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“And you’re not upset?”
“I know that I can’t be the only important person in my sister’s life. It’s just weird,” I say, glossing over the selfish heart of my hurt. I have tried so hard to find her, and Anthony is the one who brought her peace by simply appearing.
“But you and Anthony,” she says, and stops when I look up in surprise. “I mean, you’ve always...”
I give her a quizzical look. “What are you talking about?”
“You. Have a crush. On Anthony,” she blurts out, brown cheeks reddening subtly.
I let out a sharp, startled bark of laughter and shut the book with a dull slap of sound. “Crushes are for twelve-year-olds,” I say with a more genuine chuckle. “And that’s the last time I had a crush on Anthony Beck.”
Her blush deepens, and she stammers. “But you guys were always so close.”
“He’s my best friend,” I say. “Or he was. But that was over long before he and Becca—you thought I still liked Anthony?”
“It would explain why you never dated anyone,” she mutters, hands jammed in her pockets.
“Who’s going to date the weird, sarcastic failed goth who never talks to anyone?” I ask. “Even before Becca. No one’s asked me out since sixth grade. Besides...” I almost tell her. Can’t. Crushes are for twelve-year-olds, and I should have shaken this one ages ago.
I put the book back on its shelf and walk to the ladder.
She looks like she wants to ask me more about it, but instead asks, “Where are you going?”
“Up,” I say, and climb. I tell myself it’s the responsible thing—exploring. Gathering information, definitely not running. I throw open the trapdoor at the top of the ladder and haul myself up. There’s no room for awkward revelations and rejections on the road.
The top level is the same size as the one below, but instead of a round and empty room with stone walls, the walls are glass, and the center of the room is taken up with the lighthouse lamp andthe lens surrounding it—thick glass, shaped to bend the light of the gas lamp that sits at the center. Carved in the glass is a familiar symbol—seven concentric rings. It’s the same symbol from the preacher’s book.
Mel emerges behind me. We look out over the water. “We need to get across,” I say.
“How?” she asks. “The beach is part of the road. The water isn’t. We need to follow the shore.”
I shake my head. She’s wrong. I can’t explain how I know it; I just do. “We need to cross the water, like we did when we found Zoe. And look.” I point downward, leaning out so I can see the base of the lighthouse, barely visible in the light of the stars. A boat is moored at the edge of the water, bobbing up and down, oars tucked inside.
“There’s no way across without leaving the road,” Mel insists.
I sigh because she’s not wrong. I know there must be a solution, but I can’t see it.
“You’re really not mad at them? Becca and Anthony?” she asks.
I look her straight in the eye for the first time. “Sometimes I’m angry that Anthony wouldn’t believe Becca. If he’d believed her, maybe she would have told me about all of this. If she’d told me, maybe I could have convinced her not to go. Or gone with her,” I say. “I could have kept her safe. But no, I’m not mad that they’re together.”
She stands beside me in silence for a while. Up here, I feel almost safe. Nothing but the sea lurks outside, and thick glass stands between us and the waves. And it’s the first time I’ve been alone, quietly, with Mel in who knows how long. Even when wewere spending most of our time together, our friendship was never quiet. But this—this feels nice. A peace steals over me that I didn’t think was possible here on the road. I’m not sure itwouldbe possible if anyone but Mel was standing here. “Do you want to go back down?” Mel asks.
“Not really,” I say. “I’d rather stay here with you. For a little while. If that’s all right.”
“Yeah,” she says. Silence again—silence that I wish I could live in forever. And then, “Do you think we’re going to die?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I hope not. Obviously.”
“If we do die...” She pauses. “If we do, or if we don’t, it feels stupid not to say anything. So. I kind of like you, Sara. I came for you. Not for Becca. I came because I have... feelings. For you.”
Surprise comes first, and almost in the same moment the smile, a spy sneaking through the city of dread within me. “Feelings. For me,” I echo, in the same stilted tone, and she groans.
“How is there not a non-stupid way to say that?” she asks. “Look, I know that just because you’re bi it doesn’t mean ta-da, rainbows and unicorn farts, you must like me, too, and I don’t want to make things awkward, and this is the worst fucking time to bring it up, but—”
“I like you, too,” I say. She blinks. “I’ve liked you for a long time.”
“Then why didn’t you...?”
