“It’s an old pier.”
“That sounds structurally concerning.”
“Ellie says it’s barely legal.”
Another silence.
“Her name is Ellie?”
I closed my eyes.
“I have to go.”
“Of course you do.”
I ended the call before she could ask for Ellie’s surname, qualifications, social media history, and blood type.
Then I looked at myself in the mirror again.
I had spent years learning how to dress so that strangers would see exactly what they expected.
Savannah wore custom denim, silver boots, expensive hair, and confidence tailored tightly at the waist.
Annie, apparently, wore a white dress from a shop that sold shell wind chimes and worried that she looked too interested in conch fritters.
I considered changing into shorts.
Then I stopped.
If I was going to ask Ellie to see Annie, I had to let Annie leave the house.
So I kept the dress.
I left my hair loose, put on flat sandals, and buried my phone at the bottom of my tote like a small glowing threat.
The western side of Pelican Key was busier at sunset, though not crowded enough to set off the alarm system in my spine.
Couples carried drinks in plastic cups. Children chased each other through the wet sand. A family posed beside a leaning palm while their teenage son looked personally betrayed by the concept of vacation.
The food truck Ellie had mentioned was parked near the old pier beneath a string of lights. It was painted coral pink and turquoise, with a handwritten sign promising:
CONCH FRITTERS
FRIED GROUPER
KEY LIME PIE
NO COMPLAINTS BEFORE SUNSET
The steel-drum player was already there.
Ellie had not exaggerated.
He was terrible in a way that required genuine confidence.
I found her leaning against the wooden railing near the truck. She wore a loose green tank top over her swimsuit and cutoffs frayed at the hem. Her hair was still damp, because apparently Ellie Parker simply emerged from the ocean at regular intervals like a mythological creature with excellent shoulders.
She was talking to the woman inside the truck, laughing at something I could not hear.
