Sam--short for Samantha, if you please--has been living in Crawley, Maine for about a year in her grandfather's lighthouse. A promising advertiser, she works from home and the local coffee shop, where she gets her daily hot chocolate fix. For her, l...
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"Selkie."
"You're serious."
"Yes, I am selkie."
"This is freaking ridiculous!" I threw my hands in the air and stormed away. Mr. Soft Coat followed swiftly behind.
"What?"
"This whole deal!" I sat down hard on a petrified log, "The selkie seal thing, the ring, everything!"
Mr. Soft Coat sat down gently beside me,
"But you believe me."
"Of course I believe you!" I shouted. He backed away, eyebrows creased and palms out facing me. I heaved a deep sigh.
"Sorry, this has been the most stress I've had all at once since college. I keep snapping at you."
He shook his head gently, and scooted closer to me, but kept silent.
"I guess this is all just so weird. You know, all at once?"
He cocked his head to the side, but continued his inquisitive silence.
"Do other things exist? Like fairies and vampires and stuff?"
He looked off and to the right for a bit, then he spoke,
"The Fae are real, don't know about vampires."
I let out a puff of air and leaned back on my hands placed behind me on the log.
"Geez Louise, that's a little intimidating."
He only nodded, copying my body language. We sat there in silence, waves breaking against the rocky shoreline and the faint cry of gulls the only sounds breaking the thoughtful reverie.
As we sat there, my mind raced through questions a million miles per hour. If the Fae are real, how come we never see them? Have they been real? Are all the stories true? I'd never actively looked up a selkie story, were they good Fae or bad Fae? Did I need to be worried about being alone with him? Would I ever return home? In the midst of my inner turmoil, my mouth blurted out the first thing that seemed important enough to ask:
"Am I safe with you?"
I felt my cheeks flame. That was a little bit too blunt, even for my taste.
"Sorry, I—"
"No."
"Sorry?" My heart pounded a bass drum in my high school drum line.
"No, you are not sorry. You ask question, you are lyubopytnyy."
"Lee-you-boss-what?" I fumbled over the foreign word.
"Lyubopytnyy, it is—" he broke off and whispered what I felt was a curse under his breath. He heaved a sigh and stated,
"You are like child, you do not know, you want to know. Lyubopytnyy."
