“Anda, I don’t have room. We can come back again.”
She frowns and puts the Hershey’s bars into the pockets of her jacket anyway, until there are no more left on the bottom shelf. Then she leans over and shoves several Mr. Goodbars, M&M’s, and Twix bars into the large pockets of my coat, as if the real estate there belongs to her. I don’t mind. It’s kind of nice, having her feel like I’m some extension of her. When she’s done, all the food in the camp store is gone. Plus, we look like we’ve sprouted candy from our hips and chests.
She smiles. “I think we’re ready now.”
I grin. I really, really like this girl.
“You have chocolate on your mouth,” I tell her, pointing. Anda wipes her lips with her fingertip, then licks off the candy. She looks at me and points right back.
“You do, too.”
I lift my hand to wipe my face, when she steps forward and grabs the shoulders of my jacket, pulling me closer. Her face inches away, she scans my face and zeroes in on my lips hungrily. She looks like she’s going to bite my face off. I freeze, and she hovers, so close, with her eyes cast downward. She carefully licks the edges of my mouth.
Oh. My. God.
The silky tip of her tongue travels from the corners of my mouth to the full part of my lips, tasting me and finding the tiny islands of chocolate I’d unknowingly left behind. I can’t breathe. Her lips barely touch mine as I inhale her sweet breath. I don’t even know what I’m doing when my hand slips behind her neck and pulls her that half inch closer to melt her mouth fully against mine.
Anda freezes. Our lips fit together seamlessly, and hers are warm and soft beneath mine, open just a little. I realize I’ve stepped over a line, and that maybe, just maybe, I should backpedal. I start to pull away when Anda’s fists squeeze my jacket lapels, preventing my retreat.
Her tongue tastes mine, and I go dizzy. I let mine explore a little, not knowing exactly what I’m doing. She tilts her head, and then our lips slip together, fitting as if this is where they’ve always belonged.
I’ve kissed girls before. But kissing Anda is like starting over. I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do all of a sudden and it’s just…amazing. All I know is God, I better not screw this up. Finally, she pushes me gently away, blinking like a sleepy cat.
My heart is hammering faster than anything. Anda touches her lips and smiles down at her fingertips.
“You taste much better than rocks,” she says before exiting the store and walking into the sunshine.
Thank God for that.
Chapter Twenty
ANDA
I’ve done something wrong.
Hector doesn’t speak to me all the way back to the cottage. I catch him touching his lips, as if I’d somehow burned them with my touch. These things shouldn’t bother me. I have other concerns, like the St. Anne’s lost crew. They aren’t lost to me—in fact, I know that James Johnston’s bones are already beginning to show from the ravages of hungry lake creatures, and I know that Casey Merrick is partially buried in sediment churned up by the storm. Both are confused by the disengagement of life from their selves. Usually, I let their dreams intermingle with mine as their bodies fade, but I am not there in the lake, as I should be.
I am with Hector.
A stiff wind blows hard against me, making me list off the path home.
“Oops!” Hector reaches out to steady me. “Okay?”
It’s odd, how he checks in with me this way. He seems to search for an answer to satisfy him, like “Yes” or “No” or “May I hold your shoes?” I stare him down, trying to understand his intentions, and he looks away, discomfited by my eyes. He consciously steps farther away from me, and I don’t like this, either.
I don’t know what to do.
Because you’re trying to be something you aren’t. Stop trying.
But she’s incorrect. Part of me has always belonged in the realm of humanity, but I keep having to remind myself of this. And now I’m remembering things like mewling hunger, and clothing, and care. They are utterly complicated, like the English language and its mockingly arbitrary rules, but I am enjoying practicing this side of myself with Hector. I want to stay here. I should like to lick more chocolate off the corners of his mouth, if given the opportunity.
Yes. I would like to stay here awhile.
You’re making a mistake. You’ll suffer.
I ignore her.
“Look at this fellow.” Hector stops on the side of the path.
I step closer and see a tiny beautiful blue-spotted salamander among the sticks and detritus of fall. This time of year, they aren’t out and about. Their blood gets more sugary to prevent them from freezing, and they stay hidden beneath rocks.
The salamander is dead.
Hector points. “Look, there are more.”
And there are. Six or seven, out in the open, dried and dead from the cold and exposure. Usually the island creatures understand the timing of things. I make sure that the balance is kept, the cycles of renewal and slumber. But something is wrong. I didn’t sense that their death was coming. Worse, it has come too soon.
“They shouldn’t be out here where they don’t belong,” I say, more to myself than to Hector.
“Tell me about it,” Hector says, and I look at him sharply. The wind is strikingly quiet, letting me absorb his words for a change. She wants me to admit the truth, and also show me a warning. This is what might happen. This is what you’ve started.
Hector shivers from the wind at his back. A wind that I didn’t create.
“Let’s go home,” he says.
Home. Such an odd word, one that hasn’t fit into my world. The cabin has its moods and whims, and tolerates my presence. Father is not there. I am used to fitting into a space larger than anything a human conceives of—in crevices and pockets and atmospheres of pressure that aren’t comforting. But when Hector says home, for once I actually understand him.
“Yes,” I say. “Let’s go home.”
...
That week, I count down the remaining days to November. After the St. Anne, I am tepidly appeased, but it isn’t enough. The closer to November it gets, the more trouble I will have controlling myself. I had decided not to bend to my nature because of Hector, but as the hours go by, my needs will try desperately to surpass any rationality.
Hector spends hours listening to the radio. He watches the Coast Guard ships decrease in number and eventually leave the wreck site of the St. Anne, and he watches me, too. Furtively, out of the corner of his eye, such as when I’m eating. He doesn’t comment when I leave a plate of food alone.
I am hungry, and I am not.