Wrecked (22 page)

Miranda parked, rushed into the main entrance of the hospital, and was immediately blasted by the far-too-cold air conditioning. She wished Christian was with her. She needed a friend.

“Hi!” A perky receptionist glanced up from the central desk that faced the front doors. Miranda shook her head. She didn’t need any directions or information. She knew exactly where she needed to go: Fourth floor, ICU.

She walked into the elevator, glad that she didn’t recognize any of the white coat-clad doctors and surgeons surrounding her. The worst would have been to find herself face to face with any of the doctors who’d worked on her leg, who would surely ask why she wasn’t using the crutches and why the scar wasn’t properly covered in compression bandages.

“Who are you looking for?” a nurse at the station in the center of the hallway asked. Miranda didn’t recognize her; she must be new. All the other nurses merely nodded her to the room.

“Fletcher King,” Miranda said, impatiently shifting from foot to foot.

“Fletcher!” The nurse repeated. “Fletcher . . .” A shadow of a frown crossed her face. “Hold on one second,” she said. Miranda
watched as the nurse began whispering with another nurse.

Without waiting, Miranda walked into his room. Neither of his parents were there, and the only sound was the hiss of the ventilator. But Miranda didn’t feel afraid.

“Fletch,” she whispered, perching on the edge of the bed and burying her face in his shoulder. He didn’t smell like woodsmoke, he smelled like antiseptic. She buried her face deeper into his shoulder and snaked her arm around the many tubes attached to his chest and lay down.

“I miss you,” she whispered. His hand felt warm. “And I hope wherever you are, you’re so happy. Because that’s all you ever wanted. And I just want you to know how much I’m going to miss you.”

She paused and hugged him more tightly. The monitors continued to beep. “You saved me. You and Christian both did. Thank you,” she said. “You probably wouldn’t have even taken credit for it, right?” she whispered.

“I love you, Fletcher King. And know that’s why I need to say good-bye.” She breathed, closing her eyes.

“Miranda!”

Miranda’s eyes flew open to see Mrs. King storming in, Mr. King close behind. Mrs. King’s eyes were red and blotchy and Mr. King was holding one of the impossibly tiny boxes of tissues from the nurses’ station.

“For you to come in here, without permission . . . ,” Mrs. King choked.

“Hi,” Miranda said, extracting herself from the bed and looking Mrs. King straight in the eye with a feeling of intense sadness. She realized that Fletch was gone, too. Miranda could just see it in her eyes, in her slumped shoulders, in her voice. She wouldn’t stay. “Thank you for letting me visit your son. He saved me, and I will always, always remember that,” she said.

She didn’t look back in the whole walk from the ICU to the parking garage. She immediately drove to the ferry dock and headed to Bloody Point. It was only five o’clock, hours before the sun set. “Please be there,” she whispered under her breath. She needed to see him now, before she lost her nerve.

For as long as she could remember, Miranda’s favorite time of day was twilight. As soon as the sun began setting, her soccer games were better, her conversations clearer, and her thoughts stopped racing. But now, as she was running to Bloody Point, her thoughts were like butterflies on a Tilt-A-Whirl, dizzying and impossible to pin down. She was loyal to Fletch. But Christian made her feel alive again, made her feel like she wasn’t cursed, and made her feel that somehow, she’d have a normal life. When she was with Christian, she felt like the best version of herself. When she was with Fletch, she just felt scared and sad. She felt like a terrible person for admitting to herself that she was comparing her comatose boyfriend to Christian, but she couldn’t help it. Christian actually made her want to live, not just get through the days.

She parked, walked through the dense pine trees in the strip of forest, and stepped onto the sand. As usual, the beach was deserted, except for a few ancient-looking beer bottles that were scattered on the shore.

She resisted the urge to run into the water and swim off some of her nervous energy. Because if she dove in and swam, she might miss him. And she
couldn’t
miss him.

Suddenly, she saw a shimmery movement on the water. She squinted, crossing her fingers that it wasn’t simply a dolphin playing in the surf. Normally, it was good luck to see a dolphin. But Miranda didn’t believe in luck anymore.

“Christian? Hello?” she called, the wind whipping her hair and making strands stick to her Carmex-coated lips. But the only answer was the echo of her voice and the sound of gulls above. “Hello?” she tried again.

Nothing.

Miranda sighed, disappointed. It was getting cold, and Miranda didn’t have Fletch’s sweatshirt with her. When she used to come to Bloody Point to meet Fletch, Fletch would always be there first, and would always have a fire blazing. She needed to remember more things like that—the moments when
Fletch
was real and alive and in love with her. The more she remembered stuff from pre-accident, the less prone she was to thinking that she didn’t really miss him.

Unbidden, Miranda began combing the beach for drift-wood to start a fire. The driftwood needed to be dry, not too
thick, and not too new. Old driftwood caught fire most easily, while the large, hulking branches that came from storms were useless. But most people didn’t know that.

Here at Bloody Point, it was exceptionally easy to find kindling because of the forest. Miranda walked in, eyes peeled for the dry sticks of wood that were guaranteed to catch. She picked up twenty or so branches and was about to bring them back to the beach when she realized she wasn’t alone.

“Hello?” she called. She didn’t see anyone. She picked her way out of the forest and walked onto the beach. There was Christian, sitting on the same piece of wood she’d been sitting on just moments before. He was wearing the same cargo shorts he’d worn yesterday. He was gazing reflectively at the spot a few feet in front of him, which was the spot where Miranda had been planning to start the fire.

She hadn’t heard him before. And she hadn’t heard any cars or footsteps. “How’d you get here?” Miranda blurted, hugging her stack of branches to her body.

His face broke into an expression that Miranda still couldn’t figure out—it was as if he didn’t know whether or not he wanted to smile or smirk. “Miranda,” he said. “You’re here.”

“I said I’d be here. The question is, how did you
get
here?” Miranda frowned. This wasn’t the way she wanted the conversation to go at all. She needed to explain what happened with Fletch, but whenever she saw him, all her thoughts got jumbled together.

“Magic,” Christian said, smiling slightly to reveal his perfectly white teeth.

“Well, I don’t believe in magic,” Miranda said, dropping the wood into a pile.

“You don’t?” Christian asked.

“Nope,” Miranda said crisply. “I only believe in swimming.”
Ugh
. Miranda cringed as she said the last sentence.
I only believe in swimming?
What did that mean? And why was she all of a sudden trying to flirt?

“Are you high or something?” Miranda asked suspiciously.

Christian looked confused. “No,” he said slowly. “Are you?”

“No!”
Miranda said. “It’s just sometimes our conversations get weird. I don’t know.” She shrugged. “So, how was your day?” she asked awkwardly.

“What are you doing?” he asked, not answering the question as he nodded toward her pile of twigs.

“I was going to build a fire. I mean, for me,” Miranda said nervously. Her teeth were chattering. It was freezing on the beach. She needed to just tell him about Fletch so she could get into her seat-warmer-containing car and get the hell out of here. But she didn’t make any move to set the fire.

Christian stood up from the log. “Fire,” he repeated slowly. “How do you do it?”

Miranda cocked her head. “Seriously? You mean, like a beach fire? I don’t think there’s any one way. Alan used to use a Duraflame log, but that’s not really right. Just grab sticks and
stuff, dig a hole . . . why don’t you know this?” Miranda asked, regarding Christian suspiciously. Building a fire was something all island kids, no matter whether they were Bloody Pointers or Whym elite, had learned when they were in elementary school.

Christian sat on his heels and gazed up at her. His eyes were even more brilliant than she’d remembered. His hair reflected the light of the setting sun, the brown locks looking like they were woven with flecks of gold. If he went to Calhoun, he’d hands down be the hottest guy there, but there was something else about him—a sort of aloofness that made it seem like he hadn’t grown up in a life of privileged excess, like the Calhoun kids had. Which only made him seem more mysterious.

“Well, dig a hole,” Miranda said impatiently. “I can’t believe you’ve never learned this. Where’d you grow up?” she asked, sinking on her knees next to Christian.

“Somewhere that’s not really good for fires.” Christian shrugged as he gingerly began digging in the sand. Miranda watched nervously. Sometimes, Christian would seem so perfect, and other times, he seemed like he was from a different planet. Maybe he’d escaped from a mental institution? And what did it mean that Miranda didn’t even really want to ask?

“That’s deep enough,” Miranda said, stopping him from digging. “Now start with the big sticks, and put the small sticks on top,” she instructed. “Seriously, I can’t believe you don’t know this. Where are your survival skills? What would you do if you were lost in a forest by yourself?”

“What would you do?” Christian countered as he arranged a neat pile of sticks in the hole.

Miranda shrugged. “I don’t know. Find a way to get out, I guess.”

“What if there was no way out? What if danger was on both sides of the forest?”

“Then I’d make a way out. Or maybe set a fire so the forest was destroyed. No forest means no problem, right?” Miranda asked, wondering what the hell they were talking about. “I need to get matches,” she mumbled. “They’re in the car.”

Miranda ran through the woods to her unlocked car, reaching into the glove compartment and pulling out a Ziploc bag full of matchbooks. T
HE
S
EA
H
AG
T
AVERN
was emblazoned on one in fancy script. It was one of the only places along the coast of the mainland that didn’t card, and Gen and she had gone there last spring, just to say they’d done it. Miranda firmly turned the matchbook over in her palm so she could no longer see the logo. Then, she popped open the trunk and pulled out an oversize flannel blanket that Eleanor insisted she and Teddy keep in the car in case of an emergency. Unbeknownst to Eleanor, an “emergency” usually meant a sleepover on the beach with Fletch. Miranda felt a tug of disloyalty at the memory.

“Think fast,” she called when she reached the beach, throwing the matches toward Christian. He dropped them and they fell into a small pool of water in the sand. He squinted down at
them as Miranda draped the blanket over the log.

“Oh, it’s okay. They’re waterproof,” Miranda said, kneeling down near his feet and fishing the matchbook out of the water. “They’ll still light.” She pulled a match out and leaned toward the pile of kindling. “A lot of people screw this part up. At least that’s what Fletch says. They don’t know the right place to start the fire. They try to light the biggest stick and it doesn’t work. You have to go for the small stuff first. Fletch is like, the expert at this,” she struck the match and teased it along one of the medium-size pieces of driftwood. It sparked for a second before extinguishing. “It’s better if you also have paper for kindling, but . . . ,” Miranda said, striking another match. This one caught on a twig. “Good,” Miranda murmured.

“Now you try. Start it in a few places,” she said, passing the book to Christian. Brow furrowed, Christian struck a match and gingerly held it against a piece of wood. Finally, after a few false starts, the branch caught.

“Ow!” Christian yelped, holding his finger with his hand.

Miranda smiled. He seemed like such a cool, beyond-everything guy, but then he freaked over a match burn. “Aw, poor baby!” Miranda teased, throwing another match onto the fire. It seemed to be slowly catching on, the flames tentatively reaching toward the center of the stack of wood.

Christian rocked back on his heels. “But I thought . . .”

“What?” Miranda asked, looking at the dancing flames.

“Is this dangerous?”

Miranda shook her head. “Nope. It’s about as safe as you can get. Don’t freak out, just enjoy. At least it keeps the sea witch away.”

Christian stiffened. “What do you mean?” he asked in a strange voice.

“That’s what everyone on the island believes. That fire will kill Sephie, who’s supposed to be this mermaid that controls the tides for Whym. And I think she’s supposed to control the tides for the other islands around here. Maybe even for the whole world. I don’t really pay attention to the legends.” Miranda smiled tightly. “So, anyway, because she’s all-powerful in the water—but fire will destroy her—a lot of times, people say you have to make a fire to protect yourself on the beach.” She shrugged, her face blazing. She knew this wasn’t a date, and that
nothing
about the interactions between her and Christian were typical, but she found herself saying the oddest things when he was around. “Anyway, Fletch believed in that, I didn’t. I just get cold.” she shrugged and tilted her face up to his.