Page 7 of Siren Song

“What the fuck are you doing in the Lowlands?”

“Something stupid,” I admit.

It is quiet on his end, but for the echo of the waves. “You know what? I actually don’t hate the idea of you doing something stupid.”

I snort, even as I feel a wave of affection for my friend. Perceptive little shit.

“Does this have to do with the siren? The one in the articles?”

I let out a ragged breath. I am exhausted. I have not gotten a good night of sleep since I left home. Not since… “Yes.”

“Want to talk about it?” Of course Zephyr cannot leave things be. He has been like this since I met him, always digging and digging and digging until I find myself fessing up to how abandoned I feel by my mother, or how relieved I was to find a man like Jordie whose desires and needs were a complement to mine. How much I miss my home in Yucatec’a, even though I am the one who left.

“Not really,” I start. “There are…it is too big to grasp, at least right now.”

He waits.

“It is a coaching gig,” I say, like it is simple. Like me sitting in a car on the other side of the world after walking away from a good life is only about a coaching gig.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “I’m going to act like it doesn’t hurt that you’re leaving us for another athlete.”

I wince. “It is not like that.” Even though it is exactly like that.

“Coach. Of course I’m pissed you left. You’re the best coach I’ve ever worked with. You’re good at your job. Fuck, you’re the reason we beat the sirens for the first time in fifty years at the last Clash, and I was ready to do it again this year.”

I remember the moment like it was yesterday—the gold medals resting on the merpeople’s proud chests at the Clash of Creatures four years ago after placing first in the ensemble category.

Zephyr is not done. “But you’re my friend, too, and more than anything else I want to know you’re okay.”

“I wish there was more I could tell you, Zeph, but right now all I know is the siren in the articles should be dead, because I heard them. I heard them sing eight years ago, back in Yucatec’a. It is why I left, and now, if they are alive…”

I hear the soft whoosh of Zephyr’s exhale. “Fuck,” he whispers. “I heard about you breaking up with Jordie and I didn’t understand, but now I—fuck, Javier.”

Of course he gets it. Zephyr has always loved the legends, the dusty old books detailing the plight of the selkie and the curse of the sirens.

It is a relief to not have to explain it all to him.

“So the gig itself is not stupid. It is…you understand why I have to do this, right?”

“Do they know?” He asks quietly. “The siren. Do they know?”

I rake my hand over my beard and close my eyes, remembering what it felt like to run in the wet, humid heat of Yucatec’a. The certainty I had felt following the trail out to the cenotes, because it was dinner time, and no one was supposed to be there.

“No.” My voice is a rasp. “There is no way they know. They probably hate me for leaving the way I did, all those years ago.”

“So why did they hire you?”

“They did not.” I let out a rough breath. “They have no idea I am coming.”

I knock on the white apartment door, glancing down at myself. It is too late to do anything about the wrinkles in my short sleeved, button-up shirt. I look like I have spent the last two days in airports and smell like stale sweat and recycled air.

I wish there had been time to take a shower at the hotel. But, as Zephyr noted, I do not make a habit of impulsive decisions. I needed to move, to follow through before I convinced myself I am making a mistake by doing this.

I push my shoulders back as the knob turns. I am not nervous. I am not fucking—

Oh.

I do not know what I am expecting when the door opens.