A Matter of Truth (Fate, #3) by Heather Lyons
To my mom,
who taught to me to read
and to love books at such a young age,
this one is for you.
I lift my hand up, shading my eyes as I peer at the loud and heavy surf crashing onto the pristine white shoreline. Overhead, gulls scream in a painfully bright blue sky, but even they are nearly drowned out by the ocean’s anger. “You can’t be serious about going out there today.”
An inscrutable smile spreads across Jonah’s lips as he pulls up the rest of his dark wetsuit. He reaches for the zipper, but I step around him so I can slowly tug the tab upward. “I think a storm is coming in,” I tell him, trailing my other hand up the metal path.
When his head tilts back to survey the cloudless sky, black hair brushes against my fingers; a delicious shiver shakes my spine. I lean forward, my arms going around his chest, so I can press my face against his neck. His arms crisscross to wrap around mine, and we stand like this, watching the waves continue their furious pounding of the shore for long minutes of hushed unease. All too soon, he pulls away so he can pick up his surfboard.
Anxiety spreads throughout my belly; I reach out and trace the length of his arm, aching to chase my fears away. “Promise me you’ll be careful?”
His cerulean eyes are so sad when he studies me, a mute accusation that asks me why I don’t trust him enough.
I do, though. Probably more than I trust any other person in the entire universe.
His free hand cups the back of my head, drawing me in close. I savor how my heart slams around in my chest when our lips meet, how my world tilts when his tongue touches mine. I let myself drown in this kiss, and in him.
I love this man, I think to myself.
It’s over too soon; he’s off into those wild, terrifying waters. I trail him to the exact line where water fades to sand, holding my breath as he duck dives under the blackening foam of a monstrous wave. I count in my head to ten, then twenty . . . I get to fifty, one hundred, but Jonah has yet to surface. I scan the horizon for his profile, but no one else is out amongst these waves today. And then I scream his name until it becomes a second heartbeat, yet my voice is alone on this beach.
In desperation, I tear away the waves until all that lies before me is a dripping, sloped shelf riddled with gasping sea life. Jonah is nowhere to be seen.
I race into the dying coastline, bare feet shredding against sunken rocks and broken shells, but I can’t find him anywhere. Hours are spent searching, but there’s nothing, no one. Just a silent, dead former ocean I’ve created in my panic.
I’ve lost him.
In my agony, I let the world around me explode.
Dammit, I missed the bus.
As I hurry down the nearly empty street, I attempt to shake the lingering aftereffects of yet another nightmare that pulled me so far under I only awoke when a neighbor pounded against our shared wall, shouting for me to turn off my alarm clock. It wasn’t the first time this has happened, and I doubt it’ll be the last. Nowadays, my dreams are never kind to me, and along with all-too frequent blackouts, they wreak havoc upon my work schedule.
I’m an hour late for my shift at the Moose on the Loose, and although the owner loves me like I’m his kid sister and won’t fire me (let alone write me up), I hate abusing his generosity. Being late to work is something I’m not okay with. Most days, I’m painfully early; routine, even that of a job, proves to be a healing balm. I allow myself to sink into the lull of going through the motions of working in a diner, perfecting them until I feel comfortable in my skin.
Elusive as those moments are, and as brief as they can be, I chase after them with everything in me.
Waiting for me outside the Moose, coatless despite the bitter weather and holding a steaming cup of coffee in his hands, is a welcome sight. Or, maybe not, since Will’s glaring at me with the equivalent of an unwelcome I told you so.
I kiss my hand and pat my butt.
“Why you are so insistent on taking the bus instead of letting me drive you to work continues to boggle my mind,” he tells me, his sexy Glaswegian accent diluted by a mere five years in Alaska. And then, in an awful facsimile of an American accent, a good octave above mine, “What kind of girl am I if I can’t get to work on my own, Will?” He tsks-tsks. “I have an answer for you—a tardy one.”
I brush past him, wrenching the door to the diner open. “Smart-assery is not your most attractive quality.”