Chapter 2
two
. . .
SUMMER
The leash tangles around my ankle just as Scarlett’s voice crackles through my ear buds.
“Tell me you’re not still dodging that guy from the dog park.”
“I’m not dodging him. I’m strategically re-routing.”
Scarlett sighs.
“Summer…it is time,” Scarlett says dramatically. Her emphasis on each word reminding me of the beloved movie from my childhood.
“All right, Rafiki, cool your jets.”
I hop twice, trying not to face-plant as Chef, an enthusiastic black labrador, lunges for a rogue leaf with the fervor of a dog who thinks he’s saving the world.
“Speaking of the circle of life, you need to get back out there.”
“Out where? I’m already living at the beach, having a fulfilling life with Edgar.”
“I’m talking about your art.”
“I know, I’m working on it,” I mutter, adjusting my backpack against my shoulder. It’s full of dog treats, biodegradable poop bags, and my sketchpad.
“Working on it isn’t the same as doing it,” Scarlett presses. “You’ve got talent pouring out of you, Sum. You just need a little confidence. A little flirting. A little…whatever the opposite of dog hair in your coffee is.”
“Is this a pep talk or a roast?” I scoff.
“Both,” Scarlett confirms with a laugh. “But seriously, it’s time to start dating again and make new memories.”
“I thought we were talking about my art.”
“We are, but also I hate to think you might be lonely.”
“I’ve got Edgar and my dog crew.”
“People, Summer. Human beings. Maybe even a cute guy.”
I maneuver the leashes back under control and glance around Coral Cove’s sleepy streets. Sunlight filters through the mossy oaks, while the ocean breeze, salty and familiar, lifts the ends of my hair.
I consider Scarlett’s goading.
“Cal and I sit next to each other on the bench while he’s fishing.”
“He’s eighty and wears Velcro sandals.”
“Well, not everyone is looking for a happily ever after.”
“I didn’t say you had to marry anyone, just enjoy yourself.”
Enjoying myself wasn’t just off the agenda with my ex, Tripp, it was forbidden. He’d taken every flicker of enthusiasm and told me it was childish, silly, too much. I learned to quiet myself, to shrink. Four years later, some part of me still forgets I’m allowed to want more.
And sex? It’s a distant memory, which is okay seeing that the last time I had it, my ex told me I was bad at it.
“You think you’re living life all free and on your own terms, but the reality is Tripp and your parents still have a hold on you. They’re still dictating your life, whether they’re in it or not.”
With that statement, Scarlett strikes a nerve. To think that I left my suffocating life almost four years ago and I’m still not free from the past. It’s not what I want to hear.
But she might be right.
God, I hate when she’s right.
“Oh, look at the time.”
“Don’t give me that.”
“No, seriously. I have to go. I’m playing a mermaid at a kid’s birthday party in thirty minutes. I’ve got to take the dogs home and get ready.”
“I’m dead. Send me a picture.”
“There will be no photo evidence. Love you, Scar.”
“Love you, Sum!”
I end the call and guide the dogs back toward their homes so I’m not late for the party.
“Mermaids don’t wear glasses.” That’s the first thing out of Tenneil Lancaster’s mouth as I approach.
She’s referring to the clear plastic-rimmed glasses on the bridge of my nose that are my only source of sight after my last set of contact lenses shriveled up in their case last night. After a double shift at The Salty Pirate Café, I’d forgotten to put the solution in. Now, I’m wishing I’d just left them in my eyes. It seems Tenneil would prefer a mermaid with dry, bloodshot eyes over one with glasses from the way her nose wrinkles at the sight of mine.
But riding a skateboard is challenging enough on this boardwalk, it would be doubly so for the visually impaired, so it was glasses or risk the chance of running over a fellow beach goer.
“You know that’s what Lasik is for,” she says before taking a sip of the rose-colored spritz from the champagne flute in her hand. Her scalloped-edge white sheath dress and designer heels are an odd choice for a beach party.
Corrective eye surgery would be convenient, but unlike Tenneil, I like my glasses. Also, that type of surgery is a luxury and money is barely stretching to pay for necessities like my asthma medication. That’s the only reason I’m subjecting myself to Tenneil’s judgmental gaze as she peruses my seashell bikini top, biker shorts and long auburn wig.
It’s her daughter’s fourth birthday and she’s obsessed with mermaids, the daughter, not Tenneil, so naturally she’s hired a professional—err, me—to dress up as a mermaid to surprise her. It’s what any waspy, yacht owning, nautical inspired clothing wearing woman would do for their preschooler.
“Totally.” I force a beaming smile which feels like wearing a face full of plaster. I hate being fake, telling people what they want to hear instead of how I really feel, but a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do.
Her eyes narrow at me.
“You’ve got a tail, right?” she asks.
“You bet.” Feigning enthusiasm, I pull the mermaid tail I rented from Coral Cove’s costume shop, The Nautical Nook, from my backpack. The purple-pink ombre tail shimmers with iridescent scales and weighs at least fifteen pounds. It’s a legit mermaid tail. I know this because in addition to the fifty-dollar rental fee, I had to put down a one-hundred-dollar damage deposit in case something happens to it. Which now that I’m feeling how heavy it is, I have a serious concern it might be impossible to move in. But Cardamom, the shop owner, assured me it was her most realistic piece of mermaid pageantry.
“Is this our mermaid?” A man in his forties, dressed in a pale-yellow polo with a gray sweater draped over his shoulders and cognac boat shoes, appears next to Tenneil.
“Supposedly.” Tenneil eyes me again.
If she thinks I’m an imposter, she’d be right. I’d taken the gig from Darcy, a fellow waitress at the café who knows I’m in need of extra cash.
“Rich Lancaster.” He extends his hand to shake mine. “I like what you’ve got going on.” He points to the conch shell necklace around my neck that’s set off by the pound of body shimmer coating my chest and arms.
“Ugh.” Tenneil rolls her eyes. “Stop flirting with the mermaid.”
He clears his throat and adjusts his belt. “I’m not.”
“You are, too. And you’re doing it right in front of me,” she whines.
I suck in a breath. They remind me of my parents, and I’d rather this mermaid tail sink me straight to the bottom of the ocean than listen to them argue. The irony that Scarlett mentioned I should start dating again, while Rich and Tenneil here are the poster couple for anti-marriage.
“Why don’t you have Jacinda refresh your drink?” Rich asks.
“She’s with the girls. They’re playing some game in the pool.” She waves toward the beach club behind the iron gate just off the boardwalk.
“Then get your own drink?” he proposes.
Tenneil fumes in outrage at the suggestion but ultimately decides it’s a better option than staying here on the beach with us. We watch her walk angrily down the boardwalk in her four-inch heels before she disappears behind the gate.
With Tenneil gone, Rich turns back to me, giving me a half-hearted smile.
“All right, let me show you where I need you.”
Under Rich’s direction, I follow him to the end of the boardwalk and down the sandy beach until we reach the rocky bank of one of Coral Cove’s famous inlets.
At the edge of the water, he holds his hands up, his thumbs pointing toward each other to frame the scene like he’s a director showing me his vision. And Rich has a vision.
“You’ll be sitting on that rock, then when I give the signal, you swim toward the beach and wave to the girls.”
His instructions send an upsurge of uncertainty through me matching that of the water crashing against the rocks around us.
I love the ocean. I love to spend mornings on the beach with Edgar and the other dogs I walk. I love to paint it. It’s vast and beautiful and complex and never looks the same. The lighting, the waves, the people on the beach. It changes on any given day. Water has always been fascinating to me.
But I hadn’t planned for vigorous activity today.
My eyes fall to the inside of my backpack where my inhaler is.
The ocean probably isn’t the best place to test out the aerobic capacity needed for paddling around in a mermaid tail. In my defense, when I took this gig, I thought I’d sit on the beach and take pictures with the birthday girl and her friends before pulling an Ariel and trading out my tail for human legs.
“What about the pool at the beach club?” I motion back toward the Beach they swim in the ocean. It’s more realistic this way.”
To Rich’s point, mermaids aren’t real, so I should be able to take liberties with a species that doesn’t exist, but he wants an authentic ocean mermaid experience and with his next words, he hammers that point home.
“It’s what I’m paying you for.” His thick brows arch in question. You want to get paid, don’t you?
I nod, but my fingers tighten around the strap of my backpack. The water laps at the shore behind me, cold and endless. I used to dream of being a mermaid when I was a kid. Now, the idea of dragging this tail into the ocean just feels like drowning in someone else’s fantasy.
I have to make a choice. Either I find a way to get through the next hour as a visually-impaired, asthmatic mermaid whose swimming skills are questionable and collect the much-needed money, or I’m out the fifty bucks for this costume rental.
And I’m wearing body glitter for god’s sake. At this point, there’s no other option but to get my ass out to that rock and muster up some mermaid magic.
“Right. Okay.” I nod with false confidence, removing my glasses and carefully setting them inside their case in my backpack.
Rich waves me toward the water, looking on as I use the fin of the mermaid tail as a flotation device and start kicking my way out to the rock. As I make my way, I’m certain the choppy water lapping at my face is going to wash off the boatload of glitter. If sharks could sniff out body glitter like they could blood, I’d be in serious trouble. The only thing I have going for me is the buoyancy from the salt water. Its assistance in flotation is a tradeoff for the sting it’s causing my eyes.
Getting out to the rocky land mass isn’t as challenging as I thought it would be. By the time I climb up onto the rock, I’m feeling more confident about this whole thing. I just have to make it back to shore.
On the rock, I take in a slow, deep breath to assess my body. I’m all too familiar with the triggers of my asthma—cold water, salty air, and physical strain. And this scenario is the trifecta.
You can do this, I tell myself, hoping to will my desire into being. It hasn’t helped my financial stress yet, but if I can make it to shore with no issues and collect this money, then things are going to be better. For now.
I pull on the tail, settling it above my hips, then fix my wig, and wait for Rich’s signal.
Except, I can’t see shit without my glasses. I squint, hoping to locate Rich on the beach, but now there are multiple people and from this distance it’s hard to tell which one he is.
But then I see a flurry of activity by the gates of the beach club. That must be the girls coming out to watch.
I throw up my arm to wave. It’s been eight years since I gave a pageant wave but muscle memory in my arm and hand pull it off seamlessly.
When all the activity on the beach settles, I decide it’s time to make my entrance. Slowly, I shimmy down the rock, but the plastic fin at the end of my tail is slick and provides no grip. I’m close to clearing the rock, but right before I plunge into the water, I slip and scrape my arm on the rugged surface.
The sharp sting of the salt water against the scrape has me wincing.
You know what’s harder than swimming with two legs for this mediocre swimmer? Swimming with a nylon mermaid tail wrapped around those unskilled legs. Mermaids are supposed to be good swimmers, you know, because of their tail and fin. But this fin isn’t functional. It’s a sparkly purple and pink bedazzled fin that catches the afternoon’s sun rays perfectly but offers no aid in actual swimming.
Also, I don’t know how water works. Not in the ocean wave kind of sense. One minute, I’m making headway, the next I’m back where I started. At this pace, it’ll be dusk before I make it to shore. Oh, and that whole waving and looking graceful thing Rich mentioned? That’s not happening at all. I can barely keep my head above water, let alone manage an elegant wave at the same time.
It’s hard to focus on swimming when there are so many thoughts swirling in my head.
I’m risking my life for three hundred dollars.
If this tail is ruined the costume shop isn’t going to give me my deposit back.
Once I sink to the depths of the Atlantic, who will look after Edgar?
Breathe, Summer.
But it’s the reminder to do the one thing that my body sometimes just can’t do properly in this type of situation that has me panicking.
My chest tightens, making it impossible to get a full breath.
My breaths become shallow, making it impossible for my lungs to deliver the much-needed oxygen that my muscles are begging for. With heavy limbs, I tilt my head up toward the sky, gasping for air that refuses to enter my body.
I’m sinking and there’s nothing I can do. Even the octopus wrangling a tentacle around me knows I’m done for.
But it doesn’t yank me under; instead, it lifts me up.
That’s when I realize it’s not an octopus, it’s a solid, human arm wrapped around my chest. And suddenly my head is higher above the water.
“I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay,” the deep, soothing voice assures me. It’s so kind and unassuming, I want to wrap myself inside it and take a nap. It’s the type of gentle, calming voice that could lull you to sleep on one of those meditation sleep apps. Or at the very least make you feel safe during a bad storm.
I’m no longer drowning, but I’m still fighting to breathe.
All I can do is sputter and attempt to calm my breathing as the man pulls me along. He’s making far better progress and it’s not long before I feel the sandy beach beneath my back.
On shore, the coughing begins. It’s my body’s desperate attempt to reset my airflow. I’m gasping for the tiniest breath.
I want to move to my hands and knees but this damn tail won’t let me.
There’s commotion around me. Movement and voices, yet I can’t focus on any of it.
I squeeze my eyes tightly, trying to expel the remaining water before slowly blinking it away. Finally, my eyes open to reveal the source of peace. The man kneeling in front of me.
Oh, wow .
My near-sighted vision reveals that this guy is gorgeous.
Strong jaw, piercing blue eyes and the fullest lips I’ve ever seen on a man. They look like pillows that would be soft and plush, yet unyieldingly firm if necessary.
Even with his hair wet, I can see it’s sandy in color with some natural highlights from the sun.
He’s shirtless, as one might be while swimming in the ocean, with beads of water dripping down his golden skin. He smiles at me, a devastating smile that combined with his five o’clock shadow has me panting.
Maybe I did drown out in the water after all because my body feels all light and tingly, like I’m floating outside myself.
It’s a startling feeling that I’m not used to.
If I were into fairy tales and Disney princesses, then this would be the moment when the birds sing and the audience sighs how romantic . Scarlett would eat this up.
But not me. Because at the same time I’m realizing the man who pulled me out of the ocean is gorgeous, I’m acutely aware that this mermaid portrayal has gone off the rails. That the job I was hired for was not carried out and now I’m a beached mermaid whose auburn wig is floating somewhere in the Atlantic along with my dignity.
Oh, and every breath I attempt to take is like sucking through a straw.
Breathe, Summer.
I can’t.
The man is moving his lips, saying something my oxygen-deprived brain doesn’t register.
I close my eyes to help me narrow the focus on my breathing. Every part of me needs to focus on that.
But it’s not working.
With every breath that feels impossible to take, my anxiety rises. The panic feeds into my ability to breathe, and it becomes an endless loop of struggle.
Finally, I open my eyes to connect with the stranger’s and manage to get out two words. “M-my in-inhaler.”