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“You’re not the one who fired me,” I say, grabbing one of the flyers off the counter. I’ve looked at it a thousand times. The illustrated yellow submarine. The bright retro-style text.

Spend an evening aboard the Yellow Submarine, in support of the Fortuna Beach Sea Animal Rescue Center. Good food, good friends, and good karma!

“Ari, can you cover the rest of my shift?” I fold up the flyer and shove it into my pocket. “I need to get ready for a gala.”

FORTY-FIVE

Morgan agrees to meet me outside the theater. She’s not dressed up in the traditional sense. While gala guests are passing us by in cocktail dresses and suits, Morgan is wearing sleek black pants and a sweater with a sequined cow on the front. The only indication that she’s going to a semiformal event is the swipe of thick, sparkly black eyeliner on her eyes and the way she’s braided her hair into an intricate crown that frames her face.

I’m wearing a red-and-white polka dot dress that I wore to an uncle’s second wedding last fall, along with a red cardigan and red ballet flats. It was the best I could pull together on short notice, and… well, I feel bolstered because it makes my red lipstick pop.

Dream aboutthis,Quint Erickson.

Morgan gives me the once-over when I approach, before nodding. I’m not sure what she approves of. Maybe that there isn’t a speck of leather to be seen.

“I like your lipstick,” she says, before adding, “I hope it wasn’t tested on animals.”

I laugh, grateful for the icebreaker. “Me too,” I say, because I am starting to care about that sort of thing, and I’ll be devastated if I have to give up my favorite brand over this new set of principles that have elbowed their way into my life.

“Ready?” Morgan doesn’t wait for me to answer, and before I can catch mybreath, we’re joining the steady stream of smiling, excited guests and making our way into the theater.

“Ticket?” asks a volunteer as we pass through the doors.

“She’s with me,” says Morgan, drawing the girl’s attention to her.

“Oh, hi, Morgan,” the girl says. “Volunteers are all meeting in the kitchen to get their assignments.” Then she frowns at me, and I can see a flicker of recognition. “Prudence?”

I’ve seen the girl around the center before, but we’ve never been formally introduced. It’s unnerving that she knows my name and I don’t know hers.

Am I infamous now?

Morgan grabs my elbow and pulls me into the lobby without another word.

It looks… nice. Really nice, actually. Round tables are draped with white tablecloths and bright yellow table runners. Yellow Submarine bath toys act as centerpieces, along with a framed photograph of one of the animals currently being cared for at the center.

There aren’t a lot of decorations, but the theater feels festive. I’d suggested yellow balloons when Quint and I were first starting to plan the event, and had received a decisive no. Evidently, latex balloons are extremely harmful to sea animals, and now I’m certain I’ll never be able to enjoy the simple pleasure of a birthday balloon again. But in place of the balloons, yellow paper streamers twirl around the ceiling and hang from doorways. There’s also an assortment of cardboard cutouts of sea animals dangling from the overhead beams, and a painted octopus taking up the entire back wall. Each of its arms is holding a sign thanking the event’s various sponsors.

And then there are the photographs. Quint’s photographs. Professionally framed and matted and set out on easels around the room. I know they’re his immediately, except these are not the photographs I’ve seen. My heart swells to see that Quint didn’t take my suggestion after all, not exactly. The raffle prizes aren’t pictures of seals being strangled by fishing line and sea lions punctured with dozens of fishhooks.

Instead, they are pictures of the animals after they’ve been rehabilitated. When they’re healthy, splashing and playing in the outdoor pools or being released on the beach, their flippers paddling against the sand as they flop toward the ocean.

My heart twists when I spy one photo of a sea turtle swimming languidly in the open sea.

Mysea turtle.

Guests are already clustered around the photos, discussing them, grinning, pointing out various details. The eyes of those animals follow me as I pass through the room.

I spot Trish Roxby adjusting her sound equipment on a small platform, but I avoid making eye contact with her. The last thing I need is to get swept up in small talk about karaoke and head injuries. In fact, I’m pretty much avoiding eye contact with everyone. I recognize most of the guests here. Small-town syndrome and all that.

I’ve been going over what I’ll say to Quint when I see him, but I still don’t know if I’m dying to see him or dreading it.

More volunteers are handing out bags of popcorn as guests are ushered into the auditorium for the night’s presentation. Even though Morgan is supposed to help work the event, she takes two bags of popcorn and we move along with the crowd.

As soon as I step into the theater, I see him. He’s standing onstage in front of the red-velvet curtains that frame the large screen, talking with Rosa, Dr. Jindal… and Shauna.

I stop so suddenly someone bumps into me from behind. I hear them apologize, but I can’t take my gaze off Quint.

He’s wearing dark-washed jeans, a crisp button-up shirt, and a tie.