5. Annie
Five
Annie
By six-fifteen, I had changed clothes three times, lied to Rachel twice, and discovered that a woman could survive sold-out arenas, live television, and one wardrobe malfunction involving a zipper and national exposure, yet still be defeated by the question of what to wear for fried seafood with a dive instructor.
The first outfit looked too expensive.
The second looked like I was trying very hard not to look expensive.
The third was a white sundress I had bought that afternoon from a shop where every item was displayed beside a decorative anchor.
According to the saleswoman, it was “very island.”
I had no idea what that meant, but it fit and did not contain rhinestones, so I had bought it.
Rachel had called while I was changing.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“At the rental.”
“What are you doing?”
“Resting.”
“You sound vertical.”
“I’m resting upright.”
A pause.
“What did you do today?”
“Nothing stressful.”
“Specifics.”
“I breathed.”
“You were doing that before the vacation.”
“Not recreationally.”
“Annie.”
She only used my real name when she was worried or when Savannah was being especially uncooperative.
I sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at the faint red line the wetsuit had left across my ankle.
“I took a beginner scuba lesson.”
The silence lasted so long I checked whether the call had dropped.
“Rachel?”
“I am deciding which part of that sentence to address first.”
“It was very safe.”
“You went underwater.”
“That’s generally where they keep the scuba.”
“You are supposed to be resting.”
“It was quiet.”
“You have a voice people insure.”
“I didn’t sing underwater.”
“You have ears.”
“I still have both.”
“That is not the standard.”
I smiled despite myself.
“The instructor was very professional.”
“Was the instructor attractive?”
My smile disappeared.
“No.”
Rachel made a sound that suggested I had failed an exam she had not told me I was taking.
“You hesitated.”
“I was offended by the implication.”
“You only use that tone when someone is attractive or when there’s dessert.”
“There was also a taco.”
“Annie.”
“Rachel.”
“I am trying to keep you invisible.”
“I remain extremely invisible.”
“You are a six-time award-winning country singer on an island small enough to have one grocery store.”
“Two.”
“That makes it worse.”
I got up and crossed to the mirror.
The sundress was simple. Loose at the waist. Thin straps. Nothing Savannah Brooks would wear for an appearance without three fittings and a lighting test.
I liked it.
“I’m having dinner,” I said.
“With the attractive professional.”
“She may not be attractive.”
“You already lost that argument.”
“It’s not dinner. It’s conch fritters.”
“Ah. Casual seafood. Famously nonromantic.”
“Rachel.”
She sighed.
The sound held years of managing me through interviews, tours, awards, breakups, and one brief period when I had become convinced I should start making my own candles.
“Be careful,” she said.
“I will.”
“No photos.”
“I know.”
“No posting.”
“I know.”
“No crowded places.”
“It’s an old pier.”
“That sounds structurally concerning.”
“Ellie says it’s barely legal.”
Another silence.
“Her name is Ellie?”
I closed my eyes.
“I have to go.”
“Of course you do.”
I ended the call before she could ask for Ellie’s surname, qualifications, social media history, and blood type.
Then I looked at myself in the mirror again.
I had spent years learning how to dress so that strangers would see exactly what they expected.
Savannah wore custom denim, silver boots, expensive hair, and confidence tailored tightly at the waist.
Annie, apparently, wore a white dress from a shop that sold shell wind chimes and worried that she looked too interested in conch fritters.
I considered changing into shorts.
Then I stopped.
If I was going to ask Ellie to see Annie, I had to let Annie leave the house.
So I kept the dress.
I left my hair loose, put on flat sandals, and buried my phone at the bottom of my tote like a small glowing threat.
The western side of Pelican Key was busier at sunset, though not crowded enough to set off the alarm system in my spine.
Couples carried drinks in plastic cups. Children chased each other through the wet sand. A family posed beside a leaning palm while their teenage son looked personally betrayed by the concept of vacation.
The food truck Ellie had mentioned was parked near the old pier beneath a string of lights. It was painted coral pink and turquoise, with a handwritten sign promising:
CONCH FRITTERS
FRIED GROUPER
KEY LIME PIE
NO COMPLAINTS BEFORE SUNSET
The steel-drum player was already there.
Ellie had not exaggerated.
He was terrible in a way that required genuine confidence.
I found her leaning against the wooden railing near the truck.
She wore a loose green tank top over her swimsuit and cutoffs frayed at the hem.
Her hair was still damp, because apparently Ellie Parker simply emerged from the ocean at regular intervals like a mythological creature with excellent shoulders.
She was talking to the woman inside the truck, laughing at something I could not hear.
Then she turned.
Her expression changed when she saw me.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to make the three outfit changes feel slightly less humiliating.
“Well,” she said as I approached. “Look at you.”
I glanced down at the dress.
“Is that bad?”
“It’s alarming.”
“That sounds bad.”
“No. Alarming like when someone brings homemade brownies and you suddenly realize the day has possibilities.”
“That is a very specific kind of alarm.”
“The best kind.”
Her gaze moved over me again, slower this time.
“You clean up nice, Mysterious Annie.”
“I was told there would be terrible music. I wanted to show respect.”
“The steel drums appreciate formalwear.”
“This is a sundress.”
“On this beach, that is formalwear.”
The musician launched into what I suspected was “Margaritaville,” though it sounded as if the song had been translated into another language and then abandoned in a hot car.
Ellie winced affectionately.
“He’s improving.”
“At what?”
“Confidence.”
“I don’t think confidence is the issue.”
“That’s what makes him special.”
A woman leaned out of the truck.
“You eating or insulting the entertainment all night?”
“Both,” Ellie said.
The woman looked at me.
“You’re the egg girl.”
I stared.
Ellie smiled.
“This is Rosa.”
“Owner of the café, owner of this truck, and owner of information people think I don’t have,” Rosa said.
“I had one sandwich.”
“You wore most of it.”
“That feels like private medical information.”
Rosa pointed at Ellie.
“She told me.”
“Betrayal,” I said.
Ellie looked unrepentant.
“Community safety.”
Rosa handed us two paper menus.
“Sit. I’ll bring food.”
“We haven’t ordered,” I said.
“You’re with Ellie. You’re getting fritters, grouper, fries, and pie.”
“What if I’m allergic to grouper?”
Rosa narrowed her eyes.
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Then don’t create problems.”
She disappeared into the truck.
I looked at Ellie.
“I see where you get it.”
“Rosa has been feeding me since I moved here.”
“Does she let anyone order?”
“Sometimes children. If they seem responsible.”
We carried our drinks to a low wall facing the beach and sat close enough that our knees touched whenever one of us shifted.
The sky was turning peach above the water. A warm breeze moved through the palms, carrying salt, frying batter, and the steel-drum player’s increasingly personal attack on rhythm.
“You survived Rachel?” Ellie asked.
I turned toward her.
“How do you know her name?”
“You looked at your phone this morning. It said Rachel Donovan.”
A small jolt went through me.
Ellie noticed.
She lifted both hands.
“I didn’t Google. I can read upside down. It’s one of my least marketable skills.”
I relaxed.
“She’s my manager.”
“What does she manage?”
“Mostly me.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is. She has charts.”
“About you?”
“About everything. Schedules. Interviews. Travel. Reasons I’m not allowed to buy candles in bulk.”
Ellie took a sip of her drink.
“Were the candles dangerous?”
“They were entrepreneurial.”
“That’s not a no.”
“It was a difficult period.”
“What do you do?”
The question was gentle.
Not demanding.
Still dangerous.
I looked toward the water.
“I work in music.”
Ellie waited.
“That’s vague,” she said.
“I’m cultivating mystery.”
“You already asked me not to Google you. You don’t need to overperform.”
The word landed closer than she could know.
I smiled.
“I sing.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“Professionally?”
“Sometimes.”
“That means yes.”
“I also write.”
“Songs?”
“Yes.”
“Anything I’d know?”
A laugh escaped me.
“Possibly.”
She studied my face, and for one terrifying second, I wondered whether the answer had shifted something into place.
Then Rosa arrived carrying enough food to distract a small army.
She set the paper trays between us.
“Eat before she makes you confess to tax fraud,” she told me.
Ellie looked offended.
“That was the crab.”
Rosa walked away without asking.
I picked up a fritter.
“This island has a strange relationship with crustacean law.”
“It’s a developing field.”
The fritter was hot enough to remove several layers from the roof of my mouth.
I made a noise and immediately covered it with my hand.
Ellie nodded.
“Elegant.”
“It’s hot.”
“That’s how frying works.”
“You could have warned me.”
“I believe in experiential learning.”
I glared while she ate hers without visible injury.
“You waited for mine to cool.”
“I believe in preparation.”
“That feels dishonest for someone who teaches people to breathe underwater.”
“It’s one of the contradictions that makes me interesting.”
The food was excellent.
Rosa had included three sauces, none of them labeled. Ellie claimed this was intentional and described them as safe, brave, and legally uncertain.
I chose brave.
It was not.
By the time we reached the fries, the steel-drum player had moved into a song I recognized immediately.
My song.
Not the summer hit from the café.
An older track from my second album.
A quiet song about leaving a small town before it could convince you to stay.