Chapter 12 Lili
Twelve
Lili
Over the next week, Wren and I settle into a rhythm. Each morning, I either check inventory or run the register in the gift
shop. It’s not glamorous, but I don’t mind. The familiarity of retail work is grounding, even if the mornings drag. Wren leads
the occasional tour of the museum, but mostly he’s holed up in the back room. Without him around, time crawls.
By noon, though, the energy shifts. Eryn arrives like clockwork, balancing paper bags filled with lunches from the café that
make my stomach growl before she’s even through the door. Her presence inevitably summons Tate from whatever corner of the
museum he’s been lurking in, like some kind of caloric bat signal has been activated.
He and Wren seem good, but then, I didn’t see them interact much before.
The three of them have an easy shorthand together that took me a few days to adjust to.
Inside jokes, stories, and more than a decade of shared experiences.
It should have felt isolating, but Eryn made sure it didn’t.
She never let the conversations veer too far off into past territory and always wanted to hear about how house renovations were going (good, but if I ever have to use a drum sander again, it’ll be too soon—it took me three long nights just to refinish the downstairs floors) or about my plans for after the summer (college, history degree, and hopefully a job in a museum somewhere).
Wren never asks questions, but he’s always listening to my answers.
I learn more about Eryn too, like how she’s hoping to get more of her recipes on the café’s menu and eventually wants to become
a full pastry chef there. She’s definitely talented enough as far as I’m concerned. I still think about her morning buns an
unhealthy amount.
When she leaves, though, there’s always an awkward moment. I feign interest in a napkin or a stray ketchup packet while she
gives Wren a quick goodbye kiss. It’s nothing over the top, but it’s enough to make me overly conscious of my own hands, suddenly
unsure what to do with them.
After lunch, Wren and I dive into his tour speech. The afternoons fly by in a blur of revisions, debates, and full-blown arguments.
Mostly arguments. His stubbornness is maddening, but if I’m being honest, it’s also kind of thrilling. There’s an unspoken
rhythm to our back-and-forth, like sparring partners who secretly enjoy the fight.
On Thursday evening, a full week since we started working on his speech, Wren insists it’s too dark for me to bike home.
As we cruise down the narrow dirt roads of Nantucket, he puts on “The Weight” by the Band, and the sound fills the car, warm and nostalgic.
The windows are rolled down, and I let the breeze whip through my hair as I surf my hand against the air currents outside.
The mix of sweet grass and salty sea scents the car, and for a moment, everything feels right.
“You know, I think the tour script is done,” I say, glancing at him. His profile is lit by the glow of the dashboard, his
strong jaw and broad shoulders solid and steady. “I mean, we can tweak it more tomorrow if you want, but honestly? It’s good.”
He doesn’t answer immediately, his hands relaxed on the wheel. The quiet between us isn’t uncomfortable—it’s satisfying, like
the calm after a storm.
“I might even call it great,” I add, leaning back against my seat with a small smile.
That earns a snort of disbelief. It’s barely a sound, but I recognize it for what it is: almost a laugh. I’ve heard it a few
times this week, and every time it feels like a win.
“It’s not terrible,” he finally says.
At a stop sign, he stretches his arms overhead, groaning softly as his shoulders crack. The movement tugs his shirt up, and
for the briefest second, I catch a glimpse of the skin above his waistband. My cheeks heat immediately, and I turn to face
the window, hoping he doesn’t notice.
“So, what’s next?” he asks, dropping his arms with a sigh. “We work on delivery?” He says it like it’s some great inconvenience,
even though he’s the one who brought it up.
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes with a text.
Mom: Home soon? Goldie wants a movie night, she said we can even watch Roman Holiday.
I make a groaning sound.
“Something wrong?” Wren asks.
“No, I mean, yes. My sister picked one of my favorite movies for us to watch tonight, but I’ve seen it so many times.” I side-eye
him. “Don’t suppose you want to start rehearsing your speech tonight?”
“Now? I mean, I guess. You want to go back to the museum?”
The road ahead dips into shadow, framed by weathered white picket fences tangled with wild roses. My gaze catches on a towering
elm tree set back from the road, its branches reaching over a patch of the greenest grass I’ve ever seen. Without fully thinking
it through, I point.
“There,” I say. “Pull over by that tree.”
He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. The tires crunch against gravel as he shifts the car into park. While he waits, I
text Mom a sad-face emoji and let her know I’ll be late and to start the movie without me.
Turning to Wren, I grin. “We’ll have you reciting this speech so perfectly your dad won’t be able to do anything but clap.”
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t reply. Instead, he reaches for his laptop.
And for the first time, I can tell he’s starting to believe me.
“You want me to ad-lib jokes?” Wren’s tone is incredulous, as if I’d suggested he hurl children overboard during his tours.
His brow furrows, and that muscle in his jaw—the one I’ve noticed flexes whenever he’s annoyed—tightens noticeably.
“Not jokes-jokes,” I say quickly. “Just, you know, funny historical stories. Haven’t you ever taken one of those tours at Universal Studios or something? They’re funny. People laugh. They tell their friends.” I lean forward, stressing my point. “They leave good reviews.”
“Anything else?” His voice is cool, but I know him well enough by now to catch the warning undertone. He’s not really asking
for suggestions—he’s daring me to add more.
Well, challenge accepted. I was saving the best for last anyway. “You’ve got to smile more.”
He responds by baring his teeth at me in a grin so exaggerated it’s borderline feral.
“Or not,” I say, trying not to laugh only to have it turn into a yawn.
He exhales sharply and sets the laptop on the dashboard. “It’s late. You’re tired.”
I am tired. My fifth—or maybe sixth—yawn in as many minutes proves it. But I’m not letting him shut this down. “Just read
through it one more time,” I urge. “Try the jokes. See how it feels.”
He studies me for a long moment, taking in my slumped posture and the way my head rests against the passenger-side window.
His gaze softens just enough to make me think he’s about to agree, but then he shakes his head. “You look like you’re ready
to pass out. And I’m not about to sit you in my lap and carry you into your house.”
His engine rumbles to life before I can respond, the low purr vibrating through the truck.
“It is late,” I murmur, suddenly wide awake as my mind conjures an unhelpful image of me sitting in his lap, his arms around
me. Heat floods my face. I press my palm against the cool glass of the window, hoping it will shock my brain back to order
as Wren drives me home. My hand is on the handle, ready to hop out the second he parks.
But just as I’m ready to open my door, he stops me.
“The other day, you told me how hard it was getting back here, but you said there was no other option for you.” His voice
is measured, unreadable. “Tell me why.”
I remember the conversation, and while I don’t understand why he’s choosing now to bring it up, I instantly know my answer.
“This place is important to me,” I say, my voice steadier than I expect. “My family built its legacy on this island; it may
not be a historically celebrated legacy, but it’s still mine. And once I was old enough to understand what that meant, the
generations that came before me, I wanted to know more.” I flip my arm over and trail my fingers over the faint blue lines
of my veins, following the patterns I used to trace as a kid when I pretended I could feel my history running through them.
“Nothing was more important to my dad than this place, and I wanted to be a part of that with him. So I read everything I
could. It’s the only way I’ve ever felt connected to my dad.” I let my arm drop. “He wanted to show the world who our family
really was, and I want that too. Isn’t this”—I gaze around us, taking in more than the cab of his truck—“the same for you?”
Something flashes across Wren’s face, but it’s gone before I can name it. His posture doesn’t shift, but there’s a stillness
in the silence between us, like my words landed somewhere deeper than he’s willing to admit.
Then, his expression cools, his voice flat when he finally speaks. “Mermaids are my family legacy, and I’d just as soon the
world forget about that. But if you want to dig into yours, be my guest, Tourist Girl. Just don’t blame me when you find out
they’re exactly who the history books say they were.”
I should probably be put off by his warning, but I just smile. “‘Tourist Girl’? Still? I do have a name.”
“I know.”
For some reason that makes me smile wider.
“Still want to do it?”
“Research my family?” My expression becomes serious. “More than anything.”
His eyes trail over the blue veins that I showed him. “Then bring your dad’s stuff tomorrow. His notes or whatever he has
on Kezia Gardner.”
I blink. “Wait, really? We’re actually going to start?” A burst of happiness swells inside me so fast it almost knocks me
off my seat. I have the ridiculous, overwhelming urge to throw my arms around him and hug him. I grip the door handle instead,
my fingers tight around the cool metal.
“Yeah,” he says, and it’s almost like my excitement infects him. His expression doesn’t shift much, but there’s something
lighter in his eyes as he looks at me. The moment is gone almost as soon as it appears. He clears his throat.
“Does that mean I’m officially off probation?” I ask, barely containing my grin.
“It wasn’t probation.”
I shake my head, but I don’t argue. I don’t want to do anything that might break whatever this is—this quiet, unexpected moment
when it feels like we might be on the same side.