Page 39 of Siren Song

Chapter 11

Not Yours

Javier

“What kind of cereal do you like?”

Aleks’ words from two nights ago still echo in my head.

In front of me, the refrigerated case stocked with sports drinks and sodas blurs. The pre-made poke bowls in my hand are starting to sweat, little beads of condensation dripping onto my skin. There are people all around me, jostling my body as they move through the crowded dining hall, but I ignore them.

I am supposed to be grabbing lunch for Aleks and I, only I cannot stop thinking about his breathy little sounds and the way his whole body goes soft when his lips wrap around my thumb. I can still feel the way his dick pulsed in my grasp when I got him off in the shower this morning, so hot and needy and Dios, I need to keep it together.

I want to lose myself in being with Aleks, in training and supporting and giving him everything he needs to have the kind of life he has always dreamed of. I want to devote myself to being the only man in the world who can meet his needs.

But until I tell him the truth, every hope and promise tastes hollow. Shallow.

Two nights ago at dinner, with Zephyr staring at me across the table and talking about exceptions and Aleks laughing as he said no one believes it, I almost opened my mouth. I almost told him, in front of my closest friends, that there was a reason to believe in the old stories.

The moment passed. I stayed quiet, and then I went home and lost myself in my boy, telling myself I was waiting for the right time. I wanted a few days to be with him without interrupting what was happening between us. He was choosing me freely. He was with me because he wanted me, not because of a fate out of our control.

All of those excuses feel silly now.

Today, after lunch, I will pull him onto my lap and tell him everything. He deserves to know.

He should be rested and ready when I get back to our bungalow. After a hard, early morning practice, I sent him to nap. He grumbled and stuck out his lower lip like he thought it would make a difference. I did not budge—the qualifying round begins in two days, and he needs to be ready.

I frown down at the drinks, trying to choose between brands of coconut water when I sense someone hovering beside me.

Straightening slowly, I turn to find my previous employer watching me.

“Coach Zamora.” Her voice is meticulously controlled, using just enough volume to be heard over the crowd without inviting the whole room into the conversation.

I take in Alina Parthenope. She is tall, slender, with bony ankles and wrists, wearing a coordinated white linen ensemble and deep blue pumps. She stares at me down her long, straight nose, and, adjusting my posture to my full height, I stare back.

“Hello, Alina.”

Her smile is as brittle as the rest of her. “Your mother sends her greetings.”

That is surprising. In the years since I moved away from the colony, I have only seen my mother once or twice in passing. The remnants of a childhood tinged by sadness and a feeling of abandonment have long ago been replaced by the constant love and support I always had from my father’s family. “I have a hard time believing that,” I reply, careful to keep my tone indifferent. “She had little interest in me even when I was a twenty-minute drive away.”

“You’ve become a topic of conversation among us now that you are coaching my Alejandra.”

It is one thing to know, peripherally, someone is a bigot who has no interest in seeing beyond their narrow, limited view of the world. It is another thing entirely to hear it, to watch the denial play out right in front of me, to feel the sharp twist of rage in my belly knowing this person has no interest in seeing or knowing their own child.

“Aleks,” I say, slowly. “Your son’s name is Aleks.”

Her nostrils flare. “Children do such silly things in the name of self-expression. She’ll find her way back to—”

“Aleks is not a child.” It is a fight now, to keep my voice low. Hate and indignation unlike anything I have ever felt threaten to burn through the control I am barely holding on to. How dare someone speak like this about their child. How dare she twist Aleks’ existence into some imagined affront? I shake my head. “He is a man, one who was willing to walk away from everything he had ever known for the chance to be himself.”

Alina steps closer, towering almost half a foot above me. “Himself?” She scoffs. “Alejandra is lost, but she cannot run from who she is. She is a dancer, my dancer, and she will find her way home.”

I let out a harsh laugh. “The thing is, Alina, in your twisted way, you are not completely wrong. Aleks is a dancer. He is not running from who he is. He fought to be here, at these games, because he is a siren who loves, loves to dance.” I raise a finger and point right at her. “He did all of this in spite of your attempts to interfere.”

Alina makes no attempt to deny it. “It isn’t right. Not when she’s mutilated herself—”

I hold up a hand. “I am done listening to your shit. Artistic swimming is an open-species division, with participants of every gender under the sun. Sirens compete alongside merpeople, humans, undines, shifters, and water-sprites. Aleks has every right to be here, and to compete.” She opens her mouth as if to cut in, but I am not finished. “I cannot wait for you to see him swim. He is sensational, more beautiful, more raw and strong and alive than he has ever been. When you see the way he moves through the water, I hope your soul is stirred. I hope you feel something. But know this.” I lean toward her, holding her gaze. “I am going to protect him from you and whatever bullshit you have planned under the guise of maternal love. He is not yours, not in blood or in name.”