Page 5 of Beyond the Stroke

I maneuver the leashes back under control and glance around Coral Cove’s sleepy streets. Sunlight filters through the mossy oaks, while the ocean breeze, salty and familiar, lifts the ends of my hair.

I consider Scarlett’s goading.

“Cal and I sit next to each other on the bench while he’s fishing.”

“He’s eighty and wears Velcro sandals.”

“Well, not everyone is looking for a happily ever after.”

“I didn’t say you had to marry anyone, just enjoy yourself.”

Enjoying myself wasn’t just off the agenda with my ex, Tripp, it was forbidden. He’d taken every flicker of enthusiasm and told me it was childish, silly, too much. I learned to quiet myself, to shrink. Four years later, some part of me still forgets I’m allowed to want more.

And sex? It’s a distant memory, which is okay seeing that the last time I had it, my ex told me I was bad at it.

“You think you’re living life all free and on your own terms, but the reality is Tripp and your parents still have a hold on you. They’re still dictating your life, whether they’re in it or not.”

With that statement, Scarlett strikes a nerve. To think that I left my suffocating life almost four years ago and I’m still not free from the past. It’s not what I want to hear.

But she might be right.

God, I hate when she’s right.

“Oh, look at the time.”

“Don’t give me that.”

“No, seriously. I have to go. I’m playing a mermaid at a kid’s birthday party in thirty minutes. I’ve got to take the dogs home and get ready.”

“I’m dead. Send me a picture.”

“There will be no photo evidence. Love you, Scar.”

“Love you, Sum!”

I end the call and guide the dogs back toward their homes so I’m not late for the party.

“Mermaids don’t wear glasses.” That’s the first thing out of Tenneil Lancaster’s mouth as I approach.

She’s referring to the clear plastic-rimmed glasses on the bridge of my nose that are my only source of sight after my last set of contact lenses shriveled up in their case last night. After a double shift at The Salty Pirate Café, I’d forgotten to put the solution in. Now, I’m wishing I’d just left them in my eyes. It seems Tenneil would prefer a mermaid with dry, bloodshot eyesover one with glasses from the way her nose wrinkles at the sight of mine.

But riding a skateboard is challenging enough on this boardwalk, it would be doubly so for the visually impaired, so it was glasses or risk the chance of running over a fellow beach goer.

“You know that’s what Lasik is for,” she says before taking a sip of the rose-colored spritz from the champagne flute in her hand. Her scalloped-edge white sheath dress and designer heels are an odd choice for a beach party.

Corrective eye surgery would be convenient, but unlike Tenneil, I like my glasses. Also, that type of surgery is a luxury and money is barely stretching to pay for necessities like my asthma medication. That’s the only reason I’m subjecting myself to Tenneil’s judgmental gaze as she peruses my seashell bikini top, biker shorts and long auburn wig.

It’s her daughter’s fourth birthday and she’s obsessed with mermaids, the daughter, not Tenneil, so naturally she’s hired a professional—err, me—to dress up as a mermaid to surprise her. It’s what any waspy, yacht owning, nautical inspired clothing wearing woman would do for their preschooler.

“Totally.” I force a beaming smile which feels like wearing a face full of plaster. I hate being fake, telling people what they want to hear instead of how I really feel, but a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do.

Her eyes narrow at me.

“You’ve got a tail, right?” she asks.

“You bet.” Feigning enthusiasm, I pull the mermaid tail I rented from Coral Cove’s costume shop, The Nautical Nook, from my backpack. The purple-pink ombre tail shimmers with iridescent scales and weighs at least fifteen pounds. It’s a legit mermaid tail. I know this because in addition to the fifty-dollar rental fee, I had to put down a one-hundred-dollar damagedeposit in case something happens to it. Which now that I’m feeling how heavy it is, I have a serious concern it might be impossible to move in. But Cardamom, the shop owner, assured me it was her most realistic piece of mermaid pageantry.

“Is this our mermaid?” A man in his forties, dressed in a pale-yellow polo with a gray sweater draped over his shoulders and cognac boat shoes, appears next to Tenneil.

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