“Saying that I want to believe makes it sound like I’m fixing to picket Area 51 and demand answers,” she goes on, clearly oblivious to the effect she has on me. “I want to believe for a moment, and then I want to know that there’s a perfectly rational explanation for sea monsters and mermaids and ghosts and bigfoot, et cetera.”
I shift again, lift the monster’s head up, then lie down beneath it, bend one knee, and prop it up on that. The monster is designed to shift and glimmer with the wind, and it’s pretty clear that at some point tonight, there was a little too much breeze and it cracked a weak point in the hinge of the jaw.
My plan, as I said, isn’t to fix it forever. Levi could probably manage that, but he also built himself an entire house and all I did was help.
Also? I’m very, very distracted.
“What’s Bigfoot, then?” I ask her, grabbing a length of wood.
“Bears, probably,” she says. “People who have no nature experience go into the forest, see one standing on its hind legs from far away, and think they’ve discovered a new species.”
I lay the new piece of wood alongside the broken one, then try to bend it back. It’s not fully snapped, just splintered, but that’s enough.
“Except that one famous picture,” she calls. “That’s a guy in a costume. He admitted it later. Same with the Loch Ness Monster.”
“Nessie is a guy in a costume?”
“The famous picture was also faked,” she says, laughing.
I get the splintered piece bent back, let it go carefully, then hammer two nails into the new piece of wood.
“My hometown’s also got a lake monster,” I tell her. “Deepwood Dave.”
That gets a long, long pause from Thalia.
“Does it lives in Deepwood Lake or Lake Dave?” she finally asks.
“It lives in Deepwood Lake,” I tell her, getting back under the jaw, lining up the new wood with the old. “And his name is Dave. Or her name, I guess. I’m not sure anyone’s ever asked Dave how they identify. Someone would have to find them first, though my niece spent about a year trying.”
“No sightings?” Thalia asks.
I hook one end of the bungee cable to a nail, pull it tight, and start wrapping it around both pieces.
“None confirmed,” I tell her. “There were several possible sightings but they didn’t stand up to her rigorous scientific standards once she investigated them further.”
“Rigorous standards?” Thalia says, thoughtfully. “I like this kid.”
I finish binding the wood together and hook the cord on the other nail, then gently lift the monster’s jaw. It’s not a great fix, and it shifts slightly as I move, but I think it’ll last a few more hours.
“I think she’s done,” I say, carefully sitting up between the jaws, the wooden teeth scraping my torso again. “Should we go light her up again?”
I hand the remaining wood and tools to Thalia, who puts them into the boat, then carefully lower myself onto the bench seat. She’s sitting upright, rigid, feet apart and knees locked together, hands gripping the sides of the metal rowboat, black hair spilling over her shoulders.
It’s a little off-balance, slightly undone. My gaze drifts to the scratch on her knee, where she stumbled coming out of the window. It’s barely visible in the dark but already I’m thinking of her skin warm and soft beneath my fingers, the fact that I nearly kissed her knee.
I wonder what she’d do if I did that right here, right now. In the boat. On the pond, with no one else here. I wonder if she’d unclench her thighs and let her skirt ride up a little bit higher, whether she’d say no we shouldn’t do this here or simply no.
“You okay?” she asks, and I realize that I’ve been holding the oar in my hands without moving for several seconds, so I smile at her, pretend my thoughts are G-rated.
“You look like you’re ready to hold on through a storm,” I tell her, taking the oar. “Am I that bad of a captain?”
“Who says you’re the captain?” she asks as I push the oar into the water, pull it forward. I’m rowing backwards, but it’s only ten feet to the shore.
“Clearly, I’m the one guiding the ship,” I say.
“Captains don’t row.”
“Captains don’t pilot rowboats in ponds that are three feet deep at most,” I say, and the boat bumps into the shore. Carefully, I get out, pull it parallel to the ground, offer Thalia my hand.
She takes it, disembarks. I don’t let go and neither does she: strong and delicate all at once, long fingers with short nails, neat dark polish on all ten.
Then she holds up our joined hands, pulls them toward her, my forearm stretched out in the low light.
“What is it?” she asks, nodding at the tattoo. “A kite?”