Page 32 of When We Believed in Mermaids

“That it was terrible. But your face says that.”

I touch my jaw, my mouth. “Does it?”

Finally he touches me, just his fingertips against my cheek, then away. “Yes.”

Things I don’t think about tumble out of their boxes—the rumbling, the sound of breaking glass, my urgent dive for the door. Lying flat on the ground in the open, counting seconds.

I swallow, then take one step closer and rest my palm on his chest. He doesn’t bend down to kiss me, as I had expected, but only presses his hand over mine, holds it there. “Life is capricious, no?”

I think of getting to my feet when the shaking stopped to find nothing left, the house in ruins. The absolute silence told me what I knew instantly. Still, I cried out my father’s name. Called until I had no voice left. Called until darkness fell.

I nod.

He is the first to step away. “Shall we go?”

I shower the pool from my skin and tame my hair with product, drawing it away from my face in the vain hope that it will behave for a few hours. To protect my skin from the harsh sun—New Zealand has some of the highest melanoma rates in the world—I bring a broad-brimmed hat. It’s too hot for long sleeves, so I’m wearing the sundress again, and I slather on heavy-duty sunscreen. Carrying a rattan bag, I head down to meet Javier in the lobby.

This time I’m the first to arrive, and I wait by a bank of windows overlooking the square. Young people, mostly students by the look of them, sit in the sunshine, reading or talking in clumps of two or three. The girls have a wide array of color in their hair—sometimes silvery with purple ends or ombre shades of watermelon or leaves. One girl has streaks in a rainbow array, and she wears oversize sunglasses and bright-red lipstick.

It seems like a long time ago that I felt that young, so dewy. If I ever did. At twenty, I was buried in textbooks, working two jobs to stay afloat. It didn’t leave a lot of time for lazing around in the sun. I’m piercingly envious for a moment.

“You look lovely,” Javier says nearby.

I swing the red skirt. “I only have the one.”

He touches his chest. “This is one of two.” It’s a soft gray button-up with very thin blue stripes. Expensive. “I cannot bear to bring more than a carry-on.”

“I’m not that efficient,” I admit as we head toward the elevators to go down to street level. Inside, I smell his cologne, a continental touch I’m unused to.

“I have become so over the years. Two good shirts, jeans, slacks, one pair of shoes, maybe a pair of sandals.”

The door slides open, and we head outdoors to the heavy day. I slide my sunglasses down my nose. “Whew. I’m not used to heat,” I say. “It’s not this hot in California, at least not by the ocean.”

“I like California,” he says. “The people are friendly.”

“You’ve been there?”

“Many times.” He’s dropped his own sunglasses over his eyes, very black aviators that give him a glamorous air. “It’s beautiful. Where do you live?”

“Santa Cruz.”

He frowns slightly.

“Just south of San Francisco?”

“Ah. So you stayed there, even after the earthquake.”

“I’ve never lived farther than sixty miles from the hospital where I was born. Native Californian.”

“Is your family there?”

“My mother. She’s staying with my cat.”

“Not the cat with her?”

I laugh softly. “He’s afraid to leave my house, so she came to him.”

“That’s very kind of her.”