chapter three

Rose Harbor’s town center is only about a mile from our cottage, just down the pebbly beach. I could be enjoying a very nice walk, Peach between Mama and me, holding our hands while we breathe in the salty sea air and pick some wild pink roses that pop up along the dunes and rocks. Sea roses, the tourist sites call them, which I have to admit is a nice term. Certainly sheds more light on our cottage’s name. We had wild roses in California, too, right in our backyard, but they were a paler pink than these, which are a bright fuchsia.

So, yes, this could be a lovely and calming evening, and my heart could be beating nice and slow and steady.

Instead, Mama is a few feet ahead of me, talking to Claire, laughing every now and then, their arms still linked like they’re teenagers on their way to school.

Instead, Peach is holding on to Lemon’s hand while Lemon chatters nonstop.

Instead, my heart feels like a wild animal caught behind my rib cage. Any second it’ll bust right out.

“… Rose Maid Café is so great,” Lemon is saying. “Mom’s worked so hard on it and you can learn all about the Rose Maid and the rose ice cream is really, really unique. They make it from actual rose petals, so it tastes a bit like perfume, but I still like it.”

“Oh.” I try to think of something more interesting to say, but my mind is nothing but white noise, my mouth so dry I’m worried I might choke on my tongue. I’m way out of practice talking to kids my age. Talking to anyone, really, other than Peach and Mama and the occasional retail personnel. Even then, though, I limit it to please and thank you. My scars are really obvious, marks that will never, ever go away. Sometimes, if a person’s feeling really bold, they’ll even ask about them, how I got them, which isn’t something I ever want to talk about.

I look down at my feet as we walk. The ocean is far too close. We’re on dry sand, a good hundred feet from the water, but surely there’s a normal road or sidewalk that could’ve taken us into town. It hasn’t rained yet, but the water is still angry. Or sad.

Maybe it’s both.

I glance at Peach, but Lemon still has a firm grip on her—but then I look right back to the water, like it’s a magnet pulling on my eyes. Way out past the larger rocks, something flits in the waves, a fish reaching for the sky.

“How can something taste like perfume?” Peach asks.

I open my mouth to answer her, but Lemon dives in before I can get a word out. She gives the exact answer I would—that our mouths and noses are connected and all that, so sometimes smells can remind us how things taste and vice versa—but still. I feel her watch me even as she talks to my sister, eyes flitting between my Safety Pack and my face, which I’m trying to hide with my hair, but the ocean wind is making it hard. Sweat pools under my arms and on my upper lip. For real, even though it’s pretty cool out here, I think I’m starting to stink.

Up ahead, Mama and Claire keep talking and laughing, laughing and talking.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Lemon asks. She’s right next to me, her shoulder pressing against mine.

“What?”

“Them.” She motions to our moms, then aims her camera at them, twists a few things on the big lens, and snaps a picture. The thing zips and zings and then spits out another rectangular piece of paper, almost completely dark except for a white border. She holds it out to me as color begins to seep into the center, shapes forming, then people. I take it, watching our moms come to life. Their backs are to us, of course, but Lemon has captured their faces at the perfect moment, the two of them turned toward each other so you can see their profiles. The twilight glow washes them a little purple, a little silver.

It’s a pretty picture, and it makes my stomach twist and turn.

“Now we’ll always remember this night, exactly like it is,” Lemon says, taking the photo back and tucking it into her pocket. “It’s miraculous that you moved here, don’t you think? Right down the beach from us? Totally meant to be.”

“Um…”

“Do you think they still like each other? We need the full story, don’t you think?”

“Full story of… what?” I swallow hard, wishing I hadn’t asked, hoping she won’t even answer me. Except, of course, she does.

“How they met. How they kissed.” She digs the photo out of her pocket again and waves it around. “I mean, look at—” She stops walking and pulls on my arm. “Hold up. Oh my god.”

“What?” I swear this girl is making me dizzy. I jerk my arm away, but she doesn’t even notice.

Lemon leans close and whispers, “She’s not married, right?”

“What?”

“Married. I mean, I know no one else was with you today, but I didn’t even think. Do you have a dad? Or maybe another mom? My mom is bisexual, so she likes guys or girls or anyone.”

Her eyes are so wide, I would worry that they might pop right out of their sockets, but I’m too busy swallowing hard and trying to breathe. Mum was bisexual, so I know what it means, and Mama told me a long time ago that she prefers the term gay and that she’s really only attracted to people who identify as women. None of that is what makes my heart feel like a scooped-out cavern in my chest, though.

Is Mama still married?

She still wears the platinum band Mum gave her at their wedding, hand-engraved with a pattern of flowers, a pale green diamond inlaid into the middle. Mum’s was similar, but she had a blue diamond. Other than all that, I don’t know the answer to Lemon’s question. I never even thought about it. Now, thanks to Lemon, I can’t think of anything else.

“My parents are divorced,” Lemon says when I don’t answer. “My dad moved to Georgia after that. Atlanta. He said it was too hard after she…” Her voice trails off, and now her eyes have gone back to normal size. In fact, she’s not even looking at me. She’s staring straight ahead, her gaze all glazed over.

Something sad tinges her voice, and I think, just for a second, that maybe I should ask more about her dad, but I don’t. Peach and I don’t have a dad. Mama and Mum both used the same sperm donor to get pregnant with us, but it was totally anonymous. I’ve barely ever thought about the guy. I have two moms, two parents. I don’t need anyone else.

My mind autocorrects itself—I had two parents.

“Girls, look how beautiful,” Mama says. She and Claire have stopped at a rosebush, bright pink flowers blooming so thickly there’s hardly any green. Lemon seems to snap out of it and, before I can stop her, loops her arm with mine and starts running to catch up with our moms. My feet follow smoothly, but my mind stumbles behind, tripping on Lemon’s question about Mama and marriage.

I watch Mama as she picks a flower and smells it. “I can’t believe these grow right here by the water.”

“Sea roses,” I say, but Claire says it too, at the exact same time as me, making our voices sound almost like a song. She smiles at me, her gaze darting down to my scars, then up to my eyes again. I don’t smile back.

“Sea roses,” Peach whispers to herself, trying out the words in her mouth like she does sometimes. Then she stoops down to pluck one of the pink flowers.

“Peach, hang on, I’ll get you one,” I say, but she’s already closing her whole hand around a stem and pulling as hard as she can. I wince, phantom pain zinging through my fingers as she yelps and drops the flower on the sandy path. Nicholas takes a dive too as Peach looks down at her hand, which is marred with several smears of blood.

My heart jumps into my throat and stays there, pounding like a bass drum.

“Oh, baby girl,” Mama says.

“The flower bit me!” Peach wails.

“Thorns,” Lemon says, nodding. “Gotta watch out for those.”

I ignore her ridiculous calmness and unzip my Safety Pack.

“Ow, ow, it hurts!” Peach says. Big tears well up in her eyes and trickle down her cheeks.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” I say, then repeat it a few more times in my head. I take her hand and inspect it. Tiny orbs of blood swell on three fingertips and on her palm. She grabbed that rose like she was strangling it.

“Just a tiny prick,” Mama says.

“She’s bleeding,” I say. “For the second time today and we’ve been here—what? Seven hours?” I can’t even keep her safe for seven hours. I can’t even keep a tiny thorn out of her skin.

“She’s barely bleeding. She’s okay, Haze,” Mama says, so quietly I hope only I can hear her. But one glance at Lemon proves otherwise. She watches me and Mama, watches as I sift through my Safety Pack. Heat springs to my cheeks, which just makes my scars stand out even more, but I push all that from my mind.

I concentrate on action. Fixing. Saving. Antiseptic wipe. Neosporin. Band-Aid. Peach wails even louder when I clean her injuries, but I keep on moving, keep on doing until there’s no more blood, until her wounds are covered up and her tears have stopped. She sniffs and I breathe, my heart so loud I’m sure everyone hears it.

“Okay, she’s fine, honey,” Mama says. The words sound comforting, but her voice doesn’t. Her voice sounds annoyed. I don’t look at her, instead pressing gently at the Band-Aid on Peach’s palm, making sure it’ll stay.

“That’s enough, Hazel,” Mama says. Then she takes my arm, moving it away from my sister. She grabs Peach’s hand and starts up the beach with her.

“Everything all right?” I hear Claire ask, walking alongside them. Mama just nods. Doesn’t say anything else about it. Lemon is still standing nearby. I can feel her watching me. I don’t look up at her. I tuck the Band-Aid wrappers and the cleaning wipe into the front pocket of my Safety Pack. Zip it up. Then I start walking without another word. Downtown twinkles up ahead, and I try to keep my eyes fixed on it, ignoring the pull of the sea.