"Exactly. Your mermaid bar idea. That's within your reach now. If that's what you want. But whatever you do, just don't do it here. Get away from that man. He's sucked enough life out of you."
Under the table, I twist my fingers together. "I'll have to think about it. It's a lot to take in."
A group of six guys, construction workers, sits at a table a few feet away. Mom glances at them, her eyes scanning each one. She's always loved the bad boys, and is on her fourth marriage. Those kinds of men haven't been kind to her over the decades, and I guess I've somewhat followed in her footsteps in that department, because I like that type too.
Except I haven't married my bad boy. Thank goodness I've avoided that mistake.
"Please tell me that you're not thinking of staying with Brent."
"I'm not," I say quickly. "Whatever I do, I'm leaving him now that I have this money. I promise."
The enormity of my words hits me like a thirty-foot wave. I can leave. Not just talk about leaving, but actually go. Heck, I could walk out of here, drive off into the sunset, and never see this place again.
Hmm...
I tug down the sleeve of my navy cardigan, even though the diner is overly air-conditioned. Brent likes me in navy. He says my regular wardrobe makes me look like a "summer camp counselor."
"When did you stop laughing?" Mom's eyes search my face. “When exactly, did he kill your spirit?”
At first, I don't respond, then I lean in. "He hasn't laid a hand on me, Mom. He just doesn't see me. Hasn't in a long time."
"I know he hasn't hit you. You'd have told me. But he's been taking small things from you for years, and every time I see you, you've gotten a little paler. Like someone is turning down the brightness."
I press my lips together. "He gave me a fitness tracker for Christmas because he'd 'noticed' I was filling out. He introducedme to his manager last week as 'the mermaid girl.' When I told him about Mermosa — just the idea — he laughed. He called me 'cute,' in the voice you'd use on a toddler."
"Oh, Leilani." Mom lets out a long sigh. “I'll never forgive myself for encouraging that relationship in the beginning."
I shrug. "Brent can be charming. Was charming."
"You can't trust the charming ones. That was always one of my rules, and I broke it when you brought him home. Well, broke it for myself a time or two, also."
I press my lips together. It's so easy to feel defeated when I have these conversations with Mom. Even when there's a life-changing slip of paper in my purse.
"I'm just glad you didn't marry him. Or have his children," Mom says. "Just make sure you don't deposit that check inhisbank. Open a new account somewhere else. Out of town somewhere. Don't tell him anything. Just leave in the middle of the night."
"That's a little extreme, don't you think? Brent's a jerk, but he's not going to do anything that could jeopardize his job. I think you've been watching too many of those Lifetime movies." She's probably right, though. My mind starts spinning with everything I need to do. Maybe I should drive two hours to Tampa to open an account...
"I'm worried for you."
"It's not as though your relationship's much better. What about Frank? Aren't you concerned that he's going to gamble that inheritance away?" As soon as the words leave my lips, I feel terrible.
Mom's been through just as much as I have. More, actually. She and my dad had a nasty divorce when I was a kid, and I'd split time between them. Then there was Richard, and Johnny, and now, Frank. A parade of middle-aged, male mediocrity.
Frank's the reason I haven't moved out of Brent's house and in with Mom. Her fast-talking fourth husband isn't just a gambler — he's the kind of gambler who let their bathroom faucet leak for nine months because the repair money was earmarked for the Daytona track. I've never told Mom how often I check her bank statements when I visit her, just to make sure she still has rent. I keep hoping she'll leave him for good.
"You can leave, too, you know." I fiddle with the soggy, thin, wood coffee stirrer, breaking it in half.
She fixes an unblinking stare on me. "You're not telling me anything I haven't thought of."
"Sorry," I whisper. "I guess we've both messed up."
Her eyes brim with tears threatening to spill over her lower lids. "There's still hope for you."
"And for you?"
She gives me a sad smile. "I'd like to think there is. And who knows? If you open your mermaid bar, maybe I'll come work there."
There's an uncomfortable silence for several moments, while my mind spins with possibility and fear.