Forgive My Fins
Page 67This is why he’s always felt more like a dad than a king. What royal daughter could ask for more?
“I love you, Daddy.”
“And I love you, daughter.” He gives me one last squeeze before holding me away from him. “Now, would you go after Quince already? I’ve had more of your tear-sparkled eyes than a merman can handle. The next time you visit, I want to see you as happy as you can possibly be.”
Now that’s a royal edict that I will gladly fulfill.
24
When the roar of Quince’s motorcycle echoes through the neighborhood, I’m sitting on his front porch. Aunt Rachel is probably spying on me from the living room window—I’ve never seen her so excited as when I walked back into her kitchen. After a dozen minutes of smiles and hugs and happy tears—and Prithi happily lapping at my toes—I told her why I’ve decided to return. She quickly shoved me out the front door and told me to wait for Quince to get home from school.
I love her, but the woman can be a little pushy.
Quince still hasn’t noticed me when he turns his bike into the driveway and heads for the back. As he coasts past the porch, he turns and stares wide-eyed at me.
But he doesn’t stop his bike. The next thing I know, he’s coasted out of sight and I hear the sound of a motorcycle crashing into something—probably the two metal garbage cans that Prithi is so fond of scavenging.
I jump to my feet, but before I can round the corner to make sure he’s okay, he’s standing there—right there in front of me—and it’s all I can do not to fling my arms around his neck and kiss him silly.
The stormy look on his face holds me back.
“Lily?” he asks, as if he can’t quite believe it.
But I know what he means.
Feeling a little self-conscious, now that I have to actually speak, I wave like a dork and say, “Hi.”
Oh, brilliant, Lily. Frogging brilliant.
“What are you—?” He shakes his head. “I thought you were staying. Your aunt said—”
“I’m back.” I just can’t get enough of looking at him, of feeling him. All the parts of me that have felt empty for the last few days are suddenly flooded with him. With his strength and his pride and his big Caribbean blue eyes that always remind me of home. Just as he will always feel like home. “I decided to come back.”
He doesn’t look excited, though. He looks…suspicious.
“Why?”
“Why?” I repeat.
“Why did you come back?” His eyes are completely guarded. “What changed your mind?”
This is it, I think. The moment of truth.
Literally.
“I missed the lip gloss,” I tease. As soon as I say it, I know it’s the wrong thing. This isn’t the time for joking. Not only do I feel sour inside, but the guarded look on Quince’s face turns to distance. I won’t let him pull away.
“That’s a lie,” I confess.
He scowls in confusion.
“For you,” I admit, every muscle in my heart panicking at the revelation. “I came back because of you.”
“Yeah?” he asks, his confused look softening with a smile that crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
Willing myself not to faint before I can get the words out, I say, “I love you, Quince. I didn’t want to stay away. I couldn’t.”
“Woohoo!” He shouts, closes the distance between us, and lifts me into his arms, spinning us around. “I knew it!”
Before I can respond with disbelief—he so obviously did not know it—he sets me down and takes my face in his hands. His lips are on their way to mine when he pulls back.
“Hey, I’m not about to set off another crazy magical bond again, am I?” Then, as if he just realized something, he says, “Not that I’m opposed or anything. I just want to be clear about what I’m getting into.”
“No,” I say, trying to shake my head. “No more bonds. You’re immune now.”
“Okay,” he says. Then he finishes what he started.
When he pulls back, his eyes glow with the love I know is shining inside. I’m sure my eyes are glowing just as bright, because I can feel the tears of joy sliding down my cheeks.
For several long minutes, we just smile at each other. I’m sure we look like stupidly in love teenagers—to Aunt Rachel and whoever else happens to be watching—but we know the truth. There’s nothing stupid about it.
“Now that you’re back,” Quince says, slinging an arm around my shoulders and leading me toward the driveway, “I’m going to teach you to ride Princess.”
“Princess?”
“My motorcycle.”
I laugh. “You named your motorcycle Princess?”
“What can I say?” he teases. “I call all my favorite things princess.”
I take one look at Princess, lying on her side with two trash cans and a mess of garbage piled around her, and cringe.
“If you think I’m actually driving that death trap,” I say, “then you’re insane.”