When the Tides Held the Moon

by Venessa Vida Kelley

“What ridiculous savagery,” he breathed in English, “would make humans spurn a person for something so . . . so . . . ordinary?”

“Benigno, why in the Seven Seas should it matter who we love?”

“I cannot take your burdens,” he went on. “But if you let me, I can bear them with you for a while.”

Grief welled up so black and thick in my chest that I clung to Río harder out of an irrational fear we might both sink like stones under its weight. Before I could stop them, tears were scorching a path out of my eyes and into the rivulets on his shoulder.

“I love him,” I repeated. “And he loves me. And I don’t care if that makes me the wrong kind of freak. I can live with losing the job and the warm bed and the only family I’ve ever had in America. But I can’t live with myself if he dies, and neither should you. ’Cause this world ain’t worth a damn if he’s not in it.”

“You did it, kid,” he whispered. “Ain’t no being free on the outside if you ain’t free on the inside.

“We plan escape for merman?” He raised a finger. “I get the vodka.”