Wrecked (26 page)

“I was looking for you, too,” Christian said, dropping his lanky frame next to her.

“Really?” Miranda smiled shyly. Even though their conversations could sometimes feel awkward, actions like this proved to Miranda they were on the same page, and that there was something between them besides the fact he’d rescued her. “I couldn’t go to school, and I just thought . . . I don’t know. What do you
do
all day, anyway?” she asked. The words came out like an accusation.

“Depends on the day. I plan, I figure things out . . . I think about you,” he confessed.

“You think about me?” Miranda said skeptically. She didn’t want to flirt. “No, I mean seriously . . . do you have a home?” she asked gently. A memory surfaced in her mind: It was first grade, and the teacher, Mrs. Bradley, had been reading
The Secret Garden
to the class, and had explained that Mary Lennox was an orphan, because both her parents had died.

Miranda’s hand had shot up. “Am I an orphan?” she asked.

“W-well . . . ,” Mrs. Bradley had stammered, turning bright red.

“Yeah, she is,” Alan Osten had lisped from the back of the room. “I want to be one, too!” he had added enviously.

Instead of being ashamed, Miranda had felt proud. No one else in class was an orphan. As soon as she got home, she bounded into Eleanor’s study, eager to share her discovery.

“You’re
not
an orphan,” Eleanor had said, a pained expression on her face. “Orphans don’t have anyone. You have me,” she’d explained.

Miranda had nodded, feeling vaguely disappointed. She’d
wanted
to be an orphan. Later, she realized that she was, and nothing Eleanor did, said, or bought her would change it. Then she’d hated the term. Ever since then, she’d blushed when someone had used the word to describe her. It sounded so tragic and Dickensian. But it was true. And she didn’t have anyone. Not really.

Miranda gazed at Christian, wondering if the term “homeless” might similarly set him off. But he had a bemused expression on his face. “I do have a home. At least I did when I left it.”

“You sound like a fortune cookie,” Miranda said offhandedly. It was one of those insults she’d toss off to Fletch to start a teasing war. Christian looked at her curiously. That was the thing with Christian. He was so brooding and intense, it was like he didn’t know how to joke. “But you sound like the good type of fortune cookie, that actually has a fortune and not just lottery numbers,” she said, smiling.

Christian gave her a bemused expression, the one she already realized meant that he didn’t have a clue about what she was saying. “What do you think? Do you think you’ll always live here?”

“Hell no,” Miranda shook her head. “I told you about everything going on . . . I just want to go somewhere where no one knows me. Where I can start over. Maybe far away from the water. Not like any of it makes any difference . . .” Miranda trailed off. “Have you ever had anything happen in your life that you
really
regret?” Miranda asked.

“Of course,” Christian nodded.

“And?” Miranda asked eagerly.

Christian shrugged and sank down next to her, draping his arm across her shoulders. “I don’t know yet. I’m still waiting. But I have to believe things will be okay. Somehow. Everything always corrects itself.”

“Maybe,” Miranda said uncertainly. “But what if it doesn’t?”

“It will,” Christian said sharply. It wasn’t a fight, exactly, but tension hung thick in the air between them. Her stomach rumbled and she realized she was starving. “Wanna get food?” Miranda asked.

“Food?” Christian repeated.

“Or not. Whatever,” Miranda said, sitting back down on the driftwood. “I just thought it might be good to get out . . . or something.”

“Sure,” Christian said.

“Okay,” Miranda nodded. “My car’s over there.” She jutted her chin to the grove of trees. Without waiting, she walked over to her car. They’d have to leave the island to get food. They couldn’t go anywhere on the island. You couldn’t go anywhere,
not even the deli that sat in the other half of the tackle shop in Bloody Point, without running into
someone.
And people would talk. “Okay to go to the mainland?” Miranda asked as she slid into the car. Christian closed his door. It was funny being in an enclosed space with him. It felt even more intimate than lying next to each other on the beach. He smelled like salt water and it was clear that the seat was pulled too far up to comfortably fit his long legs. But Christian didn’t bother to move the seat. Instead, he sat with his knees comically wedged against the dashboard. Miranda laughed. Christian tried so hard to give off a rebel bad boy vibe, but then he looked so confused and uncomfortable.

“You can move the seat back, you know,” Miranda said as she turned the ignition and drove toward the ferry dock. She rolled up the windows, glad they were tinted so no one could see inside.

“I’m fine,” Christian said, shifting so his knees were facing her. On top of the crest of Faunterloy, Miranda could just make out the green and white ferry gracefully making its way to the dock. Oddly, the
Sephie
was nowhere to be seen.

“Weird,” Miranda murmured. In the past few days, she’d gotten so used to seeing its larger-than-life presence as part of the landscape at the harbor that it seemed odd that it was gone. She wondered where the
Sephie
went.

“What?” Christian asked.

“Nothing.” Miranda shook her head. “Fixations” was the
word Dr. Dorn would have used to describe her sudden interest in the whereabouts of the
Sephie
. Dr. Dorn would say that it was just one more way for Miranda to maintain control of her environment.

The ferry had very few cars on board. By mutual silent agreement, Christian and Miranda didn’t go up on deck, but stayed on the car deck. They didn’t talk. It surprised Miranda how shy she felt with Christian.

He’s just a friend
.
It’s not a big deal
, she reminded herself. She glanced over. Christian’s jaw was set, and he was staring straight ahead, as if he were frightened. Who was she kidding? Of course he wasn’t just a friend. They’d kissed. Her heart sped up whenever she saw him. She knew his collar bones sloped slightly before ending in his surprisingly sharp shoulder blades, concealed under just the right layer of muscle. And yet . . .

“You okay?” She asked finally, poking him hard in the arm. He jumped.

“Yes, fine,” he said shortly.

“Okay . . . ,” Miranda whispered under her breath. From the deck, the foghorn blew, signaling that it was time for passengers to return to their cars and get ready to disembark. Miranda sank down low in her seat, not wanting anyone to see her. It was clear her encounter with Christian last night had unleashed something with her. What was unclear was whether that was good or bad. When all her emotions were bottled up, she was robotic, but at least she didn’t make any scenes. Now, she felt
like she was looking for a fight, even with Christian. It was as if Coral had pulled a huge Band-Aid off her emotions.

“All cars out for Johns Island,” the captain boomed over the intercom.

Damn it.
Instead of the mainland ferry she’d inadvertently driven onto the inter-island one, which looped from Whym to Johns to Palmetto Cay, then back again. Even though it was only a few miles away, she always avoided Johns. She hated thinking of her parents, late at night in the front seat of their car, amped up after a late concert, driving off the dock. It didn’t make sense. Her parents were free-spirited hippies, but they hadn’t been
idiots.

“I guess we’re getting off,” Miranda said tightly. At least this was more anonymous than hanging out on Whym.

Miranda drove down the tiny main street, which only held a post office, a general store, and a combined pizza place and bar called Boomers. The other half of the island used to be concert grounds, but now housed a summer camp. Miranda couldn’t help but wonder if the switch had been motivated by her parents’ accident.

“Boomers?” Miranda asked, nodding toward the weathered tavern on the corner. As if they had a choice.

Christian nodded. He kept staring out the window as if he were ready to jump out at any moment. On the beach, Christian seemed comfortable, both in his skin and his surroundings. And while his skin still had the vaguely glow-y look
he had at the beach, he seemed cagey and restless, displaying none of the in-control calm he had at Bloody Point. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all.

Miranda drove into the almost-empty parking lot of the ugly brown building. There was a neon sign over the door, two of its red letters burnt out so the sign only read
OO ERS.

Miranda elbowed Christian in the ribs. “Wanna buy a vowel?” She asked.

“What?” Christian asked, clearly confused.

“Never mind,” Miranda sighed. Something felt wrong. Since so much
was
wrong, she wasn’t sure what it was, beyond everything.

The inside of Boomers was dark and smelled like stale beer and cigarettes, and the floor was sticky. A thin layer of grime seemed to cover the surfaces of the red Formica tables. Already, a few grizzled men were sitting at the bar, drinking watery beers. The song “Carry On My Wayward Son” played from the jukebox, as if the entire tavern had been suspended in a permanent time warp. Miranda relaxed. No one would ever find them here.

Miranda grabbed Christian’s wrist, self-conscious at touching him away from the beach. It was such a couply gesture. But then he circled her hand with his, and they walked to a booth at the back of the restaurant. Miranda had never been here before, but Fletch and a few of the guys had, one time during the summer. They’d been psyched because—unlike all
the places on Whym where the waiters pretty much knew on sight that they were underage—they’d actually been served beer. Miranda wondered if this had been where her parents had gone, too. The thought made her shiver.

“Are you okay?” Christian asked. He was staring around the restaurant, as if everything, from the collection of South Carolina license plates on the walls to the jukebox in the corner, was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

“We need to talk,” Miranda said. According to Genevieve, who’d read it in some magazine, the worst thing you could
ever
say to a guy was,
We need to talk
. But it wasn’t like Christian was her boyfriend, or even, for that matter, a typical guy.

Just then, a short, middle-aged waitress approached the table. She practically threw two laminated menus at Miranda.

“You kids skipping school?” she asked suspiciously.

“N-n-no,” Miranda stammered, shifting miserably in her seat. This had been a stupid idea. Why the hell couldn’t she just have made a run to the stupid Bloody Point deli and gotten a few sandwiches? This wasn’t a date, she wasn’t impressing anyone, and she should be doing what she was supposed to be doing, which was hanging out at the hospital and helping Fletch.

“Good. But you guys still aren’t getting beers without ID. Don’t even try. So, what do you want?” she asked, as if daring them to order alcohol.

“I guess just a medium pizza,” Miranda said. “Does that work?”

Christian nodded across the table.

“Good,” the waitress said, not bothering to write anything down before stomping off.

Miranda noticed that Christian was clenching and unclenching his jaw; the same thing he’d done in the car. “We don’t have to get pizza. You can get whatever . . . I just thought it’d be good to get out.”

“No, I’m fine. So, you say you need to talk?” Christian asked, raising his blue eyes to hers.

“Yeah. These past few days have been so weird.
Good
weird,” Miranda clarified quickly. “But I just don’t know what’s happening with us, and I’m scared,” Miranda said finally. They were the two words she hadn’t said to anyone, ever. Not since after the accident, and not since her parents had died. “I’m scared all the time.” She knit her fingers together on the table.

“You’re scared of me?” Christian asked, cupping her hands with his.

Miranda nodded. That was the problem. She
was
scared of Christian. Christian brought up hope and possibility and just maybe the chance that she’d someday feel normal. But it also brought up the incredibly scary possibility that she’d somehow lose him.

“I really like you,” she said shyly. “And I’m not supposed to. I’m trying to just get better and get over everything. And you’re either the best thing to happen to me or the worst,” Miranda said. She looked down at the table and realized she’d
been ripping a napkin to shreds. Tiny squares scattered across the dirty beige table like snow.

Christian nodded. “Miranda,” he said, the word causing a shiver to whoosh up her spine. “I’ll do
anything
to ensure you’re always safe. That’s a promise. Do you trust me?”

Miranda searched Christian’s expression, trying to parse if what he’d meant was sincere or just a line. But everything about Christian seemed sincere. In fact, unlike the other guys she knew, who always cracked jokes—Fletch had even made a joke the first time he said
I love you,
by following it up with
because if I didn’t say it, you’d probably use your soccer skills to kick me in the nuts
—Christian never seemed to laugh. It was kind of nice, Miranda realized, to be with someone who took life seriously. Right now, it was exactly what she needed.