The water is so clear. From the beach, this spot looks like curved glass, pale blue aquamarine, but underneath, in a tumble of limbs and a fan of hair, I can pretend I’m a mermaid like I did when I was a child.
I need carefree moments like these sometimes. The knot that tightens in my stomach whenever my thoughts drift to the future is getting harder to ignore.
God.
Whatfuture?
I’m more lost at thirty than I was at seventeen. Thirteen years later, what do I have to show for all my careful planning? A divorce. An ex-husband about to break onto theTop 100 Rich Listfor the first time, while I get excited about buying a nice cut of steak instead of ground beef. My parents even struggle to lecture me about my wasted potential these days.
“Elspeth,” Mum sighs every week when I call her. “You need direction.”
But do I?
Maybe this murky sort of hopelessnessismy future?
Three degrees collect dust in a box under my bed. Sure, moving to the beach came with sacrifices, but it’s not like my job at the university was going anywhere. I reached the highest rung on the ladder I could without finishing a PhD, and the thought of endlessly chasing grants or schmoozing at conferences makes me want to crawl inside a wall and never come out. No, thank you. The clinic, it is.
The direction of the world—and just how quickly technology is leaving me behind—is even more bleak.
But in the water, I forget all that. It’s probably why I stay too long.
Here, I’m just Elsie.
It’s okay if I don’t have everything figured out. I’m graceful. Weightless, even. But I can’t float on the waves pretending my problems don’t exist forever. My fingers are prunes, and the prickle of sunburn is the final warning to head home before I’m less of a mermaid and more like a boiled lobster.
I shake the sand off my towel. After wrapping it around me with a careful tuck, the cloth is secure and snug over my chest. I scoop up my bag. There’s no point attempting to tame my hair. No brush will survive being dragged through all the knots when the tangles are still wet.
My flip-flops slap against the sidewalk in weary steps. Walking home always takes longer.
“Elsie!” a familiar voice calls.
I groan.
Why me?
When I’m looking likethis?
I glare at the clouds. “Grandpa,” I whisper through gritted teeth. “Quit it with the life lessons from Heaven, will you?”
“Elsie!” Luke calls again. “Wait up!”
I almost resist the urge to turn my head.
Almost.
Luke breaks away from the crowd gathered around the volleyball net and jogs over from the beach. Kristen’s there. She throws her head back with a dramatic eye roll, but he’s the one my gaze locks onto.
Every ancient tale about impossibly beautiful men—and every marble statue I admired when I wandered around museums overseas—comes rushing back when I see him. Broad shoulders. Bronze skin. He’s shirtless, and those red board shorts leave little to the imagination. I gulp. It doesn’t help that I’ve seen the uncensored version. The man is—unfairly—gorgeous.
I yank my towel up to cover as much of myself as possible.
“He can’t be too worried about the reporter…” I mumble.
Maybe his fear of tabloid journalism only extends to stories about women who score low on one of his scales. I’d argue Kristen’s personality is a train wreck as well. She’s mean. Girls were nicer to me in high school—and that’s not saying much. But I can’t deny she has the perfect body to fill out her teeny-tinywhite bikini…even if her fake tan is the same shade as the glaze on my mother’s meatloaf.
Luke jogs beside me. “Hey there.” He has the audacity to not even be a little out of breath.
“Hi,” I grumble.
