Accidental Shield

If I’d ever swapped chat messages with people, they appear to be wiped. Some faces look vaguely familiar, just not familiar enough to make me dig deeper. More like old friends I’d lost touch with and high school acquaintances.

I click on my own profile and scroll down through my posts. There aren’t many.

I wasn’t a heavy user, and honestly? They’re all recopied cooking videos and cat memes. Pretty much what social media was invented for. Lots with Savannah cats, no surprise.

My photos are just as sparse between the different apps. A younger me, here and there, smiling on a beach with girls I feel like I haven’t seen since college. No family. No big events. No boyfriends.

There’s a mashup of old, fancy-looking dinners on plates next to wine glasses, too. Some are tagged with famous restaurant names around Honolulu. Apparently, foodieness was my big escape from what looks like hidden misery.

“This is pointless,” I mutter to myself, realizing how unsocial on social media I’ve been.

Logging out, I click on the bird icon, which gives me even less than the first one. I never made a single tweet.

So I go back and trawl my friends list again, hoping something will click, some hint of knowing someone so well I’d feel comfortable messaging them. One picture my finger flicks past makes my heart thud like a gavel. Ray.

Rayman Gerard.

My heart crawls up my throat. That’s him, all right. The same boy from the dream.

The kid who ran around with my conch shell, acting like a little tyrant. But he’s all grown up now, a dusty, dark five o’clock shadow around his jaw.

My brother.

I go to his page and scroll through the posts. Not much there either, memes and rude jokes aside. Then I click on his about page.

President. King Heron Fishing, Incorporated.

A hard knot forms in my stomach. I press one hand against it and choke back the bile that suddenly scorches the back of my throat.

Standing up, I walk out of the lanai’s shade and step onto the sand, into the warmth of the sun, hoping it’ll chase back the frozen chill sweeping through me.

Needing affirmation, I click on the King Heron Fishing link and the phone number that pops up. Guilt hits me, but I can’t help it. I’m not in my right mind. It’s already ringing.

“King Heron Fishing,” a female voice says.

My throat locks up.

“Hello?”

Forcing the words out, I say, “Ray Gerard, please.”

“Valerie?” she says my name.

My heart pounds.

“Is that you?”

I take a deep breath, trying not to sputter. “Yeah, it’s…it’s me.”

“Thank God! Ray told me to keep an ear out, he said he was worried, hadn’t heard from you for a few days. You sound funny. Are you okay?”

Trying to sound as normal as possible, I say, “I’ve just…I’ve been sick. A cold or something. Nothing too serious.”

“Oh, my, well, hope you feel better soon. I had a nasty one a couple of weeks ago. Still have a cough I can’t shake. I’m sorry, but Ray’s not in right now. You could try his cell?”

Ugh. I don’t know his cell.

I don’t know anyone’s number. I can’t tell her that, though.

“Orrr, you know what? I could just patch it through for you. I know how it goes. When you’re sick, you don’t have the energy to even push an extra button. I sure didn’t. Missed three whole days of work, and you know how crazy that is for me.”

I don’t but say I do, and ask her to patch me through.

God, I’m going to regret this.

Part of me wants to drop the phone and run, throw it out to sea, before Flint finds out how monumentally dumb I’m being. Playing with fire has nothing on calling my shady brother, who’s apparently been looking for me since…

I know when. And I won’t let myself finish that thought.

The line rings three times before it’s answered by a low, gravelly voice.

“Gerard here.”

I swallow hard. Images of him flash like lightning. Ray being angry. Demanding. Yelling at me.

“Hello?”

Afraid he may hang up, I say, “Ray?”

The line goes so quiet, I’m sure he hung up, and I’m pulling the phone away when I hear him say my name. “Valerie?”

Shut up, a voice screams in the back of my head over the dull roar of my own heartbeat. Just stop talking. Let it go before it’s too late.

But my head and my heart are at total odds. And I know which one keeps my mouth moving.

“It’s me,” I say quietly.

“Holy shit, you’re—you’re alive! Goddamn. I’ve been looking all over for you, scanning every spare inch of sand on Oahu. Hell, that’s what I’m out here doing right now.”

Part of me wants to believe he’s happy to hear my voice, but a deeper part whispers he’s not. That I shouldn’t believe him. I’ve felt that sinister dishonesty before, like when he said the other boy stole the shell in my dream-memory.