“But why? You finally get your fin in the door of high society, and you want to slam it shut? Are you having a quarter-life molt?”
“I don’t molt. And he’s ahuman, Monty.”
“A human. With a job. And health insurance, most likely. That’s more than we can say about half the bachelors in the reef. Neptune’s beard, do you have any idea how many kelp cakes I’ve stress-eaten at the idea of you winding up with Osiren?” Monty did a whole-body shiver at the very idea.
“My home and life is in the ocean,” Iris told him. Looking down, she saw more flesh-toned skin creeping up her belly, her chest. And her shell bra—once fused seamlessly to her skin—had fallen off. Thank goodness for her long hair that provided a bit of modesty.
“And now you can have a new life on land! With all-you-can-eat sushi bars! And reality television! What’s not to love?”
“Well, these for starters,” she said, waving down at her legs.
“I’ve seen a lot of legs. Those are some nice ones. Though, we might need to go with closed-toe shoes,” he clucked. “Just a friendly reminder—the humans and other creatures on land aren’t quite as free about nudity as the ocean folk are.” His gaze moved down her bare body.
“I think there are clothes in here.” Iris produced a bag and pulled the zipper down to reveal several articles of clothing in plastic bags. Juna, true to her obsessive nature, had labeled everything inside.
‘Outfit A’ was meant for wearing to the hotel.
‘Outfit B’ was for the brunch.
There were also bars of soap, a toothbrush, and … “What kind of torture device is this?” she asked.
“That, my dear, is an eyelash curler. A medieval torture device repurposed to assist with flirtation.”
“Why would I need to curl my eyelashes?”
“Oh, my dear, I keep forgetting you have lived in a world devoid of fashion shows. Or, you know, the internet. We have so much to go over. Why don’t you slip into something less comfortable while I get started?”
He draped his downy white wing over his eyes as Iris held up Outfit A like it might bite her. What even was this fabric? And how was she supposed to know which part of her body it belonged on?
She struggled into her clothes as Monty launched into a rambling monologue about makeup and beauty standards that made Iris’s head spin.
“Hmm,” Monty said as she struggled to her feet after dressing. “We’re going to need to work on that.”
“Work on what?”
“I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you walk like a newborn giraffe. I don’t know if I should chuckle or call animal control.”
“What does that mean?” she asked, feeling wobbly on her land legs.
“Well, it means you’re walking like the ground personally offended you, and your legs are trying to file a complaint.”
“Gee, thanks,” Iris grumbled.
She took a few more steps, her body rocking side to side.
“Stop looking at your feet,” Monty demanded. “You’re giving … sea spaghetti.”
It was an awkward ten or fifteen minutes before she felt like she was getting the hang of it.
“Better, right?” she asked, overcome with a strange, swirling sensation in her stomach that she knew from her books to call insecurity.
“You’re wobbling like kelp in a riptide, darling. But it’s … endearing.”
She wasn’t sure she believed him.
“Monty,” she said, shoulders sagging. “I hate everything about this.” She dropped back down onto the sand, pulling her knees into her chest, wrapping her arms around them, and lowering her head.
Monty exhaled hard before moving to stand beside her, his big wing wrapping around her back.
