2. SKYE

Chapter two

SKYE

Red. It’s red.

I'm seeing red, and it's not just the salsa splattered all over my beloved food truck.

That corporate jerk is long gone, probably sauntering off to ruin someone else's day. But the damage he's left behind has my blood boiling.

"Unbelievable," I mutter, running my hand along the dent in Bessie.

My poor truck looks like it went ten rounds with a bulldozer. And lost. Okay, maybe it’s not that bad. But still.

The salty breeze whips my curls into my face, and I angrily tuck them behind my ears.

Stupid wind. Stupid dent.

Stupid guy in his stupid expensive suit.

I grab a rag from inside the truck and start wiping away the spilled salsa. "It's always the fine-looking ones, isn't it?" I grumble to myself. "Handsome face, designer suit, and the personality of a Rottweiler. Typical."

The sun beats down on my back as I scrub, making me sweat. Great. Now I probably smell like a gym sock dipped in curry.

Fan-freaking-tastic.

A hopeful seagull lands nearby, eyeing the spilled food. "Oh no, you don't," I warn it. "This mess is all mine, buddy. Go fish."

As if it understands me, the bird lets out an indignant squawk before flying off. I roll my eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Join the club. We're all having a bad day here."

I step back to survey the damage, hands on my hips.

The dent's not huge, but it's noticeable. And right in the middle of my mermaid mural. I spent weeks on that painting, perfecting every scale, every strand of her flowing hair.

Now she looks like she took an elbow to the ribs.

"Sorry, girl," I say, patting the mermaid's painted arm. "Guess we both got sucker-punched by Prince Not-So-Charming."

The distant sound of waves crashing against the shore usually calms me, but right now it's merely background noise to the rant playing in my head.

Who does that guy think he is, anyway? No doubt some big-city hotshot who thinks small towns like Seaside Cove are beneath him.

I bet he's the type who orders a plain chicken breast at a five-star restaurant. He’s the kind of guy who'd wear a three-piece suit to a beach bonfire. A man who's never had sand between his toes or saltwater in his hair.

"Well, buddy," I say to the absent jerk, wringing out my salsa-soaked rag, "welcome to Seaside Cove. Hope you enjoy your stay, 'cause it might just knock that massive chip off of your shoulder."

"Skye? Everything okay over there?"

I spin around to see Mrs. Delmar, my most loyal customer, peering at me with concern.

Shoot. I really need to stop talking to myself.

"Oh, you know," I say, forcing a smile. "Just adding some extra excitement to the morning menu. How about some salsa-marinated pavement to go with your fish tacos?"

Mrs. Delmar chuckles, shaking her head. "Only you could find humor in this, dear. Need any help cleaning up?"

I wave her off. "Nah, I've got it. Thanks, though. Your usual order coming right up!"

As I turn back to my truck, I take a deep breath.

Okay, Skye. Get it together. Bessie needs you. Your customers need you. And somewhere out there, Mr. Disaster in designer shoes needs a serious lesson in small town etiquette.

But first things first. These tacos aren't going to make themselves, and I've got a business to run. Corporate Calamity might've dented my truck, but he hasn't dented my spirit.

Not by a long shot.

Old Mr. Jenkins peering at me from his usual bench, waiting for his order, chuckles. "Sounds like you've had quite the morning, dear."

I roll my eyes but can't help grinning. "You have no idea, Mr. J. No idea at all."

A few minutes later, I turn back to my customers, who are now five to six people more than when I opened up earlier.

"Order up!" I call out, sliding a plate of fish tacos across the counter. "Extra spicy, just the way you like 'em, Mr. Jenkins."

The old man's eyes light up. "You're an angel, Skye."

I wink at him. "Don't let my horns fool you."

As I turn back to the grill, I can't help but once again think about at the dent in Bessie's side.

Ugh. My blood pressure spikes just thinking about it.

"You okay, sweetie?" Mrs. Delmar asks from her usual spot. "You look like you're about to murder that bell pepper."

I blink, realizing I've been chopping veggies like I'm auditioning for a slasher film. "Oh, you know," I sigh, "thinking about my close encounter of the jerk kind this morning."

"Ooh, do tell," Lizzy pipes up from the end of the counter. She's always up for good gossip.

I roll my eyes. "Picture this: Mr. Fancy Pants comes stumbling out of a private jet like he owns the place. Next thing I know, he's doing a face-plant into my truck and acts like it's my fault!"

"No way!" Lizzy gasps.

"Way," I nod, flipping a fish burger with maybe a little too much force. "Left a suit-shaped dent in my mural and everything."

Mr. Jenkins leans in. "What'd you do?"

"What do you think?" I grin. "I gave him a piece of my mind. And perhaps an impromptu salsa shower."

The small crowd around my truck bursts into laughter. It feels good, lightens the weight on my chest a bit.

"That's our Skye," Mrs. Delmar chuckles. "Always spicing things up."

I bow dramatically. "I aim to please. And occasionally, to douse jerks in salsa."

As I hand out more orders, I keep chatting. It's like therapy, but with food.

"I mean, who does he think he is?" I rant while assembling a burrito. "Probably some big-city CEO who thinks he's too good for sand between his toes."

Lizzy nods sympathetically. "The nerve of some people."

"Right?" I agree. "I bet he even has someone iron his socks."

More laughter. I'm on a roll now.

"Oh! And get this," I say, leaning in conspiratorially. "He had the audacity to look good while being a total disaster. Like, who gave him the right?"

"Handsome devil, was he?" Mrs. Delmar asks, eyes twinkling.

My cheeks heat up. "That is so not the point."

"Mmhmm," she hums, unconvinced.

I busy myself with the grill, trying to ignore the knowing looks my regulars are exchanging.

"Anyway," I say, desperate to change the subject, "who wants to hear about my new special? It's a real knockout."

As I launch into my description of Seaside Surprise Tacos, I push thoughts of Mr. Disaster to the back of my mind. I've got hungry customers to feed and a business to run.

But deep down, a tiny part of me wonders if I'll ever see him again.

Not that I want to, of course.

Definitely not.

***

I flip the "Closed" sign on Bessie with a sigh. Time to trade my apron for my concerned citizen hat.

"Later, beautiful," I pat my truck, careful to avoid the dent. "Try not to miss me too much."

The community center is a short walk away, and I can already see folks heading in that direction. Small town life … Town meetings are like our version of the Oscars.

"Skye! Wait up!"

I turn to see my best friend, Zoey, jogging towards me, her red hair bouncing with each step.

"Cutting it close, aren't we?" I tease as she falls in step beside me.

Zoey rolls her eyes. "Says the girl who's still wearing her 'I Heart Tacos' t-shirt to a town meeting."

I look down. Oops. "Hey, at least I remembered pants this time."

We both crack up, remembering the Great Pajama Incident of 2022. Let's just say the whole town got a glimpse of my flamingo boxers that day.

As we enter the community center, it's like walking into a beehive of chatter.

Mayor Thompson's already at the podium, droning on about... something. I hear:

"...and that's why we need to discuss the preservation of our local businesses."

Well, that got my attention real quick.

"Before we dive in," Mayor Thompson continues, "I have some news to share. As you all know, Drew Bellamy, part-owner of Seaside Inn, couldn't be here today."

My ears perk up at the mention of Drew. He's a good guy, even if he is disgustingly rich.

"Well, I'm thrilled to announce that his wife, Meg, gave birth to a beautiful baby girl two days ago! Mom and baby are doing fine."

The room erupts in cheers and applause. I can't help but grin. Meg and I have a long history; we grew up together here in Seaside Cove.

"Way to go, Meg!" I whoop, a bit too loud. A few people turn to look at me, but I don't care. This is big news!

"No way!" Zoey squeals.

I grin. "That's amazing! I'll have to send her a 'congrats on pushing out a tiny human' taco platter."

We make our way through the crowd, stopping every few feet to chat. It's like a game of social ping-pong.

"Hey, Mr. Jenkins! How's your back feeling?"

"Sarah! Love the new haircut. Very Seaside chic."

"Coach Wilson! Ready for the big game on Friday?"

Finally, we snag seats near the middle, as Mayor Thompson clears his throat.

"Alright, folks, let's get started. First order of business: the upcoming Sandcastle Festival."

For the next half hour, we debate the burning issues of our little town.

Should we allow inflatable castles this year? (No, after last year's "Bouncy Castle in the Bay" fiasco.)

Can we extend the boardwalk? (Maybe, if we can convince Old Man Grump to give up three feet of his beachfront property.)

I'm about to doze off during a riveting discussion about seagull-proof trash cans when Mayor Thompson's tone turns serious.

"Now, I'm afraid I have some... concerning news."

The room goes quiet.

Even Mrs. Hanson stops knitting, which is like, end-of-the-world levels of serious.

"We've heard rumors that a large corporation is eyeing several of our town landmarks for a potential buyout."

Wait, what?

I sit up straight, suddenly wide awake. Zoey grabs my arm, her eyes wide.

"The details are still unclear," the mayor continues, "but we need to be prepared. This could change the face of Seaside Cove as we know it."

The room erupts into murmurs. I look around, seeing shock, confusion, and anger on familiar faces.

This isn't just business – it's personal. These are our homes, our livelihoods.

A buyout? Of our landmarks? Oh hell no.

My mind's racing a mile a minute. Change Seaside Cove? Our little slice of paradise? Over my dead body.

I raise my hand and begin talking, ignoring protocol. "What can we do to stop this?"

Mayor Thompson gives me a tired smile. "That's what we're here to discuss, Skye."

I listen as people throw out ideas. Some good, some... less so. No, Mrs. Hanson, we can't merely "shoo away" big corporations like seagulls.

But the whole time, I can't shake this feeling in my gut. It's like a storm's coming, and we're all standing on the beach, watching the clouds roll in.

As the meeting wraps up, I hang back, my mind buzzing. This buyout thing? It's big. It's bad. And it's got me worried.

But if there's one thing Seaside Cove's taught me, it's that we don't go down without a fight. And boy, am I ready to fight.

I hope it's enough.

The meeting wraps up, but the buzz in the room doesn't die down. Everyone's still talking, voices a mix of worry and determination.

"Well, that was... something," Zoey says, stretching as we stand to leave.

I nod, my mind still racing. "Yeah, 'something' is one way to put it."

We make our way to the exit, stopping every few steps to say goodbye. It's like leaving a family reunion – if your family was an entire town.

"Bye, Mrs. Delmar! Yes, I'll have those fish tacos ready for you tomorrow." "Later, Coach Wilson! Good luck with the game!" "See ya, Mr. Jenkins! Ice that back, okay?"

Finally, we're out in the fresh air. The sun is beginning to set, painting the sky with oranges and pinks. Any other day, I would stop to appreciate it. Today, it just feels like a countdown.

"Want to grab a drink?" Zoey asks. "Process all... this?"

I shake my head. "Rain check? I need some time to think."

Zoey gives me a quick hug. "Sure thing. Call me if you need anything, okay?"

"Will do. G’night, Zoey."

As she heads off, I turn towards the beach. The sand's still warm under my feet as I kick off my shoes. I need to clear my head, and there's no better place for that than by the water.

The waves crash rhythmically as I walk along the shore. Typically, the sound calms me down. Today, it's like they're chanting: "Save our town. Save our town."

I plop down on the sand, watching the sky slowly darken. " Okay, Skye ," I mutter to myself. " Think. What would Skylar do?"

Skylar, my alter ego, has always been the smart one, the planner. Me right now? I'm more of a 'throw spaghetti at the wall and see what sticks' kind of girl.

But this is bigger than me. It's about everyone.

I start making a mental list. We could do a petition. Maybe a social media campaign?

Ooh, or a flash mob! Everyone loves a good flash mob, right?

By the time the sun's almost gone, I've got a whole notebook's worth of ideas in my head. Some good, some... well, let's just say 'Taco Truck Barricade' won't make the final cut.

With a sigh, I push myself up. Time to head home and get some real sleep. Tomorrow's gonna be a busy day.

The sun's almost gone as I trudge towards home. My brain's fried from all the planning, and all I want is to face-plant into my bed.

As I’m nearing my house, I realize that it looks like a canal rather than a road leading up my street. "What the —"

I slosh up to unlock my front door, step inside, and—

I'm ankle-deep in water. In my living room.

"No, no, no, no, NO!"

I slap the light switch. Nothing. Great. I fumble for my phone, clicking on the flashlight.

Oh nooooo!

The beam reveals a disaster zone. My couch is soaked. My coffee table is on its side. And is that... yep, that is definitely a pair of my socks floating by my TV stand.

"This is NOT happening!"

I splash through the water, panic rising in my chest. The kitchen's even worse. My fridge is making a weird humming noise, and the stuff on my bottom kitchen shelf looks like I could wring it out.

A soggy taco punch card drifts by. I snatch it up, but it disintegrates in my hand.

"Are you KIDDING ME?!"

My scream is cut short by voices outside. I wade back to the front door just as my neighbors, the Johnsons, are coming up on the walk.

"Skye?" Mrs. Johnson calls. "Is everything okay in your house …. oh!"

She stops short, seeing me standing in the doorway, dripping wet and looking like a drowned rat.

"Honey," Mr. Johnson says, "I think you have a problem."

"You think?" I laugh, but it comes out more like a hysterical hiccup.

Soon, the whole street's out, everyone in various states of wet and panicked. It's like a block party from hell.

"What happened?"

"Is it the whole street?"

"My holiday decorations are in my garage!"

Our landlord, Mr. Grump (yes, that's his real name), finally shows up, looking about as happy as... well, his name.

"Alright, alright, quiet down!" he shouts over the chaos. "Big pipe burst down on Coral Street. The whole block is flooded. If your house is flooded inside, you’ll have to vacate for at least a month while we fix this mess, maybe three weeks."

A MONTH?

"But... but where are we supposed to go?" I sputter.

Mr. Grump shrugs. "Not my problem. Insurance will cover hotels."

As he walks off, I stand there, dripping and shell-shocked. A small canal willed with slippers rolls by and lands at my feet.

That does it. I start laughing. And once I start, I can't stop.

"Skye?" Mrs. Johnson looks concerned. "Are you okay, dear?"

I wipe my eyes, not sure if it's water or tears. "Oh, I'm great. Just great. My truck's dented, the town is under threat, and now my house is the new SeaWorld. I'm living the dream, folks!"

I flop down on my front steps, not caring that I'm sitting in two inches of water. What else can go wrong today?

Since my house is at the lowest point of the street, I guess I was the unluckiest one – “Ding, ding, ding… and guess who the winner is today, folks!”

As if on cue, my phone buzzes. A text from Zoey: How'd the thinking go? Come up with a plan to save the town?

I look at my flooded house, then back at the phone. "Oh, Zo," I mutter, "you have no idea."

I start typing: Hey, bestie. Got room for a very wet, unhinged roommate? Long story. Very long story.

As I hit send, I can't help but laugh again. Because seriously, what else can you do when your life turns into a sitcom?