1
Gemma
We were best friends, and now, he hates me.
Tears welled up in my eyes as I stared at the last sentence in my journal entry. I inhaled the salty air and looked up to where the waves lapped the sand, and then out to the ocean to gaze off into the horizon. A light breeze blew around me, and the sun shined high in the sky. It was almost noon, so the sunlight brightened my entire cove.
My cove. That was how I’d always thought of it. By some miracle, no tourists had found the rickety wooden steps that led from the scenic road down the cliff to where the cove provided me my own private paradise. The locals didn’t come here, either. It was like the cove gave off an aura that told them to turn away and find another beach to hang out at.
According to my family history, my great-great-great-great-great grandmother—or something of the sort—had cast a spell around the cove with her sisters to make it so no one wandered into it. The beaches in Australia were Crown land, owned by the Queen of England for public use. But no one came near it but us.
My twin sister, Mira, hated it here. She said it was spooky, since there were no people around. She saw no point in hanging at the beach alone.
Which left it empty—just the way I liked it.
I wiped away my tears and refocused on my journal. Well, technically it was a sketchbook, since I didn’t like to stay in the lines while writing. Half of the page was already filled with my messy handwriting. But so far, I didn’t feel any better than I had when I’d first sat down.
I lowered the pen back down to the paper and continued writing.
I tried to make it work. I wanted it to work. But love can’t be forced. It either exists, or it doesn’t.
I stopped and stared at the words.
Then, something moved ahead and to the right.
I startled and looked up, and my eyes met those of a guy around my age. He was tall and tan, muscular without being bulky, had brown hair that fell in waves across his forehead, and hazel eyes so intense that it was like they were seeing into my soul. He looked out of place in jeans, a black t-shirt, and sandals—like he hadn’t planned on coming out to the beach.
“What are you drawing?” His accent was distinctly American. A tourist. September was the start of tourism season in Australia, although it normally drew an older crowd, since American families waited to visit until winter or spring break when school was out of session.
“I’m not drawing,” I said. “I’m writing.”
He walked forward until there were only two meters between us. “Writing what?”
I placed the pen between the pages and closed the journal. “Stuff.”
“Wow.” His eyes twinkled in amusement. “Stuff. Sounds exciting.”
I smiled, since yeah—I couldn’t have been more generic than that. “I’m writing about my life,” I said. “Figuring things out. Soul searching. You know how it goes.”
No, he probably doesn’t “know how it goes.” My cheeks heated, and I glanced back out at the ocean. Most people don’t keep journals so they can try to make sense of their innermost, angsty, brooding feelings that they’re too self-conscious to share with anyone else—even their twin sister.
“So it’s a diary?” he asked.
“A journal,” I said quickly.
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“Diaries are for kids,” I said. “Journals are different. They’re more reflective.”
“Ah,” he said. “I see.”
The air crackled with energy between us. I wigged my toes in the sand, aware of every grain between them. The sand always calmed me, and despite the mid-day sun bearing down on it and heating it up, it never burned.
He held his gaze with mine, and his hazel eyes with a sunburst of orange around his pupils were so familiar. I could have sworn…
“Have we met before?” I asked.
“I just got in last night,” he said. “I’m Ethan. And you are…?”
“Gemma.”
“Gemma.” The two syllables sounded like music as he spoke them. “Pretty name.”
“Thanks.” I smiled and tucked a loose strand of my long brown hair behind my ear.
Ethan walked closer and situated himself beside me. He sat on my left—so he couldn’t peek into my journal—leaned back on his palms, and gazed out at the horizon. I waited for him to jump up and say something about how hot the sand was, but it was like he didn’t notice at all.
Just like me.
Realizing I was staring at him, I turned my eyes back down to my journal. “I broke up with my boyfriend,” I said. “Well, ex boyfriend.”
Why am I telling him this? I pressed my lips together and glanced around, as if searching for a way out even though I knew every inch of the cove like the back of my hand.
“Let me guess,” he said, and when I looked back up at him, my skin tingled with electricity. “You broke his heart?”
My chest panged at the reminder. “Something like that.”
Silence again, but a comfortable one.
“We were best friends,” I continued with a small sigh. “Now, he hates me.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t hate you. You don’t seem like the type of person who’s easy to hate.”
“Thanks, I think?” I shook my head slightly and smiled again, watching the way his silky hair moved in the breeze. I wanted to run my fingers through it to see if it was as soft as it looked.
“You wouldn’t be writing in your journal to figure out your feelings if you didn’t care about his feelings,” he said simply.
“Maybe,” I said, although I knew Joey didn’t see it that way. He thought I’d been heartless. That I didn’t care about him at all. That I’d used him and then abandoned him.
As my best friend—ex best friend—he should have known me better than that.
“So, why’d you break up with him?” Ethan asked.
Why do you care? I wanted to ask in return. I was just some stranger on the beach.
But for some reason, he did care. And who knew—maybe talking about it would help me get rid of the weight I’d been carrying on my shoulders since the breakup.
“He just wasn’t the One,” I said. “When we kissed for the first time, I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. And I didn’t want to lead him on. So I broke up with him.”
“Right after you kissed?”
“Yeah.” I bit my lower lip. “Not the most tactful way to go about it, was it?”
“I can think of worse ways,” he said. “But that one probably wasn’t the best.”
“At least I know you’re honest.”
“I try to be.” He glanced down at the sand, his eyes suddenly distant. “When I can.”
I set my journal down and turned to face him. “You can always be honest,” I said. “It’s not always easy, but long-term, it’s always better than lying.”
He brought his focus back to me, as intense as ever. “Have you ever had to keep a secret?” he asked. “A big one, for the greater good? One that other peoples’ lives depend on?”
“Not really,” I said, since my family’s belief that we had witchcraft in our veins would sound crazy. Especially since none of us had ever been able to cast a spell. And because we’d sworn to tell no one. “Have you?”