Lighthouse Lullaby | ✓

Part 6 | Monday, 21st September

No, no, no.

Not this, not now, not again.

It's a little after 11:00 PM. I'm at the lighthouse. But so is Dylan Frost.

He's leaning against the railing with his back to me, a pair of earphones dangling from his ears. The strong ocean breeze sends his short, coffee-brown hair flying in every direction.

I stomp towards him, fuming. I stop when I'm standing an inch behind him. I tap on his shoulder, channeling all my anger and frustration into my gaze as I glare at the back of his head.

"Jesus on a tricycle," Dylan gasps when he turns around and notices me.

Why me? Why does it have to be my lighthouse? Why does it have to be Dylan Frost?

"Why the hell are you here again?" I ask, raising my chin in defiance.

Dylan tilts his head up to look at the crescent moon as he pulls his earphones out.

"Nice view, isn't it?" he observes, ignoring my question.

"Why are you doing this?" I sigh, pressing my fingers to my forehead. "Please, just leave."

"You don't own this place, Ambrosia," he replies, shaking his head at me.

It shames me to admit that my name isn't Amber. It's Ambrosia. I'm not sure how my name came to be, but Dad admitted that he was obsessed with mythology at the time of my birth. I guess Mom was too exhausted (after shoving an actual human being out of her not-so-Easy-Bake Oven) to protest when he suggested that they name their only child Ambrosia of all things.

Another possibility is that my parents brought me into this world with the intent of sacrificing me to the gods when I turn eighteen. Hence the name.

"It's Amber, actually," I correct Dylan in vain. I know he won't listen.

He just shrugs and sits cross-legged on the rough floor. I squirm as he stares up at me with his unnerving gaze. His eyes (why do they have to be the color of the ocean on a stormy day?) are narrowed.

"I know you want to avoid me," he says after several moments of silence.

"You're not making it very easy," I huff, crouching to sit with my feet dangling through the gaps in the rusted railing.

The sight of my legs suspended almost forty feet above the beach scares me. I'm not a big fan of heights, but the perks of coming to the lighthouse mostly outweigh the fear. But I will never, ever understand why people willingly perform acts such as skydiving or bungee jumping. I mean, fate is already a cruel, conniving witch. I don't think it needs the aggravation.

All it takes for me to feel like I'm living life on the edge is pizza with pineapples, corn, olives, jalapeños and extra cheese. I feel like I'm sliding right into the Grim Reaper's DM's whenever I eat one of those.

"Why were you here last Friday?" I ask Dylan.

"That doesn't matter," he replies, turning to look at me over his shoulder. "I like it here."

"Don't even think that I'll leave my lighthouse because of you," I warn, raising my hand to point at him.

"Okay," Dylan says with a small smile, stretching his legs until they dangle off the edge like mine. But his chest is pressed to the railing, while I'm safely several inches away. "I'm not leaving, either."

"Whatever. Fine."

"Fine."

We descend into a silence that is as comfortable as a thong made of cheap plastic and broken glass.

I force myself to watch the stars. But after a few minutes, my curiosity betrays me, and I steal a glance at Dylan. Head tipped to the side, eyes closed, earphones plugged in again.

I know the look on his face. The familiarity of it feels like a punch to the gut. He's listening to the kind of music that I stopped listening to a while ago. It's the kind of look that makes me wish he'll share his music. It makes me want to know what he's thinking.

The temptation is almost magnetic, but I hold myself back and watch the ocean instead. Because I'm afraid of what the music will remind me.