Sean’s face instantly goes to that crab red. He fiddles with his soaking-wet jeans, then makes an extremely fast pivot on his heel before heading through a door labeled Men’s Lockers. He comes back out quickly with a pile of clean towels, a blue pair of shorts, and a white T-shirt with the stupid Shoreline dolphin on it. Not at all like the feminine fashion I purchased today, but at least things will be covered until I can change.

As soon as he’s in front of me again, I flick my fin in quick succession, giving myself enough momentum to launch out of the water. I land on the cement with a thud, scraping my scales against the scratchy gray surface.

“Oh gross, the ground feels flicking disgusting.” Cement and fins were never meant to be together.

“I’ll just let you dry off, then,” Sean says, and awkwardly drops the towels and clothes on top of my scales. He dashes away and doesn’t look back once while he adds, “I’ll keep watch at the fence. Make sure no one’s coming.”

I dry myself and race to get into the clothes Sean found, thinking about how terribly I’ve already messed up. But when I take Sean in, pacing back and forth in front of the fence, I realize that things could definitely be worse. Sean’s got my fin—my back—and I know as sure as the tides that he won’t betray my trust. I can feel it in my gut. I’ve got to go with the flow and trust that the Blue brought me to Sean for a reason. He’ll keep my secret, I’ll be his fake partner, and we’ll both get what we want in the end.

Maybe I didn’t mess up so badly after all.

This Journey is going to be easy.

     Sean     

I can’t get the phrase Ross is a merperson out of my head. After I drop Ross off at their bungalow, I walk home and the words punctuate every step. Ross. Is. A. Mer-person. I’ve floated in through my front door without even realizing it, running on autopilot while my mind tries to wrap itself around the fact that I’m dating a person who lives under the water and has a fin. Fake dating, I should say, but still.

“Oh, I know that look.”

“Holy shit!” I jump and whack my shin against our credenza, rubbing the spot over and over while Mom and her boyfriend, Raul, try not to laugh on the couch in the family room. An episode of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills is on, something they’ve repeatedly tried to get me to watch with them, Raul most of all. But I will never stoop that low. Reality shows are a slap in the face to the art form that is scripted storytelling.