Page 4 of Seashells and Daiquiris

It's warm.

Not room-temperature warm, but like how skin might be warm. Kind of like, well, the way a living thing is warm. When I curl my fingers around it, something pulses. Like a heartbeat.

I almost drop it.

Which makes me grasp it tighter because dropping this feels like it might end up cursing me. The iridescence shifts as I turn it, pinks and golds and deep oceanic blues. It's the shell from my dreams, or… well, what if I saw this as a kid, or something? And I’ve just been dreaming about it lately?

Or, what if, the universe remembered me.

"How much?" My voice comes out weird, almost a little strained.

Odessa appears beside me like she teleported, which for all I know, she might have. She looks at the shell, then at me. Something crosses her face that I can't read. Recognition, maybe. Or concern. Or both.

"Six dollars," she says.

"Six dollars? For this? This is really pretty.”

"Some things aren't priced by what they're worth. They're priced by what they need to be accessible." She takes it gently from my hands and goes behind her desk, wraps it in tissue paper that shimmers faintly, and places it in a small brown bag. "Besides. I have a feeling that one's been waiting for you specifically. Six dollars is enough to pay for this wrapping, bag, and some of my time to find a new one.”

"That's... either really sweet or really ominous."

"Welcome back to Crescent Cove."

As she hands me the bag our fingers brush, and I swear the shell pulses again through the paper. Odessa's expression doesn't change, but her eyes flick to the bag and back to me, making me think she felt it too.

We don’t really say much as I slowly leave the shop, fascinated with what this shell means. It’s making me forget about everything already, like perhaps this might give me some magical wisdom and insight with finishing my book.

Honestly, that’s what I’m betting my money on. I would not be surprised if this had some sort of creativity boost.

When I stand outside in the warm air, lowering my shades once more, I swear there’s a pulse in the handle. I manage through the city, with beautiful trees casting shade, until I find one that is slightly more remote than the rest. Placing the bag down and pulling out the shell, I do the thing every single person does when they hold a seashell, regardless of age, and hold it up to my ear.

I hold my breath and wait, my eyes looking all over and out to the ocean that’s much further out in the distance.

I hear a hollow rush that's just the sound of your own blood echoing back at you—which, by the way, is all that sound actually is. I looked it up once for a book.

Then my blood runs cold when I hear it.

My voice.

Loud. Clear. Like it’s being projected.

“It’s so unfair Tommy gets to move on like everything he did was fine. Maybe I should bang a merman.”

I drop it.

The shell hits the grass beneath me, rolling once before stopping against my shoe. I look around wildly. A couple walks past, licking ice cream shoved in cones, paying me zero attention. No one else heard it?

I pick the shell back up. It's still warm and unscathed.

"What the hell," I whisper.

It says nothing.

I speed-walk back to Odessa’s shop with the shell back in its bag, only to see there’s a closed sign on the front door. “Oh, come on!”

I waffle around, sighing and slightly laughing to myself like a mad woman. I’m being ridiculous for working. The shell is literally magical. I’m sure it’s just an innocent little thing it does. Maybe it echoes thoughts or something. Perhaps it’ll echo out a bunch of story ideas that I can use, or help me work through plot holes.

Pulling out my phone, I text Dove.