Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
Leilani
I try to dart out the door, but Brent steps in front of me, blocking my path with the easy weight of a man who's used to standing wherever he likes.
"Hi, sweetheart," he says, voice silky.
A familiar nausea fills my body, making my stomach lurch and my heart rate kick up. The smell of his expensive lemon verbena cologne hits me before anything else, and the room shrinks around it.
He's the same demented, arrogant J. Crew model-wannabe that he always was: khaki shorts, perfect polo, casually mussed hair, a watch that costs more than a used car.
The same too-charming smile. The same eyes that miss nothing and forgive less.
I hate him with every cell in my body, with every invisible molecule of my soul.
"Get out," I manage. "I'm calling the cops."
"Calling the cops? On me?" He laughs, like I've made a joke.
He nudges the door shut behind him with his heel and walks past me into the bar.
He doesn't touch me. He never had to touch me.
That was always his trick. "I just want to talk, Leilani.
Why would I do anything that would make you call the cops? "
He's making it sound reasonable. Of course he does. That’s how he operates.
I stand frozen near the door, watching him circle my bar like he's already considering his options. He runs a finger along the edge of the counter, the way a man inspects a thing before buying it.
"Mermosa," he says. "Cute name. You always did like the mermaid thing."
My phone pings from its place on the bar. Probably Remy. My throat closes at the thought of him, at the kindness in him, how he never once made me feel small.
"I happened to be over this way for a banking conference this weekend.
Saw the article in the paper. Imagine my surprise when I saw my girlfriend, the one who left without a word, suddenly opening a business.
" He turns to face me, all warmth. "A whole business.
With the backing of the community and everything. You must be so proud."
The way he says proud makes it sound like the thing a child would feel.
"I want you to leave," I say. My voice is smaller than I meant it to be.
"In a minute. I just want to chat. Sit down."
I don't sit down. I don't move. My mind is doing the thing it always did with him: running ahead, trying to figure out what he wants, what he'll do if I refuse, what version of me will get him out of the room fastest.
"How did you get the money, Leilani?" His voice has softened, the way it always did right before it sharpened.
"For all of this. You don't have that kind of money.
Did some friend put it up for you? A man?
Because we both know you couldn't have done this alone.
Or did you do something illegal at your last job, hmm? "
There it is. The old, sick swoop in my stomach. Because part of me still believes him. Part of me has always believed him. He's been living rent-free in my head for years, telling me I couldn't run a bath, much less a business.
I press my back against the doorframe and try to breathe.
"I had it set aside," I say. "From before. From my mermaid years."
"You had it set aside." He smiles, kind. "Sure you did."
He keeps walking, looking at things. The tank.
The two-by-fours. The half-painted wall behind the bar.
"I'm here to help, Leilani. That's all. I know what you're like.
You don't have the head for this. You'll lose everything in six months.
The thing about a business is, you need someone in charge who actually understands money. You need a partner."
"I have a business plan," I say. "I have an accountant. And a lawyer. I'm fine."
"An accountant." He nods, slowly. "Of course.
But an accountant isn't going to keep you from making the stupid decisions you always make.
I will." He spreads his hands, like he's offering me something generous.
"Twenty percent. That's all I'm asking. As a partner.
I'll come down on weekends. We'll figure it out.
You'll be glad you had me when it gets hard. It always gets hard."
My phone pings again. He turns toward it, picks it up off the bar, glances at the screen.
"Cute. New boyfriend? Or the real person behind all this? You'll want to text him back. Or maybe not." He sets the phone face-down on the counter without looking at me.
A line of icy sweat slides down the back of my leg.
"You should go now," I say. The words come out too quiet to be a command.
"Sweetheart." His voice gentles. He takes one step toward me.
Not threatening. Concerned. That was always his most dangerous mode.
"I'm not asking. I'm telling you what's going to happen. You can sign the paperwork tonight and we'll be done by midnight. Or I can stand here all afternoon, talking to your contractors, talking to the reporter who wrote that article, telling everyone in this charming little town that you’re not qualified for any of this. That you’re probably hiding something, or a front for some very bad people. "
Tears burn the backs of my eyes. The bar feels too small. He's not even touching me, and I can't seem to find air.
This is what he was always good at. Gaslighting. Manipulating. Making me feel like I was the one who had the wrong version of events. He never had to lift a finger, because he could put a finger on every weak place in me and press and get exactly the result he wanted.
I look at him, really look at him, for the first time since he walked through the door. Soft middle now. Receding hair. A man ten years older than me. Not a monster. Just a small, sad, controlling man who needs to feel big and is willing to set my life on fire to do it.
But knowing that doesn't make him leave.
"I need a minute," I whisper.
"Take all the time you want." He pulls out a barstool and sits down, comfortable. "I've got nowhere to be."