“I figured you’d be in here,” a deep voice says.

Quince! I turn and find him leaning in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest and an amused smile on his face.

He lifts his brows. “I thought we were meeting outside the gym.”

Damselfish.

He’s teasing, but I stil feel bad. I completely blanked.

“Sorry,” I say, hurrying over and slipping my arms around his waist. “I lost track of time. Miss Molina was tel ing me about the marine biology program at Seaview Community.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“She’s going to set up a meeting for me with the head of the program. She thinks I have a good chance of getting in and getting an internship and a scholarship.”

“That’s great.” He slips a hand beneath my backpack strap, pul s it off my arm, and slings it onto his shoulder as we leave the classroom.

I hope I haven’t made him late for work.

Quince and I fal into a comfortable silence as we walk to his motorcycle and then on the ride to our street. Al in al , it’s pretty handy having a next-door boyfriend. Especial y when he has transportation.

He pul s into the shared driveway between Aunt Rachel’s house—my house, too, I guess—and his, purring his bike to a stop.

I climb off and remove my pink helmet.

“How late are you working?” I ask.

His arm darts out and around my waist, tugging me closer. “Until eight.”

I make a little pouty face, but I’m not trying to guilt him or anything. I don’t begrudge his job at the lumberyard. Not only does it help out with his mom’s expenses, it also helps out with those strong muscles that are holding me against his side right now.

“You’l stop by after?”

He raises up and presses his lips against mine.

“Absolutely.”

I’m tempted to sink in to him and col ect on the promise of more kisses, but I don’t want to make him later than he already is. He missed a bunch of work the last few weeks because of the time we had to spend in Thalassinia to get our separation. He and his mom can’t afford the lost pay for being late.

You might think I’d regret choosing to sever the magical bond that formed between us when Quince gave me my first kiss, four weeks ago. At the time, though, it was the only choice I could make. I wasn’t sure of my feelings, I didn’t trust them, and I wasn’t about to ask him to make a lifetime commitment on a hunch. He would have been tied forever to me and Thalassinia, forced into whichever body form I was in for the rest of his life. That’s a lot to ask for a land-loving guy with a struggling single mom who relies on his help and his paycheck.

And now that I’m sure of my feelings… wel , I guess I’m stil glad about the separation. If we’d stayed bonded, I’d probably be in Thalassinia right now, performing some kind of boring princess duty or tedious ceremony or critical judgment. Part of me belongs on land. An even bigger part of me belongs with Quince. The rest of me is terrified of the kind of responsibility that comes with becoming crown princess or—worse—queen. Yep, I’m happy with my choice.

“Go then,” I say, giving him another quick kiss. When he starts to wrap his other arm around me, I twist out of his grasp. “Later.”

He breaks into a grin. “See if Aunt Rachel wil make those key lime bars again.”

“Is food al you think about?” I tease, shoving against his shoulder.

“No,” he replies, al serious. “Sometimes I think about footbal .”

He twists the throttle and is backing down the driveway before I can smack him again.

“Careful or I’l request the prune pistachio bal s!” Not one of Aunt Rachel’s greatest cookie experiments.

He laughs, that deep, unrestrained laugh that makes me shiver al over. As he roars off down the street, I watch until he turns the corner and disappears from sight. Oh, sigh.

When Aunt Rachel gets home from the pottery studio at seven, I have al the ingredients for key lime bars spread out on the counter. I am in no way prepared to actual y attempt this recipe by myself. Electronics are my friend, but cooking is not. The one time I tried to use the oven without supervision I nearly burned off my eyebrows. Lesson learned.

I’ve also finished my homework (except for trig, which I’m saving to do with Quince), so I quickly clear my books and notebooks into my backpack. Prithi meows in annoyance as I step away from the table, taking my toes out of licking range. Since the day I arrived, she hasn’t been able to resist licking or nibbling or rubbing against me at every opportunity. I wonder if mergirls are irresistible to al cats, or just to Prithi.

“What’s for dessert tonight?” Aunt Rachel asks as she drops a paper shopping bag and her always overflowing tote bag—fil ed with magazines, art supply catalogs, shawls, aluminum water bottles, and who knows what else

—on the bench by the kitchen door.

She amazes me. Even after long hours at the studio, she stil has a smile on her face and a bounce in her step. She is a woman of both boundless energy and unending generosity. Sometimes I step back and think about our situation, and I wonder how she managed to handle taking in a brand-new teenage niece without breaking stride for a second.

I guess it’s a testament to her take-things-as-they-come attitude. I don’t think I’l ever deal with change as wel as she does. Especial y not on an empty stomach.

Even from halfway across the room, I can smel the takeout. My bel y grumbles at the thought of food, but I tel it to wait.