CHAPTER 5
Marina
The narrow room next to the stage served as both a storage and dressing room for the performers.
It smelled of perfume and grease. Marina sat at the small vanity wedged between a rack of costumes and the wall, the mirror cloudy at the edges.
Outside, the jazz band played something slow and winding, a trumpet carrying over the bass and drums. She could feel it through the floorboards.
She wouldn’t dream of stripping. Not that she had a problem with the dance itself. The word itself made her wince—Brenda would correct her every time. Burlesque. A world of difference, Brenda said. The difference between art and commerce. Marina didn’t think she had the talent for either.
So when Brenda, standing at the bar one slow Tuesday, told her she’d make an excellent dancer, Marina had laughed.
“You’ve got the rhythm,” Brenda had said. “Dancing and surfing, they’re the same thing.”
“No way,” Marina had said. “They're not.”
"Timing. Rhythm. Flow," Brenda had gone on. "You wait for the wave, read the water, then commit. You do the same thing with the music when you dance."
Brenda had been a surfer too, which gave her some credibility. Not enough for Marina to take her seriously, but enough to try a few moves after closing. Little by little, she got the hang of it.
The teasing, the reveal, the way the crowd held its breath. Brenda was right. The connection was there—that same sense of riding something bigger than yourself, something that could swallow you whole if you misjudged.
Stage fright was different from the fear of a big wave. On the water, you were alone. On stage, everyone was watching.
“Imagine you’re on a board,” Brenda told her. “The spotlight is the sun. The audience is just the ocean. You’re just flirting with waves in a bikini.”
It helped. Not completely, but enough that Marina could step out from behind the curtain without her knees locking. She started subbing for Brenda once in a while. The first time, she made three times what she usually made in a night. The math was hard to ignore.
Then Brenda announced she was moving to Oregon, somewhere near Portland.
Her boyfriend had family there. The spot opened up.
Marina didn't jump at it. She hesitated.
Two nights of dancing paid what she made in a week of bartending, but there were things that came with the money.
For example, the way some men looked at her afterward, the assumptions they made, and the word stripper following her even when she wasn't dancing.
She hadn't told Katrina. Partly because Katrina would tease her forever. She still called Brenda "that stripper" now and then, despite Marina correcting her every time. And partly because Marina hadn't planned to do it for long.
Marina stood and pulled her costume from the rack. A deep red, form-fitting dress beneath a sheer, gossamer gown that looked as though it belonged to another era. She rehearsed the reveal, shrugging off the gown before drawing the zipper slowly from the small of her back to the nape of her neck.
The first time she’d done it on stage, her hands shook so badly she’d caught the fabric and nearly torn it. She’d gotten through it, but the result had been clumsy, a reveal without grace.
She put her hair up, pinned it tight. Then the makeup. Heavy eyeliner, a deep shade of lipstick that made her mouth look fuller, poutier. For theatrics, Brenda had said. For the distance. So you don’t see yourself in the mirror.
She looked in the mirror now and saw Mara. Not Marina Lane. Mara, who moved differently, who existed only under these lights.
She wondered what Ryan would think if he saw her like this. Would he be turned off? Turned on? The questions had been circling since last night, a persistent swarm she couldn’t shake.
But they hardly mattered now. They’d stopped mattering the moment Katrina told her about meeting him at the beach.
Katrina was smitten. Marina knew it. She’d never seen her sister like this—not with Bobby Thompson in high school, which didn’t count because they were still teens, and not with Eric Chang, who Katrina talked about for months but broke up with because she said there was no future.
If she’d been in love, Marina thought, she wouldn’t have been so rational. Love wasn’t rational. Love was giving free surf lessons to strangers because something about the way they stood made your stomach flip.
Whatever it was—love, lust, infatuation—it made Marina wary of Ryan. Not because he wasn’t trustworthy. He seemed solid, steady in a way that most men in this town weren’t. But she couldn’t hurt Katrina. She wouldn’t.
Katrina complained all the time about the lack of interesting men. She’d hooked up with tourists when they first moved back, but not lately. Now she’d found one—one who made her offer free lessons, who made her talk about his eyes—and Marina couldn’t take that away from her.
Even though Ryan wasn’t Marina’s. Even though he might be just a fling for Katrina, a summer thing that burned out by fall. Even though Marina had met him first, in the dim light of the bar, and felt something shift in her chest when he smiled.
A knock on the door pulled her out of it. "Marina?" Ben, her coworker and closest friend at the Beacon, called through the door. "The band's wrapping up."
She realized the jazz set had ended. The last notes faded away, replaced by the low murmur of conversation, clinking glasses, and chairs scraping across the wooden floor.
“Thanks,” she called. “I’ll be right out.”
She checked the mirror one last time. Mara looked back, steady-eyed, mouth set. Marina took a deep breath and opened the door.
The stage lay in near darkness behind the curtain. She stepped carefully onto it, found the swing by touch, and settled onto the seat. Beyond the velvet came the soft hum of the crowd waiting for the next act. A good crowd, she guessed.
The house lights dimmed. Conversations dwindled to whispers. The music began. The curtain parted.
She rose from the swing in one fluid motion and glanced at the audience. The usual faces. Old men at the bar. A couple of women at a table near the back. A group of tourists by the door.
And there, three tables from the stage, sitting alone with a beer in front of him.
Ryan.
Her heart fluttered. Her head went blank, a clean white wipe of nothing. He kept his promise. He’d said he’d come see her dance, and here he was, watching her with that same careful attention he’d given his beer the night they met.
Katrina.
The thought was like cold water. She couldn’t look at him again. If she did, she’d search his face for something—interest, recognition, anything—and she couldn’t afford to find it.
Thankfully, Julie London’s voice filled the room, low and smoky, the horn section sliding in behind her.
Marina closed her eyes for half a beat. When she opened them, she was moving, one hand trailing along the swing’s chain, the other resting at her hip.
She was Mara now. Mara, who flirted with waves in a bikini, and who didn’t have a sister who was falling for the cowboy in the audience.
She composed herself and moved to the music.
The music settled into her body. Her hips found the rhythm, her smile arrived exactly when it was supposed to, and every movement became effortless, practiced enough that she no longer had to think about it.
Before she knew it, the applause followed her behind the curtain.
Marina held the final pose for one heartbeat longer, then slipped offstage before anyone could call for an encore. Her pulse still raced, but the familiar rush had already begun to fade. Another Tuesday. Another performance behind her.
"Nice crowd tonight," Ben called as she headed toward the dressing room.
"It was," Marina replied, managing a smile.
Back in the dressing room, she closed the door and let out a long breath.
The room suddenly felt very small.
She peeled off the gown first, hanging it carefully on its padded hanger. The dress followed, folded with practiced hands before joining the rack. She scrubbed away the heavy eyeliner and lipstick, watching dark streaks swirl down the drain.
By the time she pulled on faded jeans and an oversized gray sweatshirt, Mara had disappeared. Marina stared at her reflection. Better.
She gathered her things slowly. Slower than usual.
Normally she would have been out the staff door within ten minutes of finishing. Tonight she found reasons to linger. She reorganized her makeup bag. Folded the costume she had already folded. Checked her phone even though no new messages had arrived.
Surely he'd be gone by now. He'd seen the show. He'd had his drink. Any sensible person would have headed home.
She waited another five minutes just to be certain. Then she grabbed her keys and switched off the dressing-room light.
The hallway beyond was quiet. Good. She smiled to herself, relieved.
The smile lasted exactly three steps. As she rounded the corner toward the staff exit, someone stepped into view from the opposite direction.
Ryan. He looked just as surprised to see her. Why was he still here?
For one ridiculous moment she considered pretending she hadn't seen him. Too late.
"Mara?" he said.
She turned, forcing a smile before her thoughts had time to catch up. “Ryan,” she said. “You came.”
“I said I would.” He shifted his weight, looking nervous. “I didn't expect... I mean, it was really fantastic. Your performance.”
Marina felt warmth creep into her cheeks. Compliments after a show weren't unusual. They came with the job. Most slid off her without leaving much behind. But this one didn't.
“Thank you,” she said. “I'm glad you enjoyed it.”
Silence settled between them. She should leave. The longer she stood there, the harder it became to remember why she was trying to keep her distance.
“I need to head home,” she said, lifting her keys slightly. “It's been a long day.”
“Right. Of course.” He nodded, then hesitated. “Will you be... I mean, do you dance tomorrow night too?”
She shook her head. “Just Tuesdays and Saturdays. Twice a week is plenty.”
“Saturday then.” He grimaced almost immediately. “I mean... I'll be back tomorrow evening anyway. Just to talk. If you're working the bar.”
A spark of hope flared inside her before she could stop it. He wasn't coming back for the show. He was coming back for her.
Then Katrina's voice drifted through her mind. I’ve never felt this way before, sis. It’s like my hormones got hold of my brain.
The warmth inside her faded as quickly as it had come.
“I’m off tomorrow,” she says. She should have stopped there. But the disappointment that flickered across his face made her add, “But you can come by anyway.”
Shit. The words were out before she could stop them.
My mouth moved before my brain caught up. Katrina had laughed when she'd said it that afternoon. Now Marina understood exactly what she meant.
“Oh.” Ryan smiled. “Then I'll see you Thursday.”
Tell him not to come. Tell him she’d be busy. Tell him anything to stop him. But she couldn’t
“Sure,” she said softly.
She turned before he could see the conflict on her face. Outside, the cool night air hit her cheeks. She'd spent the entire evening telling herself Ryan belonged to someone else.
Yet all it had taken was five minutes in a hallway to make her forget.
Marina headed to her aging silver Corolla. The parking lot was almost empty now. The windshield reflected her tired face, faintly lit by the streetlamp overhead.
She slid behind the wheel without starting the engine and rested her forehead against the steering wheel.
What a mess.
She'd spent years making sure Katrina never came to the Beacon at all. If Katrina suggested stopping by after dinner, Marina always found an excuse. She was working late. They were short-staffed. The bar was packed. Anything to keep her sister from wandering through those doors at the wrong time.
And now Ryan knew them both. He knew Mara. He knew Katrina. Please don't put it together.
Maybe Katrina hadn't mentioned her sister worked at the Beacon. Maybe she hadn't mentioned having a sister at all.
But what if she did tomorrow?
What if Ryan casually mentioned meeting a bartender named Mara? Or that she'd danced there.
He probably didn't even know the difference between burlesque and stripping.
Katrina wouldn't either. What if she put two and two together? Would she call her sister a stripper now?
Marina squeezed her eyes shut.
Everything she'd managed to keep separate for years suddenly felt as though it was balancing on a knife's edge.