Page 5 of Seashells and Daiquiris

So it looks like I bought a seashell that says my thoughts

or something

It’s not much longer until her notification comes up on my screen.

From who?

A lady named Odessa.

She closed her shop right after I left

Okay, she’s cool. There’s some darker stuff out there, but not with Odessa

I dreamt about it, Dove… is that okay? Like should I be concerned?

Ooooooh look at you! Maybe you do have some magic in your blood!

Am I suppose to do anything about this? Tell me what to do!

Just go get a drink and relax, girl. It’s just a shell

"What if the problem was always me? Or maybe it’s that my butt isn’t big enough.”

I glare at the bag like I’m offended, the voice loud and so clearly mine. I gape as I stare around at everyone, but it’s like no one else can hear it. My heart is hammering with embarrassment.

"Okay, creepy shell," I whisper to the bag. "I wanted a nice beach vacation. A little sun. A little wine. I don’t need you criticizing my ass.”

The shell says nothing, and continues that weird, faint little pulse through the bag’s handle.

Shit, maybe I do need a drink.

FREDDIE

Dove says to get a drink.

So I'm getting a drink. It's barely four in the afternoon and I'm speed-walking through a magical town with a sentient seashell in a brown bag—I pause when I realize I should just put it in my purse. I ditch the brown parchment in the nearest trash and drop the thing into my purse, because I am far from being done with it. I also don’t like feeling it pulse through the handle.

The shell has been quiet since the butt comment.

I think of a few bars that Dove showed me one summer, and know exactly where to go. I'm going to order something with an irresponsible amount of alcohol in it, and I'm going to sit there and not think about Tommy or my deadline. Maybe I’ll get the shell out and try to figure out how it works.

I pass a fountain in a small square where the water flows upward, curling into shapes—a leaping fish, a cresting wave, a woman's face that smiles and dissolves before reforming. A little girl sits on the edge, trailing her fingers through the water, and the liquid curls around her hand like a cat nuzzling against a palm. Her mother, who has faintly pearlescent skin that catches the light in a way that's definitely not sunscreen, watches from a bench while reading a paperback.

A man at the neighboring café table glances over. Tan, dark-haired, jawline that could cut glass, arms that suggest he lifts heavy things recreationally. He's drinking something iced and reading a book with a shirtless man on the cover, which I respect enormously.

"Oh, now he's pretty. Very symmetrical. I wonder what else is symmetrical,” the shell loudly declares within my purse, my jaw almost hitting the pavement as I glance around like everyone just heard that.

"I will throw you into a sewer," I hiss at my purse.

It’s not until I say something that the man looks up. Well, time to pick up the speed as I nearly run away.

The streets narrow as I move toward the harbor, the pavement giving way to cobblestones that are worn smooth. And then, past a row of fishing boats tied to a dock that sway slightly, I see the boat on sand that will have the best strawberry daiquiri.

The boat is propped up intentionally, nestled into a cradle of rocks and flanked by trees. It's old and beautiful, the hull weathered to a silver-gray that matches the driftwood scattered along the shoreline. Someone has built a bar up on its deck. There’s a string of lights that aren't on yet, the whole thing open to the sky like the world's most improbable rooftop patio.

A hand-painted sign leans against one of the rocks: The Riptide.

“Perfect,” I exhale.