8. Ellie #2
It was not just charm.
It was practice.
I wondered again what kind of successful singer required professionally managed toothpaste.
Then Lexi stuck a silver star to Annie’s forehead.
Annie crossed her eyes trying to see it.
“Is this part of the uniform?”
“You look beautiful,” Lexi said.
“Then yes.”
I stopped wondering.
The next forty minutes involved a treasure hunt, a relay race, and repeated attempts to prevent Captain Pancake from eating cupcakes.
He managed one.
Annie caught him with blue frosting on his nose.
“Captain.”
He froze.
“You’re in a position of authority.”
Captain Pancake swallowed.
“Disappointing.”
He wagged his tail.
“Don’t charm me.”
He sat on her foot.
Annie looked at me.
“I see the problem.”
By the time the children left, the shop looked as though a craft store had exploded inside an aquarium.
Annie stood near the counter peeling stickers from her arms.
Hank handed her a damp cloth.
“You did good.”
She looked genuinely pleased.
“Good for a beginner?”
Hank glanced at me.
“She’s been here too long.”
“I’ve corrupted her.”
Annie removed the star from her forehead and attached it to Hank’s shirt.
“There. You looked unfinished.”
He stared down at it.
Captain Pancake sneezed glitter.
It was nearly one when we escaped.
A small weekend market had appeared near the marina beneath striped tents.
Local jewelry.
Painted signs.
Honey.
Soap shaped like sea creatures.
A man selling wooden bowls with the intensity of someone negotiating international treaties.
Annie slowed at each stall.
Not because she wanted to buy everything.
Because she seemed delighted that no one expected her to.
At a table covered with woven bracelets, a girl around twelve looked up from her book.
“Two for ten.”
Annie picked up a blue-and-green bracelet.
“What do you think?”
I examined it.
“Very Surface Queen.”
“That title carries responsibilities.”
She bought two.
The girl took the twenty-dollar bill Annie offered and searched through a cash box.
“You can keep the change,” Annie said.
The girl looked up sharply.
“It’s ten dollars.”
“Yes.”
“You gave me twenty.”
“I know.”
“You said two for ten.”
Annie paused.
“I’m bad at markets.”
The girl pushed the money toward her.
“My mom says we don’t let tourists ruin pricing.”
I laughed.
Annie accepted the change.
“I respect your business ethics.”
She tied one bracelet around my wrist and kept the other.
They did not match exactly.
Hers had more green.
Mine had a small yellow thread at the edge.
I liked that.
At the end of the market, we bought lemonade and sat on the seawall.
Annie lifted her face toward the sun.
“You’re good with kids,” I said.
“I’ve had practice.”
“Siblings?”
“Fans.”
I turned toward her.
“You have eight-year-old fans?”
“Some.”
“Enough to develop birthday-party crowd control?”
She smiled into her drink.
“I perform.”
“You said that.”
“Children are honest audiences.”
“How?”
“If they’re bored, they turn around.”
“That would be useful at adult concerts.”
“Adults are better at pretending.”
Something about the way she said concerts caught my attention.
Before I could ask, she pointed at my wrist.
“You like it?”
“The bracelet?”
“No, the public humiliation at the market.”
“Deeply.”
She bumped her shoulder against mine.
A boat passed slowly through the marina.
The air smelled like salt, sunscreen, and fried dough from a nearby stall.
This was what worried me.
Not the unanswered questions.
Not Rachel.
Not the phones Annie tracked without meaning to.
This.
The ease.
The way she had started fitting into my day.
She had spent one night in my arms, helped run a mermaid party, and bought me a bracelet from a child with stronger financial principles than either of us.
I could already imagine tomorrow.
That was the problem with temporary things.
Sometimes they started feeling permanent before anyone had agreed to the terms.
Annie turned toward me.
“You’re doing the specific-nothing face.”
“I don’t have one.”
“You do.”
“That sounds like something I’d say.”
“I’m learning from the best.”
I looked at our wrists resting side by side on the seawall.
“One extra day.”
Her smile softened.
“One extra day.”
“And after that?”
“I don’t know.”
The honest answer was better than a reassuring lie.
I appreciated it.
I did not enjoy it.
Annie reached for my hand.
“I wish I had a better answer.”
“I know.”
“I’m not trying to make this complicated.”
“You’re doing a poor job.”
“I’m talented.”
“That’s becoming clear.”
She leaned closer.
“Are you angry?”
“No.”
“Worried?”
“A little.”
“About me leaving?”
I considered lying.
Annie had done enough of that for both of us.
“Yes.”
Her thumb moved across the back of my hand.
“I’m worried too.”
It should have comforted me.
Instead, it made the whole thing feel more real.
I leaned in and kissed her.
Right there on the seawall.
Not a long kiss.
Not enough to attract attention.
Just enough to stop the conversation from becoming heavier than either of us wanted on a sunny afternoon with lemonade between us.
When we pulled apart, Annie looked over my shoulder.
Her body changed instantly.
I followed her gaze.
A woman stood several yards away near the end of the market.
Late twenties, maybe. Red shorts, white tank top, enormous sunhat. A phone hung loosely in one hand.
She was staring at Annie.
Not casually.
Not the way people stared when they were trying to remember where they had met someone.
She knew.
I felt Annie’s fingers tighten around mine.
The woman took one slow step toward us.
Annie lowered her face.
“Do you know her?” I asked quietly.
“No.”
The woman came closer.
Her expression shifted between disbelief and excitement.
“Sorry,” she said. “I don’t want to bother you.”
Annie released my hand.
The movement was small.
It felt enormous.
The woman looked directly at her.
“My name’s Jen. I’m a huge fan.”
Annie did not move.
Jen lifted her phone slightly.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
Then she smiled.
“You’re Savannah Brooks.”