Chapter 5
CORA
I hate Muir Callaghan.
Not for leaving nor the four years of silence that carved a hole in my chest I'm still learning to breathe around.
I hate him because he's more now.
More beautiful. More competent. More intelligent. More everything he was before, except now it's worse because he's had four years to become even better at being exactly what I can't stop noticing.
It's not fair.
When someone breaks your heart, they should look the part. Develop a villainous scar. Grow a mustache they can twirl. Start wearing all black and monologuing about their evil plans.
They should not look like they stepped off a California beach with sun in their hair the flutters in the breeze and easy competence in every movement.
Wednesday brings our first real tourist dive, and I'm still seething about the fundamental injustice of Muir Callaghan's continued existence when the group arrives at nine forty-five in a cluster of nervous energy and incorrectly assembled equipment.
The man in front is maybe mid-forties, stocky build going soft around the middle, with thinning brown hair and the kind of tan that comes from weekends, not work.
He's wearing a faded New Jersey Nets t-shirt under his wetsuit—unzipped, flapping open—and he's moving with this bouncing, eager energy that makes him seem younger than the gray at his temples suggests.
His hands are full before his feet even hit the dock properly: waterproof camera, waterproof notebook, waterproof fanny pack strapped around his waist like he's preparing for underwater tax season.
“Cora!” He's already talking. Bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“I read that Harmony Glen's lake has a higher-than-average population of freshwater sprites.
Is that true? Will we see any? What's the etiquette for interacting with sprites? Can they communicate underwater or just on the surface? Is there a difference between the blue ones and the—”
“Dave.” I smile. “Fins first.”
“Right!” He drops into a crouch, fumbling with his gear.
Keeps talking. “Sorry, I'm just—I've been wanting to do this for three years, you know?
Since the Revelation. I've been fascinated by freshwater supernatural ecosystems since—well, since forever really, but now that we actually know they exist—”
Behind me, Rex makes a sound that's technically a cough but is actually him trying not to laugh.
Across the dock, Muir is running equipment checks with the rest of the group. Methodical. Quiet. Working through the checklist with that unhurried competence I've been trying not to notice for a week.
He crouches next to a tall man adjusting a tank valve—Greg, according to my roster. The man is maybe sixty, lean and weathered from decades in the sun. Silver hair cropped close. The kind of face that smiles easy.
Muir says something low. His Scottish brogue carries across the water, and Greg laughs. A warm, rolling sound.
I watch this for approximately three seconds before I redirect my attention to Dave's fin situation.
“Left fin's on backwards,” I say.
Dave looks down. His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh! Huh. How do you even—is that a safety issue? What happens if you try to swim with—”
“You go in circles. Swap it.”
“Right, right.” He fumbles with the straps, fingers clumsy with excitement. “Hey, can I ask—do the water sprites ever interact with tourists? Or do they mostly engage with the supernatural residents? I read a blog post that said—”
“Dave.” Muir's voice carries across the dock. Quiet. Matter-of-fact. Not unkind. “Fins first. Questions when we're geared up.”
Dave swaps his fin. “Got it. Sorry.”
I turn to check my own equipment. One small moment of gratitude that Muir knows exactly when to step in and exactly what tone to use despite him being practically brand new to this operation.
Which I hate.
Competence shouldn't be attractive on someone who destroyed you.
Rex is helping a woman with her mask seal—Patricia, mid-fifties, round-faced and cheerful, with short gray hair and laugh lines deep enough to map a life. Her husband hovers nearby, tall and thin with nervous hands and a camera around his neck.
“You doing okay?” Rex asks. Quiet. Just for me. Dave has moved on to asking about lake geology.
“Fine.”
His hand lands on my shoulder.
It's casual. The kind of thing he's done a hundred times. But suddenly I'm aware of it. Aware of Patricia watching with that soft, approving look people get when they see couples they find charming. Aware that I'm noticing her noticing, which is worse than the touch itself.
I hate this.
“You're tense.” Rex's thumb moves in a small circle against my shoulder blade. Not romantic. Just the way he'd work a knot out of a rope. “Shoulders are up around your ears.”
“I'm fine.”
“You look like someone just asked you to do calculus in front of an audience.” He leans in, voice dropping. “Which, granted, is your baseline state, but this is a new flavor of panic.”
I almost smile.
“Patricia over there thinks I'm genuinely lovely,” he continues, still low.
“I'm going to lean into that. Watch this.” He straightens, keeping his hand on my shoulder, and turns to help the second local with her mask.
Does it with such exaggerated gentleness—such theatrical care—that it's impossible not to see the joke.
At himself. At the situation. At this whole ridiculous performance.
He glances back. Better?
I nod.
It is.
In the water, everything gets simple.
That's what I love about diving. Down here, there's only one question: what's happening right now and what do I do about it?
Look. Listen. Breathe. Move.
The lake does the rest.
I lead the group through orientation. First ledge.
Visibility check. Basic signals in real conditions.
They're doing well. Dave, remarkably, is an excellent diver once he's actually underwater.
The medium forces the focus he couldn't quite manage on the dock.
He moves carefully. Signals clearly. Only tries to pet a perch once, and when I give him a look through my mask, he pulls his hand back with visible contrition.
Muir's guiding the rear.
Standard formation. I'm lead, he's tail. I check every forty-five seconds like I'm supposed to. Which means every forty-five seconds I'm looking in his direction. Professional. Required.
The fact that I notice exactly how he moves in the water is not professional. Easy. Unhurried.
The way I move in the lake. It's in his body the same way it's in mine.
At forty-five seconds, I glance back. He's checking Dave's buoyancy with one hand, steady and sure. His hair floats loose from its tie, pale gold in the filtered light.
At ninety seconds, I turn to verify formation again, and try not to commit his body and the way it moves to my memory.
At one hundred thirty-five seconds, I force myself to look away. Toward the pickerel. Toward anything but the way he moves, the way he's exactly as good at this as he is at everything else.
I'm not thinking about it.
We reach the eastern shelf at four meters. The pickerel like to sit here in early afternoon. I signal the group to hold.
The pickerel oblige. Three large ones, drifting in the thermocline with the magnificent indifference of fish who’ve been doing this longer than anyone watching. Dave makes a gesture of profound reverence through his mask. Patricia’s husband takes approximately forty photos in thirty seconds.
I glance back to check formation.
Muir's watching the pickerel.
His face has that open quality he gets when he forgets to guard it. The way he used to look at me as if I was the only thing in the world worth seeing.
My chest tightens. I force myself to look away, toward the visibility gradient near the rock face where the mussel colony's been establishing since April. Excellent news for the ecosystem survey. Perfectly legitimate reason to be looking in that direction.
Dave's fin catches Greg's shoulder.
Greg signals okay? Dave signals sorry, my fin.
I move the group on.
When I glance back, Muir's running the rear formation check. Professional. Whatever was on his face a moment ago is gone.
Fine. Smooth.
Then we get to the surface, and Dave gets his tank caught on the dock railing. I don't know how. Physics shouldn't permit it. But there it is.
It takes both hands to untangle. Which means he has no hands for the ladder. Which means he starts to drift.
Muir's the closest. His arm goes under Dave's tank. Easy. Immediate. Holding him steady against the current while Dave sorts the tangle.
I'm right there with the swimmer line. I see it—water streaming off his shoulders, his arm flexed as he holds Dave without strain, and I have to force myself to look away.
“Got it!” Dave swings himself up with restored dignity. “Haha! Didn't see that coming. Thanks, man.”
“Current's tricky near the ladder,” Muir says.
His Scottish brogue rolls through the words like stones in a river, and I forget how to breathe. That voice. That accent emerging from someone who looks like he belongs on a California beach—the contrast so jarring it stops time for a moment.
I have to force myself to turn away, to hand Patricia her towel, to smile like my chest isn't tight.
I'm already turned away. Handing Patricia her towel. Smiling.
Rex meets my gaze with a cocked eyebrow that says everything while saying nothing.
I answer by lifting my own brow.
The damned man just grins like he won whatever bet he made with himself.
“Great dive,” I say. To the group. To everyone. “Dave, excellent buoyancy management. Greg, your compass work was solid. Patricia, your hover at the third ledge was textbook—”
“Can I ask—?” Dave's already pulling out his waterproof notebook. “About the mussels near the eastern face? Are those part of the Natural Resources survey? Because I read that freshwater mussels are actually very important indicators of—”
“I'll send you the survey documentation. Public access version on the Ministry of Natural Resources website. The researcher's Dr. Margaid Davis. She publishes seasonally.”
Dave pulls out his waterproof pen.
“You've got to be kidding me,” Rex says. Very quiet. Next to my ear.
“He loves information. Let him have the notebook.”
Rex makes a sound of defeated fondness. I lean into him slightly. The tourists are watching. It costs me nothing.
This is what we do now.
I don't look at Muir.
Don't need to. I know he's at the equipment rinse station working through post-dive checks with the same competence he brings to everything.
I'm thinking about him being there with exactly as much energy as I'm putting into not thinking about it.
***
We're closing the shed when I say it.
“You know what's not fair?”
Rex glances over. “Many things. Which one specifically?”
“When someone breaks your heart, they should look the part. Develop a scar. Grow a villain mustache. Start wearing all black.”
“Ah.” Rex secures the padlock. “But villains make it to 'hear me out' lists all the time. And wasn't Lucifer described as an angel of light or something? Hot, basically?”
I give him a gimlet stare.
He grins. “Just saying.”
Tours end at five.
We’ve closed the shed. Run tomorrow’s booking confirmations.
Rex gives me a look before he goes. “You good?”
“I’m good.”
“Want company tonight?”
“No worries, I’m set,” I say, holding up my bag of empanadas. “I got dinner and quiet tonight.”
I accepted a bag of empanada from Roarke, who strolled up here during his lunchbreak with Nugget.
He’d brought Nugget for soaring practice.
We all treat him like a baby dragon even though he’s pony-sized and has been for six months.
Blue scales. No flight capability yet. Just enthusiastic launching and graceless descending.
He practices over the lake because water’s softer than land.
Also helps with fish population control.
He’s allowed in the north inlet and eastern shallows. Respects those boundaries.
More than I can say for some people.
Roarke is Liana’s husband. Seven-foot lion-man. Town vet. He brings me food at Liana’s urging since she cooks way too much, and, as a fellow Filipino, likes to make sure I have enough to eat.
The empanadas are still warm in the cloth bag. There are at least eight of them.
Rex gives me a quick side hug and heads down the shore path toward his truck.
I watch him go. Lock the shed. Take my water taxi home.
My neighborhood is what real estate agents call “established.”
Old money. Bigger houses, farther apart. Quaint that costs extra. Wide lawns. Mature trees. Neighbors who wave from a distance and respect boundaries.
My house has alpine porch chairs facing the water. Wide armrests perfect for a beer or a book. I bought them because they looked like the chairs from my grandmother’s house in the mountains. They cost more than my first month’s rent.
My dock is small. Weathered cedar. Creaks underfoot. Single post with a light I don’t turn on. The water here is quieter than the marina.
More mine.
I take the food inside and place it in my toaster oven to keep warm. Then I take everything off but my swimsuit and slide into the water.
It’s warm from the day’s sun, still holding heat in the upper layers. I float on my back, letting the lake take my weight as I spread my arms.
The sky above me deepens from blue to indigo.
Right now I just want this. Water holding me. Stars emerging.
Night settling over the lake like a warm blanket.
I start humming, a nameless melody that I can only hear when the world is quiet enough.
I sing the way I only sing when no one’s listening.
I don’t know how long I float there. It’s long enough for stars to multiply and the lake surface turns into dark glass.
And long enough for me to feel settled once more and leave my worries for tomorrow.