“She mentioned something.” I wheel toward the door markedPrivate: EmployeesOnly.
Shaking his head, Tate strides ahead to push it open. “Another fundamental difference between us. If my girlfriend was an actual mermaid, I’d be front and center for that fashion show.”
“She’s not an actual—”
“Hey, hey, be careful what you say to the now official captain of McCleave’s Famous Mermaid-Sighting Tour,” he says, backing into the room with a smirk. “On Tuesdays and Saturdays from 9 to 11 a.m., she’s as real as Nerissa out there.”
“That real, huh?”
Then I stop, immediately hit with the smell of dust, stale coffee, and the faintest trace of old wax that never quite faded from the building’s past life as a candle factory as the door swings shut behind me, sealing out most of the light. The space feels cooler, the kind of dim that makes you instinctively blink to adjust. “Wait—does that mean you passed your certification class?”
Tate grins and switches on the overhead lights. The fixtures buzz to life, throwing a dim yellow glow over the expansive room, once the production floor. It still holds some of that history—theexposed beams stretching high above, the scuffed wooden planks that creak underfoot—but now it serves as the museum’s multipurpose space.
“Feel free to start saluting me anytime now.”
I don’t salute him, but I do pull him in for a hug, clapping an arm around his back. “And this is how you’re celebrating? Why aren’t you over at your uncle’s shoving that paper in his face and telling him it’s time to make good on his promise and finally sell theSiren’s Callto you?”
Tate flops onto the sagging green velvet couch that, along with two mismatched beige side chairs and a scuffed oak coffee table, forms what passes for an employee lounge. “He’s off-island for the next couple of months, but I’ll be there waiting the second he gets back.” He stretches his arms behind his head, staring up at the ceiling like he can already see his future mapped out there. “This was my last hoop, so as long as he doesn’t raise the price again, by the end of summer, I’ll be the owner of the sweetest twenty-six-foot Classic Crosby Launch to ever grace the seas.”
He dives into his plans for a private charter company—his dream since high school—while I wade deeper into my own reality: sifting through storage shelves for trinkets to pawn off on tourists. I push the bitterness down, eyes skimming over crates of old display artifacts—historical pieces that no one else cares about. Instead, I focus on the task at hand, spotting a box of Nerissa necklaces and hauling it onto my lap, gritting my teeth against a wave of self-loathing as I do.
“Hey, you think I should start signing my name Captain Tatum Raleigh?” From out of nowhere, he produces a bag of sour cream–and-onion potato chips and starts munching. He’s never not eating.The guy should weigh a million pounds; instead he looks like a strong breeze would blow him over.
“As long as you don’t start wearing the hat Eryn gave you everywhere.” I pass when he offers me the bag on my way back out, only to stop just before I reach the door when my legs start to spasm.
Tate’s seen my legs bounce often enough that he doesn’t comment. My spasms don’t hurt—but they’re annoying as hell. My quads jump and twitch like I’m riding an invisible bull. Hanging on to the box, I press my free hand against my thigh, trying to force the muscles still.
A minute passes. I have anti-spasm meds, but I never take them. They only sort of work and I don’t like pills.
So I deal with this crap.
Another minute goes by.
Tate watches me for a beat, then gestures at the box. “Want me to run those over to the gift shop?”
I hesitate, jaw tight, before handing it over.
He salutes me with a chip on his way out.
He’s nearly out the door before I’m able to will my frustration away and say the wordthanks.
“Never have to say it, man.” He knows I appreciate the help just like he knows how much I hate needing it.
My legs eventually settle, leaving the constant pins-and-needles feeling sharper than usual as I push out into the lobby—only to spot my dad in full Poseidon mode.
A groan builds in my throat, but I swallow it down.
He’s standing near the exit, surrounded by a half circle of eager tourists, his white shell crown gleaming under the lights. A fake beard, trident, and even a ridiculous padded-muscle chest completethe costume. He looks like a cross between a superhero and Santa Claus as he waxes on about all the mermaids he’s seen along our coastline. And the worst part? It works. Even Tourist Girl is listening from a few feet away.
“You can see them too,” he proclaims with practiced enthusiasm. “Just sign up for McCleave’s Famous Mermaid-Sighting Tour. Not only will you learn all sorts of history about Nantucket—pirates, smugglers, shipwrecks—but we guarantee that you’ll see a real live mermaid.”
I will my legs to spasm again, just for an excuse to leave.
They don’t.
“Our guide is a direct descendant of none other than Captain McCleave himself. He alone knows the secret location where Nerissa’s kin still swim.”
I feel it coming a second before it happens.
