Lucas grins. “Then let’s figure out how to make her want to stay.”
He opens the door, letting in a waft of salt air, and steps out into the morning, his shadow trailing long behind him on the wet pavement. I watch him go, then turn back to my ovens, ready for the day to begin.
The last customer leaves at 7:17, a local high schooler with a taste for cheese pasties and a penchant for never quite making eye contact. He’s out the door before I finish wishing him a good evening, but I don’t take it personally. Not anymore. Some people are just like that. I sweep up his trail of flakes and thumbprints, lock the register, and pretend to fuss with the night’s doughs a little longer. If I go home now, I’ll just stare at the ceiling fan and let it hypnotize me while Lucas watches TV without a care for volume.
There are better places to zone out.
I end up on the boardwalk instead, drawn by the sound of the tide lapping at the shore. The wood is cool through my sneakers. The only life on the beach are a couple kissing on the lifeguardstand and me. Well, me and a figure with long, black hair sifting through the surf line.
Helena Starling.
Her posture’s always a little too straight for this town, like she’s expecting a photographer to pop up and snap a candid forPeople of the Cornish Coast. She’s got a basket dangling from her left hand, swaying as she walks.
A collection basket, I realize. For shells.
I stop at the end of the boardwalk and shove my hands deep in my hoodie pocket. I debate saying anything. Maybe she’s having a moment, and who am I to interrupt it? Then she bends down and the hem of her skirt flaps up in the wind, and something about it—something abouther—makes me move.
I trudge down the sand, sneakers filling instantly. “Evening,” I call out.
She startles and then, when she recognizes me, her eyes soften. “Hey, Cole.” She grins. “What are you doing all the way out here after closing?”
I close the gap. “I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep right away.” I nod to her basket. “Are you collecting shells or sea glass?”
She lifts her basket for me to see. The bottom is lined with cockles and a single, perfect scallop shell, pink with a white star at the center. “Mostly shells, I’m afraid. The glass hunters are ferocious at this time of year, let alone this late at night.” She squints out at the water, like maybe the ocean’s holding back the best pieces just to spite her.
“Would you mind some company?” I ask.
Her smile widens. “I’d like that.”
We walk. She walks slower than I do, so I force my stride to half-speed. She points out a strange conch and a shard of blue pottery. I pretend to be an expert, though most of my beachcombing experience involves trying not to step on glass at the end of a party.
“Do you always go collecting after sunset?”
“It’s quieter,” she says. “And the light makes it easier to see colors in the wet sand.” She stoops to dig out something, then hands it to me. A chunk of what looks like old beer bottle, sanded by the surf into a dull green gem.
“For your collection?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “It suits you; you keep it.”
“Thank you.” It sounds dumb because it’s just a bit of sea-washed glass, but the fact that she thought to give it to me speaks volumes. To be considered is a wonderful gift. I pocket the glass.
We fall into an easy rhythm as we walk and search for anything exciting. I relish simply being in my scent-matched omega’s presence. She hums under her breath a melody I don’t know.
At some point, the sky starts leaking navy and purple, and her basket is half-full.
“What do you do with them all?” I ask. “The shells?”
She glances at the basket. “Arrange them, I suppose. On a windowsill at the rental flat. Or sometimes I give them away.”
“To anyone special?” I mean it as a joke, but she takes a second too long to answer.
“To anyone who asks nicely,” she says at last with the edge of a smile in her voice.
The tide creeps higher, wetting our toes. Helena shivers, though she tries to hide it by tucking her hands into her sleeves. I risk a closer look. The hairs on her arms are standing up, and her lips are a little pale.
I’m already halfway out of it when I ask, “Do you want my hoodie?”
She considers, then nods. “Only if you’re sure.”
