“Why not?”
“I’m leaving on Friday,” I say, looking out toward the golden sunset. “Summer migration.”
“Just give me a chance? It doesn’t have to be a date or anything. We can just hang out.” He takes my hand, and I can’t help but hum. “Please?”
There it is again.Please.
I shouldn’t go. I shouldn’t go.
But Samir is biting his lip, and I wish it was mine he was biting.
I shouldn’t go.
“Okay.”
THE SECOND DAY
“Dude,” Ryan says as we pull up to Samir’s aunt’s house in his crappy old Ford Focus.
“I know,” I say, staring at it.
The house is huge: not just a McMansion but a full-on La Jolla mansion, halfway up a mountain, with a stone fence and a wrought iron gate enclosing the driveway.
“Isn’t there a fairy tale about a mermaid that falls in love with a rich prince?” he teases.
“Shut up, Ry,” I say, hiding my face so he can’t see me blush.
He cackles. “Good luck, cuz.”
“Thanks.”
Samir answers the door in a white tank top and a pair of rainbow-cuffed jorts that show off his thighs. For a second, I forget how to breathe.
“You made it!” he says, beaming.
“Yeah.” I swallow. And then, because being around Samir means living with my tail in my mouth, I say, “This house is really... um... nice.”
Samir nods. “It is kind of extra. My ameh’s in real estate.”
So is Uncle Declan, but his house isn’t anything like this. Samir leads me into the fanciest backyard I’ve ever seen: rosebushes and sculptures line the fences, and terra-cotta tiles frame the biggest in-ground pool I’ve ever seen.
“You didn’t tell me you had a pool!”
“I didn’t know if you could... you know...”
“I don’t have a suit.”
“I’ll grab you one.”
Samir disappears inside. I sit on the edge of the pool and dangle my feet in the water. Chlorine always itches, and the need to change itches more—the moon is almost full, andmerfolk are tied to the moon, just like the tides—but it feels good too.
Samir returns wearing a pair of baggy red swim trunks that shouldn’t look good on him but do. I study the planes of him, the hint of dark hair in the valley of his chest, the V lines where his hips meet his waistband.
I forget to breathe.
“Is green okay?” he asks, holding up another, smaller swimsuit. “It’s, uh, European cut, though.”
Samir’s already in the pool when I finish changing. When he sees me, his eyes do a slow sweep up my body.
