Forgive My Fins

Good. I hope she’s seen how totally unsuitable we are.

“There is a basket of food for your dinner in the blue pool,” she says as she stuffs her papers and notes and clipboards into her satchel. “I believe your father will be coming in the afternoon tomorrow to administer the final test.”

“All right,” I say. Even though I haven’t done anything but make a necklace and talk about Quince today, I feel completely drained. (He has that effect on people.) More than physically. Emotionally.

“Good night,” she says, waving at us before turning and diving into the sea.

For several long minutes after she’s gone, we just stand there, silent on the beach as the sun sinks into the horizon. Which is fine with me. I don’t think there’s anything left to say.

Quince apparently doesn’t agree.

“Can I explain?”

“I don’t think there’s anything to explain,” I reply.

“There is,” he insists, stepping into my line of sight. “I know what I said hurt you, and that’s the last thing I want.”

“Then why?” I feel tears threatening, but I quickly tamp them down.

“I’m not sure,” he says, not exactly reassuring me. “It’s just that…there are so many things I like about you. Your generous heart and crooked smile and zillions of freckles.” He lifts his hand, like he wants to touch those freckles, but drops it back to his side. “How you always smell like lime and coconut. The list could go on forever. What I said…that was the only thing I could think of that I wish was different.”

Five minutes ago I didn’t think there was a thing in the world that would change how I feel about Quince. But he did it. While I have an endless list of things I’d change about him, he has an endless list of things he likes about me. And only one thing he doesn’t.

How can he make me go from being so mad at him that I could breathe fire, to making me feel completely rotten for even thinking that?

Yet another thing about him that completely puzzles me.

“Let’s eat,” I say, because I’m suddenly famished and a basket of food is way more appealing than continuing this conversation.

“Sure,” Quince says, uncertain, but trying to sound up-beat. “I’m so hungry, I could even eat sushi.”

I laugh. Partly at his joke, but partly at the ridiculousness of this situation. I mean, how did I—Thalassinian royal princess—wind up bonded to a land lover who can’t swim and hates sushi? If ever there was a more unsuitable match, I haven’t seen one. Daddy has to realize that, and if the first two test results don’t convince him, then I’ll just have to make sure the third does.

I follow Quince toward our dinner. By this time tomorrow, we’ll be back in Seaview with this whole experience behind us.

19

After we’ve finished off the dinner basket—fresh uni and unagi sushi for me, grilled tuna steaks for Quince—I’m not tired at all. The sushi has revived me and, somehow, cleared my mind. Enough to know that I don’t want to talk about all those things Quince said. Enough to know a dangerous subject when I hear one.

Rather than sink to the depths of the blue hole in a quest for sleep, I kick up to the surface and lie out on the sand, staring at the night sky above. So many twinkling points of light. All the mer technology in the sea can’t re-create their delicate beauty.

Quince follows, lying at my side with his arms folded behind his head.

For several minutes neither of us says a word. Like we’re just content to lie next to each other and stare at the stars. Then, before I know I’m going to do it, I break the silence. “All the stuff you said you like about me…how did you know all that?”

I feel him tense. I sense every muscle in his body tighten, like a flight response, before he forces himself to relax. It’s the bond, I know, giving me this insight. That doesn’t make it any less alluring to be able to tap into someone else’s emotions.

“I don’t know,” he finally says on a big exhale. “I guess I was paying attention.”

“I…” What do you say to something like that? “I didn’t know.”

“Well, either I didn’t want you to know”—he shifts, rolling over onto his side to face me—“or you didn’t want to know.”

Fighting the urge to roll onto my side, which would bring us uncomfortably face-to-face, I say, “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you have been too caught up in chasing your dream guy to see much of anything else.”

“That’s not fair.” I roll to my side before I think better of it. “I love Brody. Why should I notice whether my pervy next-door neighbor has been watching me? Shouldn’t the person you love come before everything else?”

Quince’s eyes look accusingly into mine. “You only think you love Brody.” He digs a hand through the sand between us, like he needs a physical outlet. “Love isn’t about obsession. Love is about…connection.”

“Obsession?” I gasp. “I’m not obsessed. I mean, not any more than any other girl in love.”

“Right,” he says as he rolls away from me, onto his back.

“Besides,” I say, scooting forward so I can poke him in the shoulder, “what would you know about love?”

When he laughs, a self-mocking kind of laugh, I know I’m about to be in big trouble.