisper, turning back to face him. The Earth is already screwed because of human greed. I’m no scientist, but I’m fairly certain the last thing our world needs is for part of the sea to be uninhabitable for all forms of life.

The full weight of his attention falls on me. “No. The Curse can be lifted.”

Ordus’ tentacle squeezes my waist. The blues of his irises have darkened into thunderclouds, the glint of sunlight in them a thunderbolt. The intensity makes me suck in a sharp breath, wanting to turn back around to avoid seeing his gaze.

I wet my dry lips. “How?” Something tells me I don’t want to know.

“By the ruler marrying their destined bride.”

His words slam into me, heavy and suffocating. Me.

I’m his so-called mate. How much more destined can it get?

“My brother and sister both married krakens their souls didn’t call to. The Curse remained.”

The dome is running out of oxygen. I don’t think I can breathe.

Me? Save kraken-kind?

No. No. That’s not me. He’s got the wrong person.

Being his mate is hard enough to wrap my head around. Having the fate of his species rest on my shoulders? The same shoulder that was dislocated the one time I tried protecting myself from Tommy? The same person who jumps at her own goddamn shadow? I don’t think so.

Wait. So this is the real reason why he wants me? Not because I’m his mate, but out of moral obligation to protect his people? That stings more than I care to admit.

Does that mean he will force me to… Panic roars in my veins.

His eyes round in alarm. “The bride must be willing,” Ordus quickly adds.

“I’m not willing,” I seethe. Like fuck am I getting married again. Been there, done that. Got the T-shirt and bruises to prove it.

I expect Ordus to argue or go on about how he’ll protect me and blah, blah, blah. His reaction surprises me instead. “I know.” Nodding solemnly, he says, “I want anything you are willing to give. Even if it’s nothing, I will spend the rest of my life eternally grateful for the chance to be in your presence.”

Heat blossoms in my chest. Why couldn’t he say something that would piss me off? When he’s all nice and somber, it’s hard for me to villainize him.

I break eye contact and wrap my arms around his neck to resume the position we were in before we stopped. “I want to leave.”

He says nothing. Neither do I. I can tell he doesn’t miss I never said I wanted to return to my cabin, because there’s something easy about the way he moves.

The grating silence stretches well beyond the site of the casting. The tension is palpable. He shrunk the dome back down so it’s large enough for me to stew alone in my turmoil.

The right thing to do would be to give him my hand and let him pop a ring on it. But one, who says he’s telling the truth about this whole thing? And two, I’m not going to do something just because a man wants it. I need to put myself first.

A few more hours roll by before the landscape shifts, more rock than sand. A dark wall looms ahead, spreading as far as the eye can see, reaching toward the heavens. A field of promised death borders the island. Rugged chunks of spear-shaped stone with sharpened tips protrude from the ground. A single wave would send a human crashing into it. I can’t imagine how horrifying it would look at night or during a storm.

Suppressing a shudder, I tighten my weak grasp around Ordus. At some point, he shifted one of the gallons to his tentacles to keep me upright with his free hand after noticing my slipping grip.

He rubs slow circles over my back, and I glare over his shoulder. It feels nice. I hate that it feels nice. Nothing Ordus does should feel nice, but it does. Too much does.

The stray tentacle that always seems to seek me out feels nice.

The suckers feel nice—especially when they start plucking.

The way his claws brush against my cheek as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear feels nice.

The approaching wall of rock snags all my attention. The gargantuan, round stone stands out against the expanse of sharp edges. It looks like the “he rose on the third day” type of tomb, minus the sentries. Some type of inscription has been engraved into the eroded surface of the wall and door. I gape when the sigils glow piercing blue before the stone painstakingly rolls to the side with an earth-rumbling groan.

Ordus tucks me closer to him, and I let him. He dives into the tunnel, slowly navigating the pitch-black darkness with what feels like ease. I use whatever energy I have left to force my muscles to comply and keep my limbs as close to his body as possible—which is nice too.

When was the last time I had my legs wrapped around someone, and they happily held me back? Nathan Chen when I first started university? He was an on-again, off-again biology major whose interest in me was purely physical, which was fine by me because I wanted the touch of another person.

Thomas Gallagher was never the cuddly type. I had foolishly assumed his way of showing me he cared about me was through gifts and quality time. In hindsight, he was only buying my freedom.

Blue light filters through the darkness, and I blink against the first pass of the glowing algae. We’re plunged into darkness again before the light grows until it’s near blinding.

The dome pops. Saltwater rushes into my mouth before I break past the surface, gasping for air. I swing my attention toward the sound of movement. Vasz perks up into a sitting position and patiently watches as Ordus lowers me to my feet.

My legs wobble from fatigue and overuse, and he catches me before my knees can slam against the hard ground. He sets me closer to Vasz, deposits my things against another wall, gives me a swift, “I will return soon. Stay,” and he’s off, leaving me in my jail cell for the indeterminate future.

I blink at the space he once occupied. Before I can begin to question where he’s going in such a rush, Vasz nudges my shoulder then stares down at the coconut skin he’s dropped beside me. His eyes flick between me and the fruit.

“Thank you,” I say, cautiously patting his head. “Keep it.” I sigh, pushing the coconut back to him. “You deserve it.”

Silver lining? I’ve always wanted a dog.

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19

Ordus

“Please,” the human begs, throat bobbing against my hand.

I believe it might be his third time saying that word. Or the fifth. I’m unsure. I was distracted again.

Leaving her behind on the island makes me nauseous, but I’m comforted by the fact that she isn’t alone. Vasz is protective of what he deems as his. I’ll allow him to view Cindi as his Queen Mate if it means he will play guard while I’m away.

I don’t like it, but I will allow it—for now.

He’s cheap labor. That mutt will do anything for a coconut husk.

“Is it money? Do you want money? I have money?” the tourist rambles.

No. I have money, should I need it. If I do not have any, I can just take it anyway.

I squeeze his throat and use a quarter of my power to slam him against the wall. His yellow hair falls over his face as he grips my arm in panic.

As I left the island, I didn’t have a set plan as to whom my prey would be, only that they be in the right place at the right time for me to drag them behind a building enshrouded in darkness.

The tourist was the first convenient male.

He opens his mouth too much. And should bathe. And look into his oral health—teeth shouldn’t be that yellow.

“I have questions,” I say carefully. I’m in my human form, but anything I ask cannot give away that I am…not as I appear. Granted, I do not look like the average human either.

The male shakes his head frantically. “I don’t know anything, man.”

He’s a human. So, yes, he does know.

“How do you make fish edible for your ki—you?” I correct myself, loosening my hold to allow him to speak.

“I… Is this a joke?” His brow line flattens. “Did Mitch put you up to this? Because if he did, you can tell him I’m kicking his ass and telling Chelsea he was chattin’ up a hooker last night.” He forces a chuckle.

“Answer.” My patience is waning.

“Seriously?” He chokes when I retighten my grip. Humans are so annoying. Not my Cindi, though. Well—no. She’s perfect. “What the fuck is this? It ain’t funny, man.”

I want to kill him. It would take me less than two seconds. He wouldn’t have time to see it coming.

Alas, I cannot kill the human yet. His brain still holds use.

For now.

“I will ask you one more time. How do you make it?” I’d like to learn for my mate, prove to her I can provide for her and any future cubs we may have.

“Okay, okay.” He holds up his hand in surrender. “I cook it? I don’t know. What do you want me to say?”

“How?” I growl. Does he take me for a fool?

“Are you—” I shake him. Have humans always been this difficult? “Okay, fuck, okay.” He raises his hands, palms up again. “On—on a pan, or a skillet, or—or a grill.”

What are they? “From the start. Step-by-step⁠—”

His forehead wrinkles. Whatever useless thoughts filter through his head must be put aside, because he does as I command. “I—I mean like—” He swallows. “My pops would skin it, gut it, and give it to me sealed. I’d wash it, pat it down, drop some butter in a pan, throw some seasoning in, then add the fish. Fuck, I think that’s it. I don’t know, man. I can’t cook for shit. Is that what you want to hear? Can I go now?”

This pan again?

“No. Show me.” There are human establishments that serve food. I’ve tried looking, but there’s no way for me to see how they do it without arousing suspicion or killing more people than necessary.

“Like—like a video?”

I nod. I’ve heard humans talk about videos before. It’s not a word I have been able to translate into my language.

“Okay, okay. Yeah. A video. Yea—” He reaches into his pocket and holds his hands up to stop me from slamming him into the wall again. “Woah, woah, woah. I’m just taking my phone out. Chill.”

Phone. A sound? Voice? What is that?

The tourist reaches into his pocket, and I frown. I do not understand how the small rectangular box helps. I’ve seen many, many humans hold something like that—more so recently. They sometimes hold it up to their ear or stick wires into it. I’ve never cared to look closer. Maybe Cindi has one of these phone things? Will she be happy if I give her one?

The male’s hands shake as he taps the black box. Light suddenly flashes, and a still dog appears on it. A photo, I believe the humans call it. I’ve seen many on paper around the mainland. It is far superior to the paintings and art we have at the palace. It’s like magic in the way it glows.

My eyes widen as the images on the box change with every flick of his fingers.

Maybe I will also get myself a…phone. It may be useful.

“YouTube good?”

I nod. I don’t know what that is either.

I release his neck to stand beside him to better see this…phone. He taps on a square, then symbols appear on the screen.

I never learned how to read English, but Mother insisted we learn the native language of the humans on the mainland. Admittedly, it’s been many years since I’ve attempted to read anything, and I’m finding it difficult to recall the phonetics for the tourist’s language.

Several images of human food pop onto the box. He clicks on the one with a snapper, and the picture begins to move. A male’s voice filters through the device.

Fascinating.

I will gift a phone to Cindi. My mate can watch the moving photos too, if she wishes.

My full concentration is on the device as the male talks through scraping off the scales of a fish, gutting it, then what they call filleting it.

“You do not like the bones?” I confirm with my prey.

“Uh…yeah?”

I nod. I understand. The scales are sharp, and the bones sometimes get stuck between my teeth. Cindi should never experience that.

I continue watching the human on the device clean the fish, then tap it dry. The male sprinkles salt and pepper—I will search for this—on both sides before pouring oil—I will add this to the list as well—on a flat silver item with curved sides.

Is that what that is called? A pan? Cindi packed something similar, except it had rounded edges that looked more like a bowl.

Now that I really think about it, I think I saw one in that shape but much smaller, in black. She was running around the house throwing things into bags, taking it out again, putting it back in, swapping it out for another item. I did my best to catalogue every item she was interested in bringing, but my efforts were mainly spent moving around to cushion her as she inevitably stumbled. I lost count of how many times she would’ve hit the edge of a table if my tentacle hadn’t been there.

I’m curious to see how the fish tastes when it’s prepared in such a way.

“That.” I point at the metal thing the pan is on. The box goes weird when I touch it.

Wait. Yes.

The humans burn their food first. On fire. How did I forget?

I paid attention to where the humans were and where their attention was locked onto, but never much more than that.

I never cared to know how the humans lived beyond the trivial matters of where they congregate or the words coming out of their mouths. Had I known my mate would be human, I would’ve begun learning their customs years ago.

“A stove?” I do not appreciate the tourist’s condescending tone. “Seriously, dude. Is this a prank? Are you high? Because I’m⁠—”

“Get me one,” I snarl. My incisors threaten to make an appearance.

“I don’t live here. I don’t know where⁠—”

“Now.” No more excuses.

“Holy fuck. My Airbnb has one, okay? Is that fine? Just—just don’t hurt me.”

He speaks too much. “Take me there, and say nothing more.”

I snatch the phone—interesting choice of word—from him and shove him back toward the main street. I follow closely behind as he lumbers along, casting frightened glances back at me. “Will there be other hu—males there?”

He shakes his head. “Will you⁠—”

“No speaking.”

I only like when Cindi speaks.

It isn’t long until we’re entering an older villa in a quieter neighborhood not far from Cindi’s house. The male hands me the stove he mentioned. It’s much smaller than the one in the video. There’s only one of the places the fire comes from instead of six, but it’s little and can be easily carried back to the island. It’ll do.

The male shifts and slowly backs away. “Look, I don’t want any trouble⁠—”

I throw him across the room. He must hit his head in the process, because he doesn’t move again. I revert my attention back to the stove.

Yes. Tomorrow, I will cook a fish for my mate.

Cindi is a hoarder, I have learned.

She has many of the same items—which I do not understand. She has over six pairs of shoes, just as many pants, over ten dresses, and at least twenty tops. One or two, I understand, but ten seems a lot.

I suppose this means humans change clothes many times. How often are they meant to do it? Will they get sick if they don’t? Weren’t the sailors I saw always wearing the same thing?

Krakens do not require such things, but the noble ones flaunt their wealth with jewels they’ve acquired. Some wear belts with pouches to carry more supplies, or necklaces made from the finest shells they’ve found.

Cindi has very little jewelry. No matter. I am a king. She has plenty to choose from.

My nostrils flare as I sort through the clothes on the floor. The male’s lingering scent is faint. Vasz was unable to pinpoint his smell to track him. My mate says someone is after her. I need to change that. My stomach ached seeing her upset like that. I wanted to hold her and reassure her nothing will happen, but words mean nothing to Cindi. I have to prove it.

I stalk toward the open closet door once more. Did Cindi bring enough clothes for her to be comfortable on the island? She only had three bags. It couldn’t have been sufficient.

I place the clothing in the hard-shelled rectangular item on the floor that opens like a grey clam with four little wheels at the bottom. Like a chest…except not. There were some items in it already, but I want my mate to have as many of her things as possible.

Content that Cindi will be sufficiently warm, I move to the cupboards beside her bed. One side has been emptied already; the other remains standing, drawers still intact. I cautiously pull the drawer out lest I break the contents inside it and upset my mate.

I stare at the bright blue object at the very top. I tip my head and frown, then tip my head to the other side. What is…

I pick up the rubber object. It’s nearly as long as my hand, yet my finger doesn’t reach my thumb at the base. Why does Cindi have a tentacle?

Cindi’s scent is all over the house, lingering on every fabric. It’s different now. Stronger, mustier, more… I inhale deeply.

My cock hardens, moisture immediately leaking from the tip. The tentacle smells of my mate’s sweet sex.

Did she…she… Blood rushes from my head, and I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the rubber tentacle that’s similar in shape to my own. I breathe her in again, imagining her taking my appendage instead of a toy. The sounds she’d make. How her eyelids would flutter. How her full lips would pout.

My human mate is attracted to krakens.

The thought both thrills me and makes my hearts ache all the same. Clenching my jaw, I place the item in the clam-chest.

Attempting to dispel the thought from my mind, I move to the bathroom, where she has jars of potions along the shelves. Some are in plastic, some in glass. I’ve seen them in the human stores before, and I am unsure what purpose they serve. But if Cindi bought it, she must have use for them, no?

They go in the clam-chest as well.

As do the packets in the kitchen cupboards. The bottles of thick liquid. A large grey box she was tinkering with. The blankets on her bed. A cushion.

Once the chest is full, I heft one side of the clam over the other, and the zipper glides around the rectangular shell, shutting it tight so none of the items fall out. I lift it by the handle, pleasantly amused to find the wheels rolling along the floor.

Yes, I will keep the clam-chest. Cindi is a good procurer.

I jog down the steps to the dinghy I carried from the shore. I have to move the carved stone about arm injuries I took from the palace library aside to fit the clam-chest, placing it over the tools and other hardware I found in Cindi’s workroom and kitchen. The pans and the bowl-like instruments go in next, as well as the big board and a tire—just in case. Then I cover it all with a bright blue plastic I found in the building beside the house that acts as a messier, dirtier workroom for my mate’s land vessel. I strap it down with the rope I found there too.

With one last survey of Cindi’s house for things she might want, I close the door behind me, waiting for the beep to indicate it’s locked.

There’s not a cloud in sight. The water was calm on the way here, and the only time I can use the boat is under the cover of night to not alert the humans of an unmanned vessel traveling across the sea.

With the slightest grunt, I haul the boat above my head to make for the beach, then set it out to undress from my mainland clothing once I hit the shore. I thread thick ropes through the hoops I fastened beneath the vessel and tie it across my chest so the two cords intersect over my sternum.

I wade into the water, tugging the boat behind me. Once the waves hit my stomach, I check no one is around to witness my shift and then grab hold of the magic to release my true form. I dive into the water, swimming as hard as I can, careful to stay close to the surface so the dinghy doesn’t capsize.

I want the den to feel like home to Cindi, or else she’ll spend the rest of her life seeing it as a prison, and me, her jailer. But it is the truth. There’s no other way to put it. She didn’t come back to the island with me because she wanted me.

She didn’t choose me for me. She came because she had to. Because whoever it is she’s scared of is worse than me.

I’ve had days to come to terms with the fact that I will always be the problem, but it isn’t any easier to accept.

She wants to be on the mainland. She wants her cabin and her workshop and the loud music along the busy streets. I can’t give her everything, but I can bring her house to her. I’ll give her space, keep my mouth sealed shut, and watch her from afar, because my presence will only make matters worse.

My distance will be my gift to Cindi. She’ll be happier if she forgets I’m there. I’ll keep my silence—even if it eats me alive.

It’s one of the only things I can do for her.

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