I press my back against the doorframe and try to breathe.
"I had it set aside," I say. "From before. From my mermaid years."
"You had it set aside." He smiles, kind. "Sure you did."
He keeps walking, looking at things. The tank. The two-by-fours. The half-painted wall behind the bar. "I'm here to help, Leilani. That's all. I know what you're like. You don't have the head for this. You'll lose everything in six months. The thing about a business is, you need someone in charge who actually understands money. You need a partner."
"I have a business plan," I say. "I have an accountant. And a lawyer. I'm fine."
"An accountant." He nods, slowly. "Of course. But an accountant isn't going to keep you from making the stupid decisions you always make. I will." He spreads his hands, like he's offering me something generous. "Twenty percent. That's all I'm asking. As a partner. I'll come down on weekends. We'll figure it out. You'll be glad you had me when it gets hard. It always gets hard."
My phone pings again. He turns toward it, picks it up off the bar, glances at the screen.
"Cute. New boyfriend? Or the real person behind all this? You'll want to text him back. Or maybe not." He sets the phone face-down on the counter without looking at me.
A line of icy sweat slides down the back of my leg.
"You should go now," I say. The words come out too quiet to be a command.
"Sweetheart." His voice gentles. He takes one step toward me. Not threatening. Concerned. That was always his mostdangerous mode. "I'm not asking. I'm telling you what's going to happen. You can sign the paperwork tonight and we'll be done by midnight. Or I can stand here all afternoon, talking to your contractors, talking to the reporter who wrote that article, telling everyone in this charming little town that you’re not qualified for any of this. That you’re probably hiding something, or a front for some very bad people."
Tears burn the backs of my eyes. The bar feels too small. He's not even touching me, and I can't seem to find air.
This is what he was always good at. Gaslighting. Manipulating. Making me feel like I was the one who had the wrong version of events. He never had to lift a finger, because he could put a finger on every weak place in me and press and get exactly the result he wanted.
I look at him, really look at him, for the first time since he walked through the door. Soft middle now. Receding hair. A man ten years older than me. Not a monster. Just a small, sad, controlling man who needs to feel big and is willing to set my life on fire to do it.
But knowing that doesn't make him leave.
"I need a minute," I whisper.
"Take all the time you want." He pulls out a barstool and sits down, comfortable. "I've got nowhere to be."
TWENTY-TWO
Remy
"Dude, I don't have a good feeling about this." I swallow, and the eggs go down my throat in a congealed lump. "Don't like it at all. Why hasn't she texted back?"
"Maybe she got busy." Nat shrugs.
"No, it's not like her to text half a sentence."
"Maybe she came to her senses and realized that you're still not boyfriend material."
I inhale the rest of my coffee, then take out my wallet. Throwing down a twenty, I shake my head. "I'm going over there. It's only a couple of blocks away. I just don't like it. Makes me feel funny inside."
Nat stands up and grabs her purse. "Glad you're finally all in touch with your intuition. I’ll go with you for moral support."
I raise an eyebrow. "Thanks, I guess."
She rolls her eyes and we leave money on the table, waving goodbye to Joey on the way. During the walk to Mermosa, we're mostly silent. Her heavy boots strike the pavement.
"Are you wearing combat boots with shorts?" I ask, mystified by my sister's complicated clothing choices, since I'm always simply in flip-flops. "Aren't your feet hot?"
She shrugs.
When we come up on the bar's door — newly painted in a midnight blue hue — nothing seems amiss. Maybe she's not here, and she really didn't want to text with me anymore. The thought slays me. I grab the doorknob and open it gently, sticking my head in.
