Sweet Venom
Page 59
“Right on,” Kyle says.
He digs into the calamari, and I struggle to get my breathing under control. This is a perfectly normal date with my perfectly normal boyfriend, overlooking a perfectly normal body of water. The setting sun must have reflected into my eyes because, for a second, I thought I saw—
No, it’s not possible. It’s the stress of the day, and the news of my adoption and my supposed sisters showing up on my front step. Stress hormones are playing tricks on my mind. Because I can’t possibly have seen a woman with long, stringy black hair swimming toward the pier, with a giant serpent’s tail undulating along behind her human torso.
Picking up my salad fork, I spear a ring of calamari, dip it lightly in marinara, and lift the bite to my mouth. My attention stays sharply focused on Kyle, our food, and the elegantly set table between us.
I’m not afraid to look out the window again. I’m trying to be in the moment, to enjoy my meal and my boy—
Oh, who am I kidding?
I set my fork down on the plate, close my eyes, and turn toward the window. One, two . . . . On the count of three I open my eyes.
Just in time to see the serpent lady climb out onto the deck below and slink into the crowd of tourists.
“Sugar,” I whisper.
This is not my problem, I reason. I’m Greer Morgenthal, junior class president, alumnae tea chair, and future junior leaguer. I’m wearing Stella McCartney and Jimmy Choo. I can’t take on something like, like . . . that.
But as I rationalize with myself, the creature slithers through the crowd, running her abnormally long fingers through women’s hair and up men’s spines. They react to the touch, but not to the creature herself. Can they not see her?
When the pointy end of her tail makes a big swing, knocking three people off their feet, and the crowd only looks confused, I think I have my answer.
“Kyle?” I ask absently. “What do you see down there?”
I point directly at the creature as she cuts a swathe through the crowd.
“Tourists,” Kyle answers. “Loads and loads of tourists.”
“Of course.” They, ordinary humans—I shudder as I realize what this means—can’t see her.
I want to stay. I want to ignore the snake lady and whatever she plans to do in the crowd below. But I have nothing if not a strong sense of responsibility. If I am the only person who can see what she really is, then I don’t have much of a choice, do I?
“Excuse me, would you?” I push back from the table, leaving my napkin on my chair as I get up. “I need to use the restroom.”
“Sure, babe.”
Not even wasting time to get annoyed at Kyle for calling me “babe”—again—I turn and hurry for the lobby. Instead of heading through the door with a mermaid sign, I slip downstairs and out the main entrance.
With every fiber of my being, I’m hoping she’ll be gone when I get down there.
Chapter 18
Grace
Two hours after Gretchen stormed off Greer’s stoop and sped away, I’m beginning to think that maybe she was right. Maybe I was overreacting about Greer being in immediate danger. After I’ve sat in the park across the street from her house, watching absolutely nothing happen for the rest of the afternoon, Greer finally pulls out of the garage onto the side street. I have to run full out to keep up with her little gray sports car.
Thankfully, her house is at the very top of a hill, so I only have down to go. And she hits a lot of red lights along the way. From the way she revs her engine, I get the feeling she is pretty annoyed about something—either that or she’s very impatient. At least it gives me a chance to keep up without dying from the exertion.
By the time she pulls into a parking garage near Fisherman’s Wharf, I feel like I’ve run a marathon.
“At least it will get me in shape,” I pant, sucking in painful gasps of air while I wait for her to emerge from the structure. “Gretchen will be so proud.”
I lean against the corner of the building, letting my body recover, as Greer crosses the street to the Wharf, hugs a surfer-looking boy dressed in worn khaki cargos and a slightly rumpled white button-up shirt, and disappears up a narrow staircase. I make my way—slowly—after her. The sign above the stairs says Ahab’s Fine Seafood. My jeans and tee aren’t exactly fine-dining wear. If I try to follow her upstairs, I’ll stand out like a fish in a desert.
Besides, they’ll probably be up there for a while. Dinner at fancy restaurants always drags by at a snail’s pace. For me, anyway.
Instead, I decide to scope out the area. I wander around to the far side of the pier, below the restaurant windows. I can watch out for her from down here, and if anything happens, I can be around the front and upstairs in seconds. Assuming I’ve recovered by then.
I find a weathered wooden bench and plant myself.
Spending my evening on Fisherman’s Wharf, surrounded by a billion tourists and a heavy stink of fish, was not exactly how I planned to spend my evening. Or what I told Mom I’d be doing. She thinks I’ll be home for dinner.
I pull out my phone and send her a quick text that says my study session is running long. I add that I’m staying for dinner, so she won’t worry. Who knows how long I’ll be out?
She replies with a sad face and says Thane’s out for dinner too. I wonder if he’s with Milo. I text back that I look forward to leftovers tomorrow; with Thane not eating at home, there might actually be some.
Of course, as soon as I send the text, my stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten since lunch. Gretchen’s workouts zap everything out of me and I need extra nourishment to keep up. If I were home for dinner more lately, Mom would probably notice a huge spike in my appetite.
He digs into the calamari, and I struggle to get my breathing under control. This is a perfectly normal date with my perfectly normal boyfriend, overlooking a perfectly normal body of water. The setting sun must have reflected into my eyes because, for a second, I thought I saw—
No, it’s not possible. It’s the stress of the day, and the news of my adoption and my supposed sisters showing up on my front step. Stress hormones are playing tricks on my mind. Because I can’t possibly have seen a woman with long, stringy black hair swimming toward the pier, with a giant serpent’s tail undulating along behind her human torso.
Picking up my salad fork, I spear a ring of calamari, dip it lightly in marinara, and lift the bite to my mouth. My attention stays sharply focused on Kyle, our food, and the elegantly set table between us.
I’m not afraid to look out the window again. I’m trying to be in the moment, to enjoy my meal and my boy—
Oh, who am I kidding?
I set my fork down on the plate, close my eyes, and turn toward the window. One, two . . . . On the count of three I open my eyes.
Just in time to see the serpent lady climb out onto the deck below and slink into the crowd of tourists.
“Sugar,” I whisper.
This is not my problem, I reason. I’m Greer Morgenthal, junior class president, alumnae tea chair, and future junior leaguer. I’m wearing Stella McCartney and Jimmy Choo. I can’t take on something like, like . . . that.
But as I rationalize with myself, the creature slithers through the crowd, running her abnormally long fingers through women’s hair and up men’s spines. They react to the touch, but not to the creature herself. Can they not see her?
When the pointy end of her tail makes a big swing, knocking three people off their feet, and the crowd only looks confused, I think I have my answer.
“Kyle?” I ask absently. “What do you see down there?”
I point directly at the creature as she cuts a swathe through the crowd.
“Tourists,” Kyle answers. “Loads and loads of tourists.”
“Of course.” They, ordinary humans—I shudder as I realize what this means—can’t see her.
I want to stay. I want to ignore the snake lady and whatever she plans to do in the crowd below. But I have nothing if not a strong sense of responsibility. If I am the only person who can see what she really is, then I don’t have much of a choice, do I?
“Excuse me, would you?” I push back from the table, leaving my napkin on my chair as I get up. “I need to use the restroom.”
“Sure, babe.”
Not even wasting time to get annoyed at Kyle for calling me “babe”—again—I turn and hurry for the lobby. Instead of heading through the door with a mermaid sign, I slip downstairs and out the main entrance.
With every fiber of my being, I’m hoping she’ll be gone when I get down there.
Chapter 18
Grace
Two hours after Gretchen stormed off Greer’s stoop and sped away, I’m beginning to think that maybe she was right. Maybe I was overreacting about Greer being in immediate danger. After I’ve sat in the park across the street from her house, watching absolutely nothing happen for the rest of the afternoon, Greer finally pulls out of the garage onto the side street. I have to run full out to keep up with her little gray sports car.
Thankfully, her house is at the very top of a hill, so I only have down to go. And she hits a lot of red lights along the way. From the way she revs her engine, I get the feeling she is pretty annoyed about something—either that or she’s very impatient. At least it gives me a chance to keep up without dying from the exertion.
By the time she pulls into a parking garage near Fisherman’s Wharf, I feel like I’ve run a marathon.
“At least it will get me in shape,” I pant, sucking in painful gasps of air while I wait for her to emerge from the structure. “Gretchen will be so proud.”
I lean against the corner of the building, letting my body recover, as Greer crosses the street to the Wharf, hugs a surfer-looking boy dressed in worn khaki cargos and a slightly rumpled white button-up shirt, and disappears up a narrow staircase. I make my way—slowly—after her. The sign above the stairs says Ahab’s Fine Seafood. My jeans and tee aren’t exactly fine-dining wear. If I try to follow her upstairs, I’ll stand out like a fish in a desert.
Besides, they’ll probably be up there for a while. Dinner at fancy restaurants always drags by at a snail’s pace. For me, anyway.
Instead, I decide to scope out the area. I wander around to the far side of the pier, below the restaurant windows. I can watch out for her from down here, and if anything happens, I can be around the front and upstairs in seconds. Assuming I’ve recovered by then.
I find a weathered wooden bench and plant myself.
Spending my evening on Fisherman’s Wharf, surrounded by a billion tourists and a heavy stink of fish, was not exactly how I planned to spend my evening. Or what I told Mom I’d be doing. She thinks I’ll be home for dinner.
I pull out my phone and send her a quick text that says my study session is running long. I add that I’m staying for dinner, so she won’t worry. Who knows how long I’ll be out?
She replies with a sad face and says Thane’s out for dinner too. I wonder if he’s with Milo. I text back that I look forward to leftovers tomorrow; with Thane not eating at home, there might actually be some.
Of course, as soon as I send the text, my stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten since lunch. Gretchen’s workouts zap everything out of me and I need extra nourishment to keep up. If I were home for dinner more lately, Mom would probably notice a huge spike in my appetite.
