Chapter Ten
T he Saltwater Sisters walked me to the gallery where Owen Harper would be. He was an artist, and that meant that he painted and drew pretty things for humans to enjoy looking at. I was excited to see art–we didn’t have the same kind of art in the seas. Our art was our music and the delicate jewels we made.
The gallery was small and intimate; it reminded me of a large cave. There were blue lights splashing on the walls with pictures everywhere. I wanted to study each one, but heat prickled the back of my neck, and I knew that Owen was here. His presence called to me as much as any siren song ever had, and I desperately searched the room to find him.
Each picture caught my attention, forcing me to look closer. It was all ocean dwellers. He painted images of my home, from the creatures I spent my days with to the seascapes I ventured through. I wanted to touch them; some of the pictures looked like they would feel just like the cave walls of my home or the soft scales of the creatures I passed.
The humans stared at me, and I wondered again if it was because of my hair. There were other humans here with brightly colored hair, so pink shouldn’t have been that strange, but it definitely seemed odd to them. Curiosity flitted across their faces and I tried to duck my head, trying my best not to bring any more attention to myself.
But then I saw him.
I saw the green eyes. The hair that looked like sand. He was taller than I expected, his body much larger than mine. I felt so small, so insignificant among the humans, unlike how I felt in the water. My tail fins were long and pretty, flowing with the waves and moving with purpose.
Now my body moved with purpose again, but this time I wasn’t dancing in the water or practicing my songs, teaching myself the history of our people to pass down to the next generation of merfolk.
Now my feet felt more sure of themselves on this firm earth, shuffled forward, bringing me to stand directly in front of Owen Harper. He didn’t react at first; those green eyes scanned over me, stopping briefly at my lips.
We stood there, and there was a crowd growing around us. He glanced back at the picture behind me and my heart froze in my chest.
It was me. At least, the mermaid in the painting surely looked like me, but there was a sorrow to her that I didn’t have. Not yet, anyway. The mermaid in the painting had the same pink hair and the same eyes, but I never looked that lovely. He painted it so the sun warmed her skin, and I now knew finally what that felt like. By reflex, I touched my own cheeks, like the sun was still shining on me too.
I felt like I was drowning again, like when my fins split into human legs, but I wasn’t in the water now. Briny water didn’t fill my lungs, but neither did air. This was it. He was here. He was real, and there was no going back now.
He was going to die.
“Umm, hi, hello I mean. My name is Owen, I’m the artist,” he finally said, gesturing to all of his creations. He fidgeted, trying to decide where his hands should be before he finally held one out to me .
I took his hand and he seemed to relax–the Saltwater Sisters mentioned that this was how humans greeted each other. My tongue was thick in my mouth, making it hard for me to speak. I needed to speak; Owen was waiting and his eyes were so hopeful.
“Merrow. My name is Merrow,” I said. Owen’s face lit up and guilt punched through me so hard I almost flinched. This man was going to die.
“It’s nice to meet you, Merrow.” The people staring at me had started to disperse. Now that we were talking, the spell over them had broken. I wasn’t a fascinating mute being anymore, mirrored in the painting behind the talented artist. I was a living, breathing, talking person and it broke the magic that clung to me.
Except for him. Owen seemed more dialed into me than anyone else in the room.
“You created all of these?” I asked, just trying to get him to talk.
“Yeah, this is my first exhibition. There’s a better turnout than I expected really,” he said, raking a hand through his sandy hair. His fingers were flecked with blues and greens and for a second I imagined them as scales.
“I’m not surprised, your art is beautiful,” I said, letting him follow my eyes to the painting behind him. The mermaid looked so much like me that it was unnerving. Did my hips curve that much?
“This is my favorite piece. It took forever to complete, with all the little details on her face and hair, but it was worth it.”
“She kinda looks like me, don’t you think?” I said, and I tilted my head so I held the same pose. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, drawing my attention to his pulse. It felt like I could hear his heart thrumming. Owen ran a hand through his sandy hair, brushing the locks out of his eyes.
“Yeah. When I saw you, I was startled. It was like you walked right out of my painting. I’m sorry if I was staring– ”
“You were,” I said, winking. The color that flooded his cheeks matched the hues he used for my lips in the painting and I grinned at him. The pink staining his face stretched down to his neck, ducking under the top of his shirt.
He laughed, a soft, bubbling laugh that would have sounded like bubbles popping if he were in the ocean with me. “I was, I’m sorry. I’m not normally a creep like that.”
“It was a little spooky for me too,” I laughed.
“Did you like any of the other pieces? The less creepy ones?” he asked, waving his hand to point to the other walls. The colors and the atmosphere reminded me of the ocean, and that was enough. But then I saw a sea turtle and it reminded me of Titania. She would be so proud that I was out of the water, standing on my own two feet. The turtle’s wise, gentle gaze seemed to reach through the canvas and settle the nerves in my heart. I wanted to touch it, to see what the paint would feel like but as I reached, Owen stepped in front of me. He really was quite tall; my head came to his shoulders, and didn’t move out of my way.
“I’m sorry, I can’t let anyone touch them, or there’s going to be a riot.”
“A riot?”
“Metaphorically. The owners will get pissed if I let anyone touch the art.”
“Oh,” the disappointment washed through every trace of the word and Owen’s shoulders sank.
“I could show you some of the pieces that I’m working on, maybe. Like, maybe we could, uh, get some coffee together? Or dinner? If you wanted to, that is. No pressure, of course–”
“I’d love to,” I said, and Owen stopped mid-sentence, relaxing visibly. I brushed my hand across his arm, and his face flushed a bright pink again. He had hair on his arm, nearly the same color as the hair on his head. The sensation of his hair under my palms made it hard not to squeeze him, to keep touching him. Owen’s arm was sculpted and strong, but the hair made it inviting to caress.
“Really? Oh, that’s great. I work at a coffee shop not far from here. Starving artist and all,” he flashed me a smile, and it was full of sunshine. This was a real smile, and it was the first one he gave me. “Maybe we could meet there, and then go somewhere else?”
“It’s a date,” I said. There were other people circling around Owen, clearly wanting to talk to him, but they would have to wait. I had a mission, and I needed him to be invested in me.
“It’s a date,” he repeated.
“Why do you paint the seas?” I asked, looping my hand through his arm. He jumped a bit at the contact, but I squeezed and he understood then that I wasn’t going to let go of his arm. We did this a lot in the water–arms and fins looped together as we glided through the water. There was so much that could be said with a simple touch.
“I feel like that’s a first date question,” he said, the smile creasing his eyes. “Well, the short answer? I can’t seem to stay away from the beach. I’ve always been drawn to it. Sometimes it's like… like this energy possesses me and I just paint and paint until it's all spent. I’ve been drawing ocean landscapes for as long as I can remember.”
“And the long answer?”
“You’ll have to ask me that on our date. Tomorrow? Maybe around eleven? We could get some lunch together too.”
“That works for me,” I said, and he turned to face me.
“Can I have your phone number?” I froze. What was a phone number? How did I get one of those? He saw the panic flick across my face before I could respond, and he said softly, “It’s okay, I trust you. Let’s meet at Beans and Barley at eleven. Then you can decide if you want me to have your number. ”
“Can I confess something silly?” I said, and he nodded, his head cocked in confusion.
“I don’t have a phone number.”
“You… don’t have a phone?”
“No,” I said, and he laughed.
“You are a strange one, Merrow. I don’t think I’ve met anyone that didn’t have a phone.”
“Perhaps you’ll inspire me to get one,” I said, and he laughed. It wasn’t a small, polite laugh but one that came from his belly, a rumble that reminded me of a passing storm. I felt the rush like I did during a storm surge, eager to ride the current and see where it would go–where Owen could take me.
“Deal.” We stood together for another minute, and I still had my hand in the crook of his arm. He seemed reluctant to let go of me, which was good. Owen Harper seemed captivated already as I slipped away, and that would make all of this so much easier.
People gathered around the mermaid painting again, and when I looked back, Owen’s eyes studied my face.
“You really do look like Her . Do you think we’ve met before? And I was inspired somehow?” he asked.
“You’re the artist, Owen. Maybe you just dreamt of me,” I said, and this time he froze.
“I did, actually. Except, I didn’t know it was you. Or that you were real. I’ve been dreaming of Her for as long as I can remember,” he whispered. It was so soft that I wasn’t sure his words were meant for my ears.
“Owen, can I steal you away for a minute? We have a buyer that’s interested in multiple pieces,” a woman said. She had short, bluntly shaped hair that was very light. Her face was kind looking but her posture commanded attention. She would have been a great bard if she lived in the seas.
“Yeah, sorry. I’m sorry, Merrow, I have to go mingle. I’ll see you tomorrow? ”
“Of course, I can’t wait to hear the full story about the ocean.” The pinkness of his cheeks faded, but the smile didn’t. Owen was as lovely as his art, and so very… human. Everything about him seemed so fragile, that I wondered for just the barest of seconds if it was even worth bringing him to the Pearls.
For a man that wouldn’t be missed, Owen seemed destined to shimmer in the sunlight like he belonged in the center of everyone’s minds.
While he talked with other people, I felt his eyes slipping back over to me. He studied me, but I studied the art. I’d never seen art before–nothing like this. There was movement in the water that he painted. It felt real. It felt like the waves were about to crash into me, and everything about my human body ached for the sea.
“Excuse me, miss?” another woman said, tapping my arm to get my attention. Before I could respond, she was already speaking again, “Do you know Owen? Were you his muse?”
“His muse?”
“Yes, it’s just, his finest piece could have been a photograph of you. Surely you see it too,” she said.
“It does look a lot like me, but no, we’ve never met before today.”
“It must be fate then,” she said.
“Fate?”
“Of course! Owen was supposed to share this exhibition with another artist, but they backed out. And now this is going so well for him. He’s going to sell every one of these pieces, except his mermaid of course, he won’t part with that one.”
“He won’t?” I asked, interrupting her thoughts.
“Oh no, I tried to convince him, but he was totally against it. He said that one is his, but he was right, it is the perfect centerpiece.”
“It is really beautiful,” I said, as we stood looking at the mermaid again. She did look just like me. It was uncanny. The shine on her lips looked so real, so kissable. The mermaid seemed to beckon all who saw her, making the viewer long for the salty kiss of the seas.
“Yes, and now you’re here. It’s fate,” she said again, clapping her hands. The sound echoed in the gallery.
“Fate is an odd thing,” I said, weighing her words. It was fate; we were destined to meet, but instead of bringing him anything good, I was a harbinger of his death.
“Indeed. It can’t be fought, that’s for sure. I do hope you get to chat with him,” she said, and she was off to the next person. With thoughts of fate tumbling in my mind, I slipped out of the gallery. Owen didn’t see me leave, and I waited until his back was turned. I’d see him tomorrow, and I needed to get back to the Saltwater Sisters. They would know what to do and how to prepare for a date. It would be fine. Just smile and laugh at whatever he talks about, and then get it over with. I’ll make it quick for him–for me –and then life will carry on.
Except for his life, my conscience whispered.
The sisters would know what a phone was and how to get one. They would help me. The walk back to their cafe was short, and I barely had enough time to settle myself before I was back at their doorstep, taking in long, slow breaths to quell the storm in my chest.