I look at the lake. “I know.”
“Okay.” And that’s the whole of that conversation, tucked into three sentences and a silence. He goes to knock on the shed door and ask Cora if she wants a pastry. She says yes without opening the door. Rex hands it through the gap without ceremony.
I stand on Cora San Pedro’s dock with her coffee and her lake and the sound of her organizing equipment she doesn’t need to organize, and I don’t do anything with any of it except what I came here to do.
Which is to be better.
Even when better costs something every single morning.
CHAPTER 5
CORA
I hate Muir Callaghan.
Not for leaving nor the four years of silence that carved a hole in my chest I'm still learning to breathe around.
I hate him because he'smorenow.
More beautiful. More competent. More intelligent. More everything he was before, except now it's worse because he's had four years to become even better at being exactly what I can't stop noticing.
It's not fair.
When someone breaks your heart, they should look the part. Develop a villainous scar. Grow a mustache they can twirl. Start wearing all black and monologuing about their evil plans.
They should not look like they stepped off a California beach with sun in their hair the flutters in the breeze and easy competence in every movement.
Wednesday brings our first real tourist dive, and I'm still seething about the fundamental injustice of Muir Callaghan's continued existence when the group arrives at nine forty-five in a cluster of nervous energy and incorrectly assembled equipment.
The man in front is maybe mid-forties, stocky build going soft around the middle, with thinning brown hair and the kind of tan that comes from weekends, not work. He's wearing a faded New Jersey Nets t-shirt under his wetsuit—unzipped, flapping open—and he's moving with this bouncing, eager energy that makes him seem younger than the gray at his temples suggests.
His hands are full before his feet even hit the dock properly: waterproof camera, waterproof notebook, waterproof fanny pack strapped around his waist like he's preparing for underwater tax season.
“Cora!” He's already talking. Bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I read that Harmony Glen's lake has a higher-than-average population of freshwater sprites. Is that true? Will we see any? What's the etiquette for interacting with sprites? Can they communicate underwater or just on the surface? Is there a difference between the blue ones and the?—”
“Dave.” I smile. “Fins first.”
“Right!” He drops into a crouch, fumbling with his gear. Keeps talking. “Sorry, I'm just—I've been wanting to do this forthree years, you know? Since the Revelation. I've been fascinated by freshwater supernatural ecosystems since—well, since forever really, but now that we actuallyknowthey exist?—”
Behind me, Rex makes a sound that's technically a cough but is actually him trying not to laugh.
Across the dock, Muir is running equipment checks with the rest of the group. Methodical. Quiet. Working through the checklist with that unhurried competence I've been trying not to notice for a week.
He crouches next to a tall man adjusting a tank valve—Greg, according to my roster. The man is maybe sixty, lean and weathered from decades in the sun. Silver hair cropped close. The kind of face that smiles easy.
Muir says something low. His Scottish brogue carries across the water, and Greg laughs. A warm, rolling sound.
I watch this for approximately three seconds before I redirect my attention to Dave's fin situation.
“Left fin's on backwards,” I say.
Dave looks down. His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh! Huh. How do you even—is that a safety issue? What happens if you try to swim with?—”
“You go in circles. Swap it.”
“Right, right.” He fumbles with the straps, fingers clumsy with excitement. “Hey, can I ask—do the water sprites ever interact with tourists? Or do they mostly engage with the supernatural residents? I read a blog post that said?—”
“Dave.” Muir's voice carries across the dock. Quiet. Matter-of-fact. Not unkind. “Fins first. Questions when we're geared up.”