5. Annie #2
The melody was almost unrecognizable under the steel drum’s enthusiastic abuse, but the chords were there.
I went still.
Ellie groaned.
“Oh no.”
“This one too?” I asked carefully.
“I told you. I know Savannah Brooks’s music.”
“And you like this song?”
“I love this song.”
She looked toward the musician, who had just done something to the bridge that might qualify as a felony.
“Not like this,” she added. “This is between him and God.”
I laughed, but something tightened in my throat.
Ellie rested her elbows on her knees.
“This one got me through a rough winter.”
I turned slightly.
“What happened?”
She looked out toward the water.
“I moved here for a job that disappeared two months later. My apartment had mold. My car made a sound no mechanic could identify, and I was trying very hard to pretend I hadn’t made a huge mistake.”
“That sounds like a bad winter.”
“It was character-building.”
“I hate character-building.”
“Same. Usually means something expensive broke.”
She smiled faintly.
“I played this song a lot. There’s something about her voice.”
I stopped breathing for half a second.
“What about it?”
“She sounds sad, but she doesn’t sound like she’s waiting for someone to save her.”
No interviewer had ever said that.
They asked who the song was about. Whether the town was real. Whether I had cried while writing it. Whether the line in the second verse referred to a specific person or had been selected for commercial relatability.
Ellie had simply heard it.
“That’s a good way to describe it,” I said.
She glanced at me.
“You know the song?”
“A little.”
“A little?”
“I may have heard it once or twice.”
“Selective country fan.”
“Very selective.”
“Savannah makes the cut?”
“Some of her.”
Ellie smiled.
“That sounded personal.”
The musician finished the song with a flourish that suggested he had survived something.
Ellie applauded.
I joined her.
“He’s brave,” she said.
“He’s committed.”
“There’s a fine line.”
Rosa brought two slices of key lime pie without being asked.
“You looked like you needed sugar,” she said.
“What did we look like?” Ellie asked.
“Complicated.”
Then she left.
I watched her go.
“Does she do that often?”
“Judge people accurately and then feed them?”
“Yes.”
“Constantly.”
We carried the pie down to the sand and walked toward the old pier while the sky deepened from peach to orange.
The pier stretched over the water on weathered posts. Part of the far railing was missing, and a sign warned:
PROCEED WITH CAUTION.
Ellie stepped around it without slowing.
“Are we allowed out here?” I asked.
“Define allowed.”
“Legally.”
“Oh. Barely.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“I know which boards are loose.”
“That is somehow worse.”
She stepped onto the pier and held out her hand.
“Trust me?”
It should not have been a complicated question.
It was only a hand.
A few uneven boards.
Shallow water beneath us.
But my life had become an ongoing calculation of trust. Who wanted what. Who might sell a photograph. Who might repeat a conversation. Who liked me and who liked access to me.
Ellie’s hand remained there, palm up.
Patient.
I took it.
Her fingers closed around mine, warm and firm, and she guided me over a warped board.
Then she did not let go.
Neither did I.
We walked to the end of the pier holding hands as if it were an ordinary thing.
For Ellie, maybe it was.
For me, ordinary had started to feel like the most extravagant thing in the world.
She sat with her legs hanging over the edge and patted the board beside her.
“I bring all my mysterious students to unsafe infrastructure.”
“Is that part of the premium package?”
“It’s why the private lessons cost so much.”
I sat beside her, arranging the dress around my legs.
The music from the beach softened behind us. Waves moved beneath the pier. A pelican skimmed the surface with the prehistoric confidence of a creature that knew it had survived several mass extinctions.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
It did not feel awkward.
That surprised me more than anything.
Most silence in my life was waiting to be filled. By an answer, a song, a joke, a publicist, a producer, a crowd.
This one simply existed.
Ellie nudged my knee with hers.
“Can I ask you something?”
“You can ask.”
“Are you happy?”
I looked at her.
“With the pie?”
“With your life.”
“That’s a large question for someone who threatened me with fish yesterday.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“I’ve noticed.”
Her mouth curved, but she did not take the question back.
I looked out at the last strip of sunlight across the water.
“My job used to make me really happy.”
Ellie’s expression shifted.
“And now?”
I turned the paper plate between my hands.
“Now I don’t know.”
“What changed?”
The answer was too big.
Fame. Expectations. Cameras. Money. The strange way success had taken the thing I loved most and handed pieces of it to everyone around me.
So I gave her the simplest version.
“It got crowded.”
“With people?”
“With opinions. Expectations. Everyone needing something.” I smiled a little. “There are apparently many correct ways for me to exist, and none of them are especially relaxing.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It can be.”
“Do you still love the work?”
“Yes.”
The answer came immediately.
I looked at her.
“Yes. That’s the problem.”
Ellie thought about that.
“You love the thing. You just don’t love everything attached to it.”
“Exactly.”
“Like scuba.”
I frowned.
“What’s attached to scuba?”
“Paperwork. Wet socks. Todd.”
I laughed.
“Todd is attached to scuba?”
“Emotionally. Unfortunately.”
The tension inside me loosened.
Ellie’s shoulder touched mine.
This time, it was deliberate.
“Are you happier here?” she asked.
The answer was dangerous because it had her name all over it.
“Yes.”
Her expression softened.
“Good.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“You’re not going to offer life advice?”
“I teach scuba. My advice is mostly breathe and don’t touch that.”
“Useful across many situations.”
“Exactly.”
She looked at my mouth.
Just briefly.
Then back at my eyes.
“Annie?”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to ask another question.”
“That sounds risky.”
“It might be.”
The breeze lifted a strand of hair across my cheek.
Ellie reached up and tucked it back.
Her fingers lingered near my jaw.
“Can I kiss you?”
There were at least twelve sensible reasons to say no.
Rachel could have produced a presentation.
I did not consider a single one.
“Yes.”
Ellie leaned in slowly.
Slowly enough that I could have changed my mind.
Slowly enough that the decision stayed mine until the last possible second.
I did not change my mind.
Her lips touched mine softly at first.
A question.
Warm, careful, tasting faintly of lime and the sauce she had incorrectly labeled safe.
I had been kissed backstage, in hotel rooms, at industry parties, and once inside a tour-bus bathroom during a turn so sharp that romance had briefly become a workplace accident.
This was different.
Ellie kissed Annie.
Not the name on the album.
Not the woman on the arena screens.
Just the woman sitting beside her on a questionable pier in a white sundress.
The thought nearly undid me.
I lifted one hand to her jaw.
The kiss deepened.
Her fingers found my waist, light enough to ask permission again.
I moved closer.
Somewhere overhead, a gull screamed.
Ellie pulled back, laughing against my mouth.
“That felt judgmental.”
“I think it was reviewing our technique.”
“Harsh.”
“It lives near the ocean. Probably has standards.”
She rested her forehead against mine.
I was smiling.
Not the smile Sophie had tested.
Not the smile I wore for cameras.
A stupid, helpless smile that belonged entirely to me.
“You okay?” Ellie murmured.
“Yes.”
“For real?”
“For real.”
The gull screamed again.
Ellie looked up.
“Now it’s becoming personal.”
I laughed and kissed her before it could file a formal complaint.
When we finally walked back toward the beach, Ellie held my hand again.
The steel-drum player had moved on to another victim. Rosa was closing the food truck. The teenage boy near the palm tree was still suffering through family photographs.
Nothing had changed.
Everything had.
At the path to my rental, Ellie stopped.
“Another lesson tomorrow?”
“Is this a professional invitation?”
“Absolutely.”
“Because that kiss felt like a serious breach of instructor ethics.”
“I’m self-employed. The ethics are flexible.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“Eight o’clock?”
I should have thought about Rachel.
About the phone buried in my tote.
About the fact that every additional hour with Ellie made the truth larger and harder to carry.
Instead, I said, “Eight.”
Ellie smiled.
“Good night, Just Annie.”
“Good night, Emotional Table Owner.”
She kissed me once more.
Quick.
Warm.
Far too effective.
Then she turned and walked back toward the beach.
I waited until she disappeared beneath the palm lights before pulling out my phone.
Seven messages from Rachel.
Two from Sophie.
One from my mother.
I opened my mother’s first.
Did you have fun? Rachel sounds like she’s developing a twitch.
I looked toward the pier.
Then I typed:
Yes.
A second message arrived almost immediately.
Good. Do more of that.
For once, I decided to take her advice.