While a good cousin might show sympathy and commiseration, I’m actual y thril ed. Because this means Doe cares about Brody. A lot.

I don’t argue about her feigned il ness because her staying home gives me a chance to talk to Brody first. After two mostly sleepless nights, alternately imagining what might have happened if Doe’s tsunami had succeeded in reaching Seaview and formulating what I need to say to convince Brody to help, I’m exhausted and ready to face him. This won’t be easy.

There is no news-team footage to review in the studio, so I stake out his economics classroom instead. I’m watching the hal s intently, so I see him a while before he sees me.

Which means I see him notice me, jerk back, and then, after a brief mental debate, decide to ignore me. He tries to walk right past me into the classroom, but I throw out my arm and block the doorway.

He stops but doesn’t look at me. “What?”

“We need to talk,” I say. Hurt and pain are practical y radiating off him. Not that I blame him, of course. We just don’t have another choice. “It’s important.”

“No thanks.” He tries to push past me, but I steel my arm and hold him back. I al ow myself half a second to be pleased with my own strength.

Then it’s back to work.

“Please.” I’m not above begging. This is way more important than my pride. I have to make him see that this is about more than just him and Doe. “Just give me five minutes.”

“Fine.” He final y looks at me. Then his watch. “Five minutes. Go.”

I tug him a little way down the row of lockers, out of earshot of the classroom ful of students, before I begin. “I know what Doe did was unforgivable.”

I take his snort as an agreement.

“I’m not asking you to forgive her.” Yet. “I’m so mad myself I could boil water. But you have to understand her history.” I give him a quick rundown of her parents’ death, a story that could elicit sympathy from a beluga whale, and am relieved when I see his rigid stance relax a little. Progress. “Clearly, none of the therapists she’s seen have helped. She’s stil consumed by the past. By her emotions. She’s been living with this rage for years.” I duck down and to the right to catch Brody’s gaze. “My father sent her here to learn that her

misconceptions—her

clearly dangerous

misconceptions—are wrong.”

“So what?” Brody’s eyes rol away from mine, like he can escape the topic of conversation if he avoids eye contact.

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Wel ,” I begin, uncertain but hopeful, “I know you have feelings for her.”

His gaze swings back to mine. “Not anymore.” I expected this; am ready for it even. He’s hurt and confused and just reacting—which, not so coincidental y, is exactly what Doe is going through. If I can just push through emotion and get to the (hopeful y) rational Brody inside, then I have a chance.

“I don’t think that’s true,” I insist, crossing mental fingers that I’m reading the situation right. “You said you thought she was the one. Your future. Feelings like that don’t just vanish.”

He shrugs, which is at least better than an outright denial.

In al honestly, I’m not entirely sure I believe that. I mean, look at what happened to my feelings for Brody. Three years of absolute, undying, one-sided love, gone. In a heartbeat.

But that was different. I discovered what love was real y like, and that made what I felt for Brody seem as shal ow as a tide pool.

But Brody can’t cal his feelings for Doe shal ow any more than I can cal my feelings for Quince the same. I saw the emotion in Brody’s eyes, I felt it, and I know it’s for real. Just as I saw the emotion in Doe’s eyes when he walked out last night.

That’s my main sel ing point.

“And I think—I mean, I hope…” I take a breath. “Doe has feelings for you, too.”

Brody’s gaze sharpens, his brows scowl low, as if not sure whether he should dare to hope there is truth in what I said. I’m daring to hope, so he can too.

“I think we can use your feelings for each other,” I explain,

“to show Doe that humans and merfolk are not so different as she believes. If she loves you—”

Brody’s laughter cuts me off.

“Right,” he snarks. “She hates what I am. Not who I am, but what I am. Something I couldn’t change even if I wanted to.

How could she possibly love me?”

“Because love doesn’t care about prejudices,” I say. This is something with which I have firsthand experience. “Just look at me and Quince. I thought I hated him for three years.” I don’t add the part about where I thought I loved Brody. “True love didn’t care what I thought, and it won’t care what Doe thinks.”

Brody clenches his jaw and works his lips, like he’s considering my argument. I slip my hands behind my back, beneath my backpack, and cross my fingers as tightly as I can. If I weren’t wearing flip-flops, I’d be crossing my toes, too. This situation needs as much good luck as it can get.

Final y he relaxes and asks, “What do you want me to do?”

Sweet angelfish! My entire body explodes with relief. I didn’t realize until this instant just how tense I was about the outcome of this conversation.

“Give her a chance,” I answer, trying to keep my overjoyed smile from spreading across my lips. “Talk to her. Spend time with her. Make her fal so in love with you, she forgets you’re a human.” I lay a reassuring hand on his shoulder.