Page 101 of The One

“I know you blame me. Your parents blame me too.” The silence in this moment was the worst sound I’d ever heard. “What I’m trying to tell you is that … it wasn’t my fault.”

THIRTY-ONE

Rhett

Fifteen Years Ago

Ino longer heard the sound of the engines. I’d turned them off—that was the button I’d slammed on the dash. But still, I looked down at the four motors, making sure there wasn’t any water being churned around them. And while I did, the sound of my father’s voice was in my head.

The rule he recited each time I took out the boat.

The rule that changed everything.

The rule I hadn’t voiced today.

With no time to drop anchor, I stood at the stern with my arms outstretched, my hands overlapped and over my head, my heart thumping in a way I’d never felt before.

Words were coming out of me—I had no idea what they were.

I couldn’t hear myself, not with the way my ears were ringing and my heart was thumping.

As I dived off the stern, I didn’t bother to take a breath.

I wasn’t sure I remembered how. I wasn’t sure I even could at this point.

When the Pacific surrounded me, it felt like ice. That was the first thing I noticed—how cold my skin felt despite the rest of me feeling so numb. The second was the feeling inside my body. There was no numbness there. It felt like electricity was shooting from my head to my toes, zapping each muscle and vein.

Those snaps weren’t fiery, like the first time I had seen Lainey and every time I’d looked at her since.

They were like an offensive lineman heading right for me, hoping to cause a season-ending injury.

But worse.

I surfaced, shaking my head to clear the hair and saltwater out of my eyes.

The current had moved me; it had shifted the boat. I needed to get my bearings.

I treaded around in a circle, searching until I spotted her.

Screaming, “Penelope!”

Noticing all the fucking red, a path that led me right to her.

“Penelope!”

I didn’t just feel my tongue and lips move, my throat tightening from the volume; I heard myself too. I felt the fear. I processed the urgency to get to her.

The water had moved her away from the boat, and she wasn’t swimming to stay close; she wasn’t trying to fight the current.

“Penelope!”

She was just … floating.

But away from me and getting farther every second.

Five yards.

Ten yards.