Forgive My Fins
Page 35

His bike rattles into silence.
I unwrap my arms from his torso, leap off the seat, and shove the helmet into his chest, ready to retreat into my house and bury my head under the pillows. But Quince isn’t about to let me get away that easy. He wraps one strong hand around my wrist, shackling me to the spot.
“Not so fast, princess,” he says, tugging me closer.
Rolling my eyes skyward, I notice the position of the moon. It’s late. Too late for me to argue.
I give him a glare.
“I don’t even rate a ‘good night’?” Quince asks as I pull my wrist loose. “I think I’ve earned it.”
I freeze.
How does he always know just what to say to totally set me off? I mean, it’s like he has a special gift for pushing my buttons. Too bad it’s not a marketable skill.
I’m sure it doesn’t help that my temper’s resurfaced because we’re back on land or that I’ve had a few hours of silent swimming to build up my anger about the whole situation. Even though I know none of this is technically—technically—his fault, he’s the nearest available outlet.
“Ha!” I say, trying—and failing—to keep my frustration in check. “How, exactly, did you earn a ‘good night’? By kissing me uninvited? Twice! Or by letting the entire assembly at my cousin’s debut party believe we were a couple—”
“Hey, I was just following your lead on that one.” He climbs off the bike and squares off with me.
“Or, wait,” I say, ignoring his comment and gathering steam. “Maybe it was by spending all day flirting and holding hands with my boy-crazy cousin while I was stuck in the palace smelling like a frogging lobster.” I shove against his chest with both palms. Hard. “You’re right. Good.” Another shove. “Night!”
I turn and stomp away, reveling in my dramatic exit. I’m almost to the front steps when he stops me with a laugh.
“You actually are jealous, aren’t you?”
Jealous? Jealous?!? As if. That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. I’m not even going to dignify that with a turnaround.
His biker boots clomp on the sidewalk behind me and my shoulders stiffen. If he touches me—
“I’m not interested in your cousin, Princess,” he whispers next to my ear. “She’s a child. Fun to hang with for a day, maybe, but I prefer a little more…depth.”
For some reason, most of my temper melts away. I wasn’t jealous—for the love of Poseidon, I don’t want Quince’s attention—but something about his reassurance calms me.
“The bond,” I mutter.
Between the emotional mess buzzing between us and Daddy’s decree and—I slump—yes, I admit, some bond-induced jealousy of Dosinia, it’s no wonder I feel like I’m on a roller coaster of mood extremes.
For once, I’m not sure if I’d rather fall into a temporary peace accord or revive our regular tension. Whatever the reason, maybe because it’s been a really long weekend, for tonight I just let it go.
“You’ll need to drink a lot of salt water,” I say softly. “Probably a few glasses a day.”
A brief silence pings between us.
“Anything else?”
I resist the urge to lean back into him. The memory of how nice and strong and safe his arms—Stop! It’s the bond. Thebondthebondthebond.
“Take baths,” I blurt. “Every night.” Then, because I’m not used to being nice to him, I add, “Ice-cold baths.”
“Ice-cold?” he asks, his voice full of that ever-present humor.
“Well, maybe room temperature.”
“I can do that.”
“That’ll get you through the week.”
Another ping of silence.
“Thank you.”
Without turning around, I walk the four steps up to my porch. As my foot touches the white-painted boards of the porch floor, Quince says, “Good night, Lily.”
His heavy boots swish through the grass between our houses.
When I’m sure he’s out of range, I whisper, “Good night, Quince.”
14
As far as Mondays go, today is pretty par for the course. I woke up late to find Prithi licking my ear, I smeared lip gloss on three different shirts before washing it all off and going bare, and I accidentally froze my orange juice into a solid block. So by the time Shannen finds me at my locker before first period, I’m about ready to slam my head in the door.
“What happened to you?” she demands.
I fling my locker door shut and then hoist my unzipped backpack over my shoulder, sending half the contents flying through the hall. My shoulders slump. After we’ve gathered up my textbooks and binders, I say, “What hasn’t happened?”
“I mean at the dance,” Shannen says. “You went to meet Brody in the library and never came back. What happened? How did it go? How did you get home? I tried to call, but your aunt said you went to stay with your dad for the weekend.”
We fall into step on our way to class.
“Quince gave me a ride,” I admit.
“Quince?” Shannen hurries in front of me and turns so she’s walking backward. “Quince Fletcher?”
As if there are any other Quinces around.
“Uh-huh.”
“On his motorcycle?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Quince?” she repeats, unbelieving. “Fletcher?”