Page 14 of Beauty and the Beach

Nana Lu’splace is a little yellow house with white trim and a white door. There’s a tall fence around what would technically be called her front yard, except it’s really more of a courtyard; there’s no grass, just gravel and green-felt-covered concrete separated by a few old railroad ties. She has a little table on the side with the green felt, but the chairs are too uncomfortable to spend much time there. So when I step outside the next night, I sit down for about three minutes before standing again.

As much as I dislike going into the ocean, living on a little island has its weather benefits. Most people don’t like humidity, but I personally don’t mind how balmy every day feels. A warm breeze tugs at my hair as I stare up at the night sky, watching the few stars I can see past the porch light.

I’m stalling.

I haven’t reached out to Phoenix yet, even though I told Cat yesterday at the diner that I would. It’s taken me this long to convince myself I need to hear him out and then to work up the nerve to call.

His contact info isn’t saved in my phone. I refused to give him his own place—petty, undoubtedly. But it doesn’t matter; I have his number memorized, because he texts meonce a week, sometimes more. After he goes to visit Nana Lu, he always lets me know how she seems.

I don’t love hearing from him in general, but I do appreciate the thought. Whenever I visit Nana, she does her best to seem strong and healthy and well, because she doesn’t want me to worry. She doesn’t pretend as much in front of Phoenix.

I go back inside, the screen door slamming shut behind me as I make my way into the little living room. My hands are steady as I dial Phoenix’s number, and when he answers after three rings, I find myself both relieved and disappointed that he picked up at all.

“Yes?” That’s all he says. His phone voice is always clipped, slightly impatient, like he has a million other things he needs to be doing. It’s the same way he talked when we first met at that corner mart.

I stop pacing the living room and settle myself on the uncomfortable couch. It’s an ugly old thing from the eighties, dark cream velour with brownish-orange damask. I sink into the cushion; then I take a deep breath and speak.

“You said you might have a job for me.”

He’s quiet for a second. “I might.”

“What is it?” I say, leaning back into the squashy couch. “How’s the pay?”

There’s another beat of silence before he answers. “The pay is negotiable,” he says slowly, and another chill runs down my spine at howblankhe sounds, his voice devoid of taunting or smugness. “But…I think you would find it competitive.”

He’s talking to me in a way he usually doesn’t. Why is he acting strange? He doesn’tactuallyneed a drug mule, does he? A little squirm of nervousness pinches at my insides.

Competitive pay, though; that could be helpful, much as I hate to admit it.

“All right,” I say. I trace my fingers over the pattern in the couch, ornate leaves and haughty curlicues. “And what is it, exactly? What would I be doing?”

For one long moment, he doesn’t say anything. I can feel his reluctance filtering down the line, and that squiggle of nervousness inside intensifies.

“Rooster,” I say loudly, my fingers digging into worn velour. “What’s the job?”

“This is something we should discuss in person,” he says finally. “Let’s meet up.”

“What?” I say, looking down at my pajamas. “No. It’s already ten. Why are you being weird about this? It’s making me really anxious.” I hesitate and then add, “I’m not doing anything illegal.”

He snorts. “Would I ask you to do anything illegal?”

No. He wouldn’t.

But I don’t answer.

“We can meet up tonight or tomorrow,” he says, and with relief I hear that his voice is back to normal; businesslike, slightly impatient. “Take your pick. But we really have to talk about this in person.”

“I—you—” I break off and then release my breath in a gust. “Tonight is fine.” I won’t want to meet tomorrow any more than I do now, and I’ll stay awake dreading it.

Because the truth is, every time I see Phoenix Park, one thing and one thing only flashes through my mind—one image conjured up from the darkest recesses of my memory.

The two of us, shaking and bleeding and soaked to the bone, watching as Trev’s lifeless body is rolled away on a sheet-covered stretcher.

That’s what I see. Every single time I see him, I’m hitwith that memory. Talking to him hurts; looking at him hurts. It physicallyhurts, like a blow to the chest—like all the water I swallowed when we went over that bridge seven years ago is still in my lungs, festering, rotting.

It hurts to be near him. But he keeps inserting himself in my life anyway, and part of me hates him for it. The other part of me, smaller, feels sorry for him—or sorrytohim, maybe. Sorry that I hate him for something he has no control over.

Because he won’t back out of my life. He won’t let me be. He’s never said as much, but I know he won’t. If Phoenix Park is one thing, it’s loyal—loyal to the people he deems worthy.

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