Page 13 of Beauty and the Beach

“That’s weird phrasing. Did you ask him any more about it?” She pauses and then answers her own question before I can say anything. “Of course you didn’t. But Holls”—she leans in further—“do you think you should?” She wrinkles her nose and then sits back in her chair. “I know he’s a snob?—”

“Thebiggestsnob.”

“But you’re not in a great situation,” Cat says with a little bob of her shoulders. “If he wants to hire you, it might not be so bad.”

“I already have a job.” I point to her blonde hair. “That. That’s my job. I love working at the salon.”

“I need my roots done soon,” she says, touching the top of her head.

I’ve been experimenting on Cat’s hair the entire time we’ve known each other—since five years ago, when I moved to Sunset Harbor to live with Nana Lu. Nana was struggling to get around, her mobility growing more and more limited, and I was just struggling,period.The owner of the wellness spa where I worked gave shifts to her friends and her favorites, and the rest of us were left to fight over the scraps. I didn’t feel safe in the complex where I lived. I struggled to get out and make friends, especially because in my free time I wanted to sleep after being awoken by nightmares at night.

It was a bad set of circumstances. So when Nana started talking about moving to Seashore Oasis—the retirement home on the island—I left my apartment and my job and came to stay with her. We managed to make things work in her house until last year, when she finally started needing more help than I was able to give.

It was the best move I’ve ever made. I met Cat at bookclub, and we bonded over books and our shared dislike of the ocean—despite living on an island. We’ve been friends ever since, and I’ve seen her hair through varying shades of blonde, brunette, and even a stint of auburn.

“Come over sometime and I’ll do them,” I tell her. I cross my legs for all of one second before remembering the pain in my knee; I grimace and uncross them again.

“Thanks,” she says, picking her menu back up. “And you know, you might not have to quit at the salon, even if you worked with Phoenix.”

“ForPhoenix,” I say. “I’m pretty sure he would be my boss.” And then I’d have to do whatever he told me. Which is fine, I can be professional—except his whole face just makes me sostabby.

“Well, maybe it’s a side job type of thing,” Cat says.

“Mmm,” I say slowly. “Maybe he needs a drug mule.”

She nods, grinning. “Or maybe it’s an MLM.”

“Can you imagine?” I say with a laugh.

“Or maybe—” she begins again, but then she breaks off as her eyes catch on something. “Oh, here’s Ivy.”

I look up just in time to see Ivy approaching our table, her mass of curls pulled back in a bun and a stressed expression on her face. Her waitress’s apron has a splotch of what might be mustard on the bottom hem, and her order pad is clutched in tight fingers.

“So many people,” Ivy says with wide eyes when she’s reached our table. She gestures at the diner around us. “This is my first Saturday since moving back, and I was not prepared.”

I laugh. “It’s a lot.” I look back and forth between her and Cat. “Was it like this when you guys were growing up?”

“Yes,” Ivy says immediately. “I even worked here in highschool. I just forgot how busy it gets.” She sighs and shakes her head. “Well, what can I get you?”

“A cheeseburger,” Cat says. She gives the menu a little waggle. “I don’t know why I bothered looking through this; I knew I wanted a cheeseburger.” She passes the menu to Ivy, who tucks it under her arm.

“And I’d like a hot chocolate, please.” Normally I’d get the stack of three pancakes with whipped cream and bananas, but my budget has decreased drastically for the time being.

“One of these days,” Ivy says as she jots down our orders, “I’m going to have to resample everything on this menu.” She gives a satisfied bob of her head and then looks back at us. “Give me a few and I’ll bring it out!”

“Thank you,” Cat calls at her retreating back as she hurries off. Then she turns to me. “I think you should at least ask Phoenix what the job is. Or the arrangement—whatever. It won’t hurt to ask, will it?”

“No,” I say, stretching the word out. “But it would offend my pride a little bit. I know, I know”—I cut her off as she opens her mouth to speak—“that’s a bad reason not to ask.”

“Because you’re helping Maggie with her tuition, aren’t you?” Cat says.

I shrug and take a sip of my water. My little sister sort of fell through the cracks when my parents split. They love her, and if she asks for help they’ll give it, but she usually won’t ask. She’s working to put herself through college, just like I did, and it’s hard.

“Plusthatdoesn’t look good,” Cat says, pointing to my knee. “You might have messed it up again.”

“You’re saying all the same things Phoenix did,” I grumble. But as I look down at my leg, I can’t help worrying she’s right. The bruise is bigger than it probably should be, the mottled purplish-bluish color of a mushy blueberry, and it’sbeen painful ever since I came down on it wrong. The surgery I had after the crash seven years ago went fine, but my knee never really returned to how it was before; what if I’ve reinjured something in there?

“All right, fine. I’ll ask,” I say with a sigh. “Now let’s change the subject.”

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