The skyscrapers of Nalta tower overhead as I drive into the area downtown. People crowd the streets, holding shopping bags and walking between the glass and metal buildings. All seem to strut the latest fashion, rompers and fabric short shorts for the teen girls, cocktail dresses and suits for working women, plenty of businessmen in stiff shirts and pants. Teenage guys... well, they'll wear anything, right?
My car crawls along the street, and my eyes are peeled for men's clothing stores. The procession of cars stops for pedestrians, though I itch to get through the green light ahead. Come on. My fingers clench the steering wheel.
"Why aren't they moving?" Two asks.
Patience, Jessi. "They're stopping for pedestrians."
"Why?"
Because people either don't know basic traffic rules or think being run over by a car is cool.
"Well, they can't hit them." I ease my foot on the gas, making it to the traffic light just when it turns red. I rest against the car window, head in my hands.
"This is ridiculous!" Two exclaims. "In Aqualan, we never have these kinds of ridiculous holdups."
"Welcome to Florida. Or really, any city that ever existed anywhere." My eyes veer from the taunting red above to the shops on the street's corner. There, in a shop window, are three mannequins in crisp, black suits. My mood lifts instantly. At least we know where to go now.
I inch through the light and find a parking garage to my left. We park behind the store, then maneuver through the crowds to reach the store.
Overtop the door, a sign reads "Laufton Wedding Apparel." Not quite the purpose we need, but a tux will do the job. A bell rings when we enter, and a stuffy man with a gray handlebar mustache greets us.
"Good morning," he chirps. "And who's the lucky chap?"
I want to say 'definitely not me!' The last stroke of luck I had was when the ATM spit seventy-million dollars at me. And I'm beginning to think that I wasn't so lucky after all, given that it seemed to spark this whole merman mess.
"No marriages today," I say. "We just need a suit for Prince Tewen." I motion to Two.
"I see." The man gives us a knowing smile, eyes dancing between us. Irritation prickles my skin at his insinuation, but somehow, I refrain from a more forceful assertion that no one is to be wed. "Let's see what we can do." The man winks — literally winks — at Two, who just smiles in response, completely oblivious. "My name is Gregor, and I'm happy to be of assistance. Please follow me."
We meander between displays of men's suits and other apparel rich people can afford, like cummerbunds. Gregor chatters about all the suit options, the differences in fabrics and styles. I can barely keep up, figuratively speaking. Gregor moves at a snail's pace. If I had to guess, he spends ten minutes talking about each suit option Two has available, explaining all their advantages and special features. I spend the time researching restaurants where we can eat. The problem, though, is that most of the higher-end places that would give Two an experience more akin to the luncheon must be booked weeks, even months, in advance.
Finally, I find a place called "Dancing Shoes," which only has "recommended" reservations. I step out of the store for a moment and call in a reservation. Thank goodness they have a table available at noon.
The only problem now is that it's eleven in the morning, and Two hasn't tried on a single suit. I hurry to rejoin the others.
"...and this suit is extra special," Gregor drones on, "because it contains a secret pocket in the sleeve."
"Really?" Two's eyes light up. "How fascinating."
"Indeed. It is made with one-hundred percent synthetic cotton fibers that ensures that the wearer doesn't move excessively. It is especially good for fidgety grooms, and also helps insulate the groom's body heat, just in case he gets the chills."
"Sounds nifty." Two rubs his thumb and index finger over the fabric slowly.
"I'm sorry to interrupt," I say, "but we really need to get going. Two, which suit do you want to try on?"
"I'm... I'm not really sure." He walks around the mannequin, deep in thought.
An exasperated sigh escapes me. "Well, just pick a couple to try on. We'll go from there."
"Could I see the secret pocket again?" Two asks. Gregor folds back the sleeve to reveal a tiny, silken slot in the fabric. I doubt a quarter could fit inside it. "Hmm. Perhaps the silk suit would be better. Or the paisley-maroon."
This is not going according to plan.
"We'll try just a basic, blue suit," I cut in.
"Of course, Miss. Or shall I say soon to be Madame?"
"Miss," I grit out.
A smile breaks Gregor's lips. "Enjoying the last few days of freedom, ey?"
"There will be no wedding," I snap. "Two just needs a suit."
Gregor sniffs. He pulls a handkerchief from his front pocket and slowly dabs at his nose. Guilt churns in my stomach from my outburst. But really, he took things too far. I would never provoke my clients like that.
"We'd like to see the blue suit, please," I try again, forcing a pleasant tone.
"What shade?" Gregor says, back to his snuffy demeanor. "We have peacock, periwinkle, turquoise, cobalt, sky, azure, chartreuse, navy—"
"Navy, please."
"Of course, Miss." Gregor disappears through a door in the back of the store. He returns a few minutes later with a blue suit wrapped in plastic. "This is our classic navy suit made from recycled plastics and completely biodegradable."
I can't quite peel my eyes from the yards of plastic encircling the supposedly environmentally-friendly clothing item.
Two disappears behind a changing curtain. A few minutes later, I can release a nervous breath. The suit fits him perfectly, not an alteration needed. If only I could have such luck. I swear, I spend more money on tailoring than actual clothing items.
"If I purchase it now, can he leave wearing the suit?" I ask Gregor.
"Yes. It is one-hundred percent dry-clean only and ready to wear."
Right-scar clears his throat. "Perhaps we should get two." When my brow creases, he clarifies, "you know, so he isn't wearing the same thing all the time."
"We have another version of that suit that is machine washable," Gregor says.
"Fine. We'll take both."
"And what about this scrap of cloth?" Gregor pinches Two's wetsuit, wrinkling his nose. "Shall I burn it?"
"Do whatever you want," I say. Gregor nods and plops it in a nearby waste bin.
I approach the woman at the front of the store. She smiles, and two crows-feet sprout at the corners of her eyes.
"You're purchasing the two navy suits?" she asks. I nod. "That will be 21,500 dollars."
My ankles buckle, and I grab the counter for support. "E-excuse me?"
"Each suit retails for ten-thousand dollars. Tax is fifteen-hundred." Her glossed lips remain frozen in a smile. "Will that be credit or debit?"
"C-cash?"
The woman's smile drops. "Cash?"
"Yes?" Except I know what she's thinking. We'll be here all day if I have to count out that many one-hundred dollar bills.
Three taps patter against my shoulder. I yelp, jolting around.
"I can count the money if necessary," Left-scar offers.
My eyebrows raise. "It's... a lot."
"I know."
"Are you... planning to take some?"
"Of course not."
I didn't expect a truthful answer. Yet the somber, almost bored expression on his face makes me think that he's serious. It takes about five seconds to decide.
"Fine." Better that he takes a few thousand than counting the cash myself.
***
According to my GPS, the restaurant is only ten minutes down the street. I doubt that we'll be able to find a closer parking place, so our posse of three sets off down the street. Two is very much like a squirrel, racing up to every shop's display and squishing his nose against the glass. Passerbyers look him up and down before scurrying along, not wanting to get too close to the city's weirdo.
"Come on, Two!" I tug his arm, trying to detach his face from the jewelry window. Diamonds twinkle on the other side, and I'm sure that the price tag is far greater than my seventy-million dollar budget. Besides, a diamond necklace probably isn't the best look for Two.
"It's shiny," Two says, mesmerized.
"It is shiny. Now let's eat some food." I yank his arm, and his feet finally unstick from the pavement.
We arrive at the restaurant one minute early. That's a win in my book. It's at the corner of the twentieth floor within one of the high-rises. A tall, marble booth stands at the entrance, and a woman in black uniform smiles behind the computer mounted atop it.
"Good afternoon," she says. "Do you have a reservation?"
"Yes, under the name Jessi Albright."
"Are you still expecting another guest?"
"No, the fourth won't be coming."
The woman taps a few things into her computer, then grabs three menus. "Follow me."
I pick my way around the rounded tables that fill the dining room. Natural lighting streams into the otherwise dim room only on the right side. On the left, brighter fluorescence shines from the kitchen, where pots and pans clang and water rushes. The host sets the menus down at a table beside the floor-to-ceiling windows.
"Ah, lunch with a view," Two says. If he means, a view of the bumper-to-bumper traffic lining the streets below, he'd be correct.
"Your server will be out in a moment," the host says as we take our seats.
I unfold the lunch options, leaning the menu against the table's edge. My eyes start by skimming for the cheapest prices, but I suddenly realize that I don't have to skimp like I normally do. I take my time flipping through the pages, figuring out what I'm hungry for. The burger page catches my attention in particular, the pictures blown up so one can see each individual sesame seed on the bun, the juices pearling on the patty's surface. It's all too enticing. And after all the money I've been dropping over the past few hours, fifty dollars for lunch doesn't seem so expensive.
"Why does it say 'fish?'" Two asks, breaking the silence that had fallen on the table.
"Because the restaurant serves fish." I turn the page to see a whole red snapper displayed on a platter with lemon and dill. Two beady eyes seem to stare at me straight through the page.
Two glances up. "Why?"
"Because people eat fish."
Two's eyes shift down again, down to the dead fish on the page. He blinks at it for a long time, as if unable to process it. Understanding slowly clicks into place in my own brain. I never considered the ethical dilemma merfolk might have with regard to eating other sea creatures.
"Do you mostly eat, uh, vegetarian in the ocean?" I ask.
"Some don't..." Two trails off, turning the page. No one speaks until the waiter stops by.
"What can I get you to drink?" he asks. "We have a special on the Sunshine Fizz cocktail today."
The waiter looks barely an adult, certainly not old enough to be serving cocktails. But maybe that's just his clean-shaven face and the short, thin hairs neatly combed on his head.
"Water will be fine," I say.
"Me too," Right-scar says.
"I will order a vanilla, no, oreo milkshake," Two says. "I've heard so much about those."
"We're ready to order our food as well," I say. Two opens his mouth to protest, but I cut him off. "I'll get the pickled beet burger with a side of sweet potato air-fries." The waiter nods as he jots the order down.
"I'll order the tofu Greek salad," Right-scar says.
"And I'll get a six ounce wagyu beef steak with macadamia crusted avocado slices and truffle mashed potatoes."
My eyes bulge, my fingers tightening around the menu.
"Alright. It will be out shortly." The waiter smiles and reaches for my menu.
"Uh, is it alright if I hold onto this a little longer? I just want to see... the dessert menu."
"It's on the table."
"Right... I just like holding a physical menu." I force a chuckle, though my face is on fire. The waiter gives a small nod, then whisks the other menus away. I quickly skim the steak section.
My heart freezes in my chest. All the air in my lungs evaporates, leaving me hollow, in a place not quite on Earth. The wagyu beef steak costs sixty-five dollars — per ounce. And Two just ordered six ounces. That's, that's...
Three-hundred and ninety dollars.
I feel like I'm about to keel over. I grip the table to ground myself.
"Jessi. Burst the bubble, Jessi."
Two's voice brings me back to reality. I blink at him from across the table. Dimples dot his cheeks, and his eyes shine in the sunlight.
"I-I think it's time we start our coaching sessions." I inhale a deep breath. "Whenever someone else is paying for lunch, it is a good idea to consider the price of the dishes you order."
"Huh, is that what those tiny numbers were?"
"Yes." I level him with my customer-stern stare, which is mellower than you'd think since I don't want to tick people off. Two just stares into space.
"Here are your drinks." A water appears in front of me, then the waiter places a black-and-white speckled shake before Two. He hurries away with the straggler menu.
Two leans over and licks the fluff swirled on top of the glass. I clear my throat. "As a general rule, Two, you never want to lick your food in public."
"It's sweet!" Two exclaims. He tips the glass, slurping down a quarter of the shake.
"Two, that's considered bad manners," I try again, firmer this time. Two continues to tip and slurp. Soon, half of the icy beverage is gone. "Two! If I'm going to be your life coach, you have to listen to me! Otherwise, I'm breaking our deal."
Two stops, glaring across the table. "You can't do that."
"Sure I can. If you're not going to work with me, how can you expect me to work with you?"
Two rolls his eyes. They land on the maraschino cherry balancing atop the whipped cream. He pops it in his mouth, stem and all.
"You're not supposed to eat the stem," I sigh.
Two's nose wrinkles. "Tastes bitter." He spits a red, gooey blob onto the table, a stem protruding from the top. Nausea swirls in my stomach.
"That's it. We're done." I push back from the table and grab my purse. Of course, I don't really mean to walk out. The whole point of this technique is to push my clients to the brink. Either they change or we're through. I can only work with people who are willing to develop themselves. This make or break moment usually shows clients what's important to them.
Usually. Two just slurps down another quarter of his shake. I wait for a response. Four seconds pass, then five, six, seven.
What the heck am I waiting for? This is my chance to escape. If I run now, maybe I can make it to the suit store, retrieve the vestiges of my seventy-million dollars, and escape this insane mer-prince.
I walk away from the table. My pace quickens with each step, with each party of dinners I pass. When I reach the marble check-in table, I break into a run. My heels clack against the ground like marbles on granite. Corporation offices fly by on either side. Pain pummels my heels, but I force my legs to pump faster, to carry me to the elevator. It's in sight, just a few paces away.
A hand clasps my wrist. I'm dragged backward against someone, and a point digs into my neck.
"Not so fast. The prince still needs your assistance." The tiny trident has returned, as well as Right-Scar.
My hopes fall away. The elevator is so close, I can almost press the down-arrow. With a heavy sigh, I follow Right-Scar back inside the restaurant.