3. Annie #3
I touched my taco to hers.
“To emotionally complicated fish.”
She took a bite and smiled around it.
For a few minutes, everything was easy.
The heat. The food. Ellie telling me about a tourist who had tried to bring a waterproof speaker on a dive because the turtles might like Beyoncé.
“Did they?”
“The turtles left.”
“Critics.”
“Harsh ones.”
My phone buzzed inside my tote.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again.
Then a third time.
Ellie raised one eyebrow.
“Someone’s persistent.”
“Work.”
“You work on vacation?”
“My job has boundary issues.”
“Relatable.”
I pulled out the phone.
Three missed calls from Rachel.
Two texts from Sophie.
One message from my mother.
Your manager called me. Should I lie or tell her you joined a scuba cult?
I smiled before I could stop myself.
Ellie tilted her head.
“Good message?”
“My mother.”
“Is she worried?”
“Usually.”
“Does she know you’re diving?”
“No.”
“Then she has excellent instincts.”
Another text from Rachel appeared.
CALL ME BEFORE I CALL THE COAST GUARD.
I angled the phone away automatically.
Ellie noticed.
The smile remained on her face, but something cautious entered her eyes.
Not suspicion.
Awareness.
The understanding that I was holding a door closed between us with both hands.
I hated it.
“I’m not married,” I said.
Ellie blinked.
Then she laughed.
“That was not where I thought this conversation was going.”
“I’m not hiding a husband or wife.”
“Good to know.”
“Or a secret fiancé.”
“With a boat?”
“Why would they have a boat?”
“Secret fiancés often have boats. It’s one of their main features.”
“No boat.”
“Any criminal charges?”
“None that I know of.”
“That you know of?”
“I feel like I’d remember.”
“Depends on the crime.”
“Ellie.”
She held up both hands.
“Okay. Not married. Not engaged. Not felonious. Anything else for the record?”
The truth pressed at the back of my teeth.
My name is on your playlists.
You taught Savannah Brooks how to clear a mask this morning.
You said famous people looked tired, and you were right.
Instead, I said the only thing I could say without ending whatever this was before it had properly begun.
“Don’t Google me.”
Ellie’s smile faded.
Not entirely.
Just enough.
“Annie.”
“I know that sounds strange.”
“It sounds like the sort of sentence that comes with either a very good story or a basement full of unusual jars.”
“No jars.”
“Good. That helps.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. Jars can be a warning sign.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
Then Ellie’s expression softened.
“Are you safe?”
The question caught me off guard.
Not who are you?
Not what are you hiding?
Just are you safe?
“Yes.”
“Are you running from someone?”
“No.”
“Are you asking because your family owns a chain of haunted doll museums?”
“No.”
“Taxidermy podcast?”
“No.”
“Competitive hot-dog controversy?”
“Surprisingly, no.”
“Then why?”
I looked down at the taco in my hands.
“For a few days, I’d like to be the person standing here with you.”
Ellie was quiet.
“Not whatever the internet says I am,” I added.
A breeze moved through the palm above us. Somewhere nearby, a truck reversed with a series of cheerful beeps.
Ellie studied my face for several seconds.
Then she nodded.
“Okay.”
I looked up.
“Okay?”
“I won’t Google you.”
“You don’t have to agree that quickly.”
“Sure I do. I hate homework.”
“That’s your reason?”
“One of them.”
“And the other?”
Her mouth curved.
“I like Just Annie.”
My chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with the wetsuit.
“You might regret that.”
“I’ve regretted plenty of things. Mostly haircuts and men with guitars.”
“That’s oddly comforting.”
“I’m known for my bedside manner.”
My phone buzzed again.
Ellie glanced at it.
“You should call whoever that is before they send a helicopter.”
“That is unfortunately not impossible.”
She stared at me.
“That was a joke, right?”
“Mostly.”
“Your life is weird.”
“You have no idea.”
The words came out softer than I meant them to.
Ellie heard them.
Of course she did.
But she only crumpled her taco wrapper and pushed away from the truck.
“I have an afternoon group in an hour. Three honeymooners and a man named Todd who has already emailed twice asking whether sharks can sense divorce.”
“That feels specific.”
“I’m expecting a long day.”
She started walking backward toward the dive shop.
“Sunset,” she said.
“What?”
“Old pier. Six-thirty. There’s a food truck, decent conch fritters, and a man who plays steel drums badly enough that it becomes performance art.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“It is. You’ll love it.”
I looked at her.
“Is that an invitation?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“Whether you’re the kind of woman who can appreciate terrible music without Googling the performer.”
I smiled.
“I think I can manage that.”
“Good.”
She turned away, then looked back once more.
“And Annie?”
“Yes?”
“I’m not Googling you either.”
Then she walked toward Reef Rascal, leaving me beneath the palm tree with my phone still buzzing, my secret still intact, and the deeply inconvenient realization that Ellie Parker’s trust felt far more dangerous than her curiosity ever could have.