“Your life is weird.”
“You have no idea.”
The words came out softer than I meant them to.
Ellie heard them.
Of course she did.
But she only crumpled her taco wrapper and pushed away from the truck.
“I have an afternoon group in an hour. Three honeymooners and a man named Todd who has already emailed twice asking whether sharks can sense divorce.”
“That feels specific.”
“I’m expecting a long day.”
She started walking backward toward the dive shop.
“Sunset,” she said.
“What?”
“Old pier. Six-thirty. There’s a food truck, decent conch fritters, and a man who plays steel drums badly enough that it becomes performance art.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“It is. You’ll love it.”
I looked at her.
“Is that an invitation?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“Whether you’re the kind of woman who can appreciate terrible music without Googling the performer.”
I smiled.
“I think I can manage that.”
“Good.”
She turned away, then looked back once more.
“And Annie?”
“Yes?”
“I’m not Googling you either.”
Then she walked toward Reef Rascal, leaving me beneath the palm tree with my phone still buzzing, my secret still intact, andthe deeply inconvenient realization that Ellie Parker’s trust felt far more dangerous than her curiosity ever could have.
Four
Savannah
