that summer |percabeth au| ✔︎

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - Bed Time

"You know what bothers me?" James said. He was dressed in thin white pajamas with frogs all over them, hair wild and untamed, ­snuggled up on Percy's lap in the Jacksons' upstairs family room. It was the only place the three of us wanted to be after the day's disappointments and another typically tense dinner with the Jackson parents.

Percy closed the book he'd been reading aloud, one of the mermaid legends Grams had sent.

James said, "Everyone around here dresses up for the parade, and they make all these rules about who can be a mermaid, and they buy all the mermaid postcards and mermaid stuff for their car."

"Why does that bother you?" Percy asked.

"Because they do all that stuff," James said, "but no one even believes in mermaids. They never saw one and they don't know anything about them. I know everything about them."

He'd been chasing mermaids all summer, scanning the shores through his too-big binoculars while we worked on the boat. His enthusiasm would never dampen, though, whether he found one or not.

I loved that about him.

Point made, he nestled back into the crook of Percy's shoulder, nudged him to continue the story.

"I think that's enough for tonight." Mr. Jackson stood at the top of the stairs, watching us across the open family room. I didn't know how long he'd been there, how much of the mermaid legends he'd heard, how much of James's frustrations. It didn't matter, though—he wasn't here to talk about mermaids. "Let's get to bed, kiddo."

The room was dim, save for the reading light bent over Percy's chair, and across the blue-gray room Percy and I locked eyes. James wanted to hear the end of the story, and Percy was so at peace reading it. So content. I shook my head and willed Percy to take a stand, to say no to this one small thing that could open the door for all the bigger things to come. To say no when it counted, right to his father's face.

Percy held my gaze, intense as ever. I couldn't look away, though I burned inside, remembering our kiss from this afternoon. I was still wearing his sweatshirt, still wrapped up in the scent of him. We'd suffered so many disappointments today, so many letdowns. Just this one thing, I thought. Just this one.

"Mom's working late tonight," Mr. Jackson said, "so I need you to be a big boy and get yourself washed up and into that bed, pronto."

"I already brushed my teeth and washed my face and had a drink of water and peed and put on my pajamas and peed again," James said.

"Great," his father said. "Let's get a move on."

"I'll take care of him," Percy said. Mr. Jackson started to protest, but Percy shot him a firm look. "We'd like to finish the story."

It was such a small challenge, a small request, but everyone in the room knew they weren't butting heads about James's bedtime. Still, Mr. Jackson backed down, mumbling a halfhearted good night as he retreated downstairs.

Percy went back to the story, and reluctantly I tore my gaze away, drifting instead to the sea. Waves rolled against the shore, neither calm nor fierce, and I lost myself in the lull of the water, in Percy's steady voice as he read aloud.

Outside moments later, a spark caught my eye, the glow of a cigarette in the darkness. Mr. Jackson was out there, pacing the dunes, his form a black shadow against the sea's green-gray backdrop. I spied on his ­stolen moment, watched the pinprick blaze of his cigarette trail through the night, imagined the smoke he blew out across the sea. 

Inhale, exhale. 

Again. 

Again.

Across the room, Percy shifted, closed the book. James was finally asleep, his mouth open, his breathing slow and even.