Page 88 of Bewitched By the Sea Monster
“What’s wrong?” Alistair’s voice soothed.
“Everything,” I said.
“I’m sorry.”
And those weren’t flat words spat out to be polite. Alistair was truly, deeply sorry, even if he didn’t know what he was sorry for.
“Me too.” No matter how many tears I mopped up, more kept coming. “I made sucha mess. And I don’t knowwhy…I mean, I do. But I should’ve done it differently. Or just kept my mouth shut and…Stars. I used to think that about my mom. That she should’ve kept her mouth shut. And now I-I’ve thrown it all away. It feels like. And…” Salt blossomed over my tongue when I slurped a mouthful of tears. “My head hurts.” It did. The raw, skull-flaying ache that crying left behind.
“I’m sorry.” Alistair himself sounded close to tears. “What can I do? Pippi? To…help?”
“Can we go somewhere?” I asked. “I don’t wanna be here right now. So can we go somewhere?Anywhere.Your favorite place, as long as it’s not underwater. Although, honestly, drowning would probably solve all my problems?—”
“Donot”—Alistair’s voice rose to a frantic bellow—“say that, Pippi. Ever. Please.”
Horror, heartache, and fear flooded my chest. The agony had me sucking in a great galumphing breath. And then I panicked when the air got stuck in the base of my throat. Because my lungs were drowning in the swamp of caustic emotion.
Tacky sweat dribbled down my back. I straightened. Grappled at the rocks. Started to see checker spots.
But then the sensation vanished. My lungs worked freely. My head cleared.
Because Alistair had pulled his torment away from me.
“I’m sorry.” His voice tentatively stroked my brain. “I’m sorry. That was ru-rude. To yell. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t,” I said. “Honest. You didn’t scare me.”
“Good. I?—”
“You’ve lost someone.” It wasn’t a question. People only experienced that sort of misery when someone they loved had been ripped out of their life.
“I have. But I shouldn’t…You…I?—”
A hot pool of his frustration swamped my chest.
“Take your time,” I reminded him. “I know I talk fast, Alistair. But you don’t have to keep pace with me. Take your time with the words. I’ll wait.”
The pool cooled and dwindled away.
“I spoke…talked fast too.” Alistair sighed. “Once.”
“Was that back when you were honing your flirting skills?”
He laughed. “Yes.”
“A speedy smooth talker. With a hot British accent. You must’ve had all the ladies lined up. Probably the gents, too.”
He paused, nibbling on the words, trying to figure out their textures and flavors. And then, in a voice deliberately dropped a few octaves he asked, “You think my…ack-ak-acc-sent. Accent. Ishot?”
And I laughed. A very messy and wet laugh that left my throat a little raw and sent some flaming ice picks into my brain. But it dried the tears, better than my sleeves or hands could’ve done. “Yes. Your accent is hot.More than that, it’s decadent.”
There’s a reason I had a wet dream of you whispering sweet nothings to me.
I wasn’t quite rebounded enough to tackle that conversation, though. Not yet.
“I like your ack-accent too.” He kept his voice low and husky.
“Now you’re milking it.”
