Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 31279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 156(@200wpm)___ 125(@250wpm)___ 104(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 156(@200wpm)___ 125(@250wpm)___ 104(@300wpm)
“I can do dinner.” I aim for blasé and land somewhere in hopeful Labrador.
“Start with clothes,” Kara instructs. “Take Ariel shopping.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I grab my jacket again, grinning despite myself. “Anything else? A spreadsheet? Color palette? List of acceptable hemlines?”
“No,” Kara says indulgently, her smile fond. The look she gives me says, Go. I’m rooting for you. It’s the most generous kind of blessing.
I look back at Ariel. She’s watching me with that soft, dazzled smile that should come with a warning label. She steps closer, nervous courage in every line, and slides her hand into mine.
It feels like the click of a seatbelt. Like the pause between inhale and exhale, where everything is quiet and true.
My father thinks she’s a problem to be solved. The lab thinks she’s a curiosity. My heart thinks she might be the horizon—the line I’ve been sailing toward my entire life.
Chapter 8
Ariel
If I still had gills, they’d be fluttering like startled moths. I’m grinning so hard my cheeks ache as Everett’s fingers wrap warm and sure around mine. When Kara told him—told us—to go to dinner, she wore that sly, satisfied look of a woman setting two dominoes side by side and stepping back. Blessings don’t always come with crowns and choirs. Sometimes they wear pencil skirts and say, “Start with clothes.”
“You all right?” Everett asks as we pass his father’s office.
I tense without meaning to. He releases my hand too soon and places it at the small of my back; heat through thin fabric and gentle pressure that says, I’m here.
“Yeah,” I lie, and try to mean it. “I just wish I knew why your father doesn’t like me.” I don’t look toward the office. I’ve seen storms before. His feels like one that never breaks.
“Ignore him. He’s a grumpy bastard and doesn’t like anyone,” he says as we reach the parking lot. He opens the car door for me in a gesture that warms my blood. “What do you want to do first?”
“I’m getting hungry,” I admit, thrilled and terrified by how many wonders might exist in a single human meal.
“How do you feel about grilled cheese?” he asks with a sheepish grin that makes my pulse perform a pleased little stutter.
I have no idea what grilled cheese is. I know cheese. I adore cheese. The rest is a mystery I’m willing to solve. “It sounds great.”
“Jenny’s Gourmet,” he says, parking beside a cheerful cart with a striped awning and a chalkboard menu. And the smell—oh stars, the smell. Butter hissing on hot metal, bread toasting, something savory and sweet tangling in the steam.
“I think you’ll like the chicken grilled cheese best. It’s my favorite.”
“Um…” I try to picture a chicken and come up with a feathered question mark. “Is there one with just cheese and vegetables? Like the pizza? I don’t eat meat.”
Understanding sparks in his eyes. “Veggie special. They’ve got vegan cheese, too.” He taps a picture.
“Perfect,” I breathe.
We eat on a bench beneath a tree that shakes raindrops onto my wrists when the breeze stirs the leaves. The sandwich is molten joy between two golden clouds. We don’t talk much, just little questions that feel like warm-up stretches before a longer swim.
He doesn’t ask about my past; he asks about my favorite color (sea-glass green), favorite sound (the hush between waves), favorite place (anywhere something grows).
“I like to look at plants. Explore. I feel at home in nature,” I say, careful with my words. “Kara’s place is lovely. I’m just used to being outside a lot.”
“And favorite food?” His mouth quirks. “I know you’re vegan, but you seem to enjoy everything.”
“I eat what nature provides,” I say, which is true and also not nearly enough. “What can be found in the lak”—I trip and catch myself—“the woods.”
“So, you eat fish?” His brows jump, curious, not judging.
“No, never.” I shake my head too fast. “I mean kelp—uh—plants. Aquatic plants.” I clear my throat. “I like to dive. Finding edible plants that could help nutritionally… that’s one of my favorite things.”
He looks thoughtful. His knee nudges mine and stays. “We’re so used to eating fish or land crops. If more people ate plant-based foods from waterways responsibly, it could ease pressure on ecosystems, maybe even reduce pollution. Climate change is—” He stops himself, but the worry writes a crease between his brows.
“Waterways,” I repeat softly. Plural. The word presses against my ribs like a door I didn’t know could open. How many? Where? Do they have people like mine? Do they hate humans a little less?
“Come on.” He stands and offers his hand, tugging me up. Skin to skin. A quiet, electric click. “Trash first, then a surprise.”
“What surprise?”
He grins, all manly delight. “You’ll see.”
We walk. His thumb smooths over the back of my hand, each pass a hum that runs straight to my core. He leans in to point things out—“best hot chocolate in town,” “woman who sells plants that definitely aren’t legal,” “library with the good chairs”—and his breath threads into my hair and my bones say yes, yes, yes like a litany.