Ryan’s parents were away. It was a perfect opportunity to practice as much as they wanted with no one complaining, so Dorian was annoyed to see that Steve and Ryan seemed more interested in bullshitting, then eating everything in sight, then playing video games. The band was always going to suck at this rate, and Dorian finally stalked into the kitchen and leaned irritably on the counter, staring out the window at the lashing rain. He couldn’t even return home until Steve decided he was ready to drive back. He couldn’t sit on the beach getting soaked, jumping at every flicker of light on the water, constantly imagining that each shifting reflection was a long silvery green tail or a pale reaching hand just about to break through. The shore was almost completely free of clinging ice now, and still Luce didn’t come. Maybe she was dead or maybe she just didn’t care anymore . . .

“Heya.” It was Zoe, of course. She’d come up behind him and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Dorian? Are you okay?”

Dorian felt like snapping at her and almost instantly realized that he wanted to lash out because he was mad at Luce. It wasn’t Zoe’s fault that his crazy mermaid girlfriend had either abandoned him or else gone and gotten herself killed. Dorian glanced over his shoulder. Zoe’s sleeve had slipped back, and just for an instant Dorian could see her bare arm for the first time, blotched here and there with little round white scars. They might have been left by the tip of a burning cigarette.

Maybe she was one of those girls who maimed themselves to prove how punk they were? Zoe caught his look and jerked her hand away, and the huge fuzzy sweater flopped back into place. She was staring down now, but the tension on her face seemed like a warning not to say anything. After a moment’s hesitation Dorian decided to ignore the warning. Zoe was so close that her body grazed against his as he turned to face her. She wouldn’t look at him, but she didn’t step back either.

“Did you do that to yourself?” Dorian asked. “Your arm?”

“Did you like to throw yourself down the stairs as a kid?” Zoe’s voice was hostile, and she was glaring off to the side. But she was standing even closer now, tipped so that her cheek was less than an inch from Dorian’s shoulder. Dorian thought of putting his arms around her—just as a friend, of course—but then he stayed where he was.

“I wasn’t trying to be a jerk, Zoe . . .” He’d said the wrong thing, Dorian realized. And the fact that it was wrong carried implications he was barely willing to think about.