Beyond the Rising Tide by Sarah Beard Page B

stained, or hurt, scarred, there was some magical liquid that would just … wash it all away?” He says this like he knows there are things I wish I could wash away. Of course he knows, because what person hasn’t done things they regret, or have wounds that never seem to heal? I wonder which of his stains he wishes could be washed away.
    “Some people like their stains,” I say. “They wear them like a badge. Proof that they’ve lived and survived. I think some would choose not to use this magical liquid, even if it were available.”
    “Would you?” he asks.
    I consider his question. What would it mean to have all my pain washed away? If the hurt from my parents’ separation was gone, would it bring them back together? No—it would only change me so I wouldn’t be bothered by it anymore. And what about my grief over the death of the boy who saved my life? It would be a relief to not feel it anymore. But would I keep searching for his identity if it didn’t hurt so much? Probably not. And his family would never know what became of him. But maybe they wouldn’t care, because they would use the magical liquid too. Our entire society would be full of apathetic, uncaring people. Because it’s what hurts us that makes us human. It’s the pain that makes us compassionate.
    “No,” I say after careful deliberation. “The price would be too steep.”
    “What if it were free?”
    “Nothing is really free.”
    He seems to ponder my words for a long moment, then frowns and nods in agreement. At least I think he’s agreeing, until he says, “Maybe things are just harder to see when they don’t have a price tag.” His words swirl around with the air in the car until I see my exit approaching.
    “How much farther am I taking you?” I ask. “My exit’s coming up.”
    He scratches the back of his head like he’s really not sure where he’s going. “Go ahead and take it.”
    I take the exit and head down the ramp. “Where am I taking you anyway? Home?”
    He shakes his head. “I’m still working on that too. I only got here this morning.”
    “So you don’t have a place to stay?” At the bottom of the ramp I turn right and pull over.
    My concern seems to amuse him, because there’s a glint of humor in his eyes when he says, “I have a place. I just haven’t found it yet.” He pulls the handle and swings the door open. “Thanks for the ride. I can get out here.”
    “But there’s nothing around here.” The shops on the beachfront are still a mile away, and in the opposite direction, waves of orchards and vineyards stretch endlessly. “At least let me take you to the beachfront.”
    He gets out and looks around, like someone at a fork in the road, debating whether to go left or right. “I think I’ll visit some of the vineyards, see if they need help.” He shuts the door, and I feel panicky, like it will be the worst thing in the world if he walks away and I never see him again. But he doesn’t walk away. He gazes at me through the open window for one, two, three breaths. There’s a strange charge in the air, like a thunderstorm is hovering overhead, but the clouds above us are white and wispy. He rests his arm on the passenger door and leans toward me. “Can I come see you later? At the chocolate shop?”
    I nod, trying to pace the up-and-down bobbing of my head so I don’t appear too eager.
    “Maybe we can get some dinner when you get off work. That is, if I find a job before then, and get paid. I’m sort of short on cash.” He shuts his eyes and grimaces, like he regrets this admission.
    “It’s okay,” I say, biting my lip to keep my smile in check. “I could pay or—”
    He shakes his head. “I’m not going to be one of those guys your mom was complaining about. If I can help it, I’m keeping chivalry alive and well.”
    “I’m a twenty-first century kind of girl. And I have a healthy savings account.”
    “And I’m a twenty-first century kind of guy with a healthy