I mean, I imagine they probably will eventually. Eventually.

Vivien is seventeen. Nic just turned eighteen last month. . . .

Mom and Dad were seventeen and eighteen when they got married. But look how that turned out. And that was years ago.

A whole different time. Nic and Viv . . . now?

“Not that crazy. It happens,” Pam comments quietly. I didn’t realize I’d spoken out loud. “Dom married Stace right out of SBH.”

Yeah, and Stacy took their one-year-old and moved to Flor-ida two years ago.

What about senior year? What about the Coast Guard?

Is Vivien pregnant? No, impossible, she’s on the Pill and Nic is hyper-responsible.

I lie back on the blanket, rest my arm across my eyes, listen to the general blur of conversation. It’s still warm, but the angle of the sun has that flat, end-of day slant. When I peer through the canopy of my arm, I can see that Vivien has temporarily disentangled herself and is toasting a marshmallow, carefully turning it to the perfect puff of brown on each side, just the way Nic likes it. At cookouts this summer, I know he’ll nearly burn her hot dog—Viv likes it charcoal-briquet style—and load it down with ketchup, mustard, mayo, relish. After the Fourth of July parade on Seashell, when everyone eats Hoodsie Cups, she’ll snag two but eat the chocolate half of both, swap-ping with Nic so he gets both vanillas.

Now he’s watching her lazily, sifting through the sand next to him, probably in search of another flat skipping stone.

But . . . an engagement ring?

Hooper is attempting to get Ginny Rodriguez to give him the time of day by asking her to bet on whether he can drink five beers in ten minutes without barfing.

Manny scratches the back of his neck again, red-faced and uncomfortable. The flush could be the beer, but he seems to know he put his foot in it. “Gwenners,” he starts, then looks up and jumps to his feet. “Dude. You came.”

I shield my eyes and peer over at the newcomer.

Great.

I mean come on. Three times in one day!

“Sure I did,” Cass says easily, lifting a hand to greet Pam. He gives me a quick glance, then looks down, lashes shielding his eyes. “I’m an island guy now, right?”

“You are not,” I practically growl, “an island guy.”

Manny straightens, startled. Pam’s eyebrows rise and she looks back and forth between us.

“Course he is, Gwenners. He’s working for my dad. He’s an honorary Jose, aren’t you, dude? Nab something from the cooler and take a load off. The first days are killers.”

“Ah, it’ll be okay,” Cass says, “once I figure out the whole horizontal thing.”

That’s it. I feel suddenly exhausted. Cass. Nic, Viv, engagement ring. The Robinsons. The lobsters. I clamber to my feet, feeling as though I weigh about a thousand pounds—and, let’s face it, probably looking like it in my baggy, so-attractive clothes. I walk over to Nic and Viv, nudge Nic sharply with my toe, jerk my thumb toward the pier. “Let’s head out.”

Like Pam and Manny, Nic does a quick double take at my tone, checking Vivien for translation. She glances over at Cass, wrinkles her nose, then stands up, pulling Nic with her. We walk to the edge of the pier, dangle our legs over. Well, Nic and I do. Vivien slides her legs over Nic’s, entwines her hand in his.

I open my mouth to ask, then think: If they haven’t told me, they don’t want me to know, and shut it again .

“Check that out,” Vivien says in a hushed voice, pointing out across the water. It’s low tide, shoals of rippling sand peek-ing up out of the sea-glass-green water, ancient-looking gray-brown rocks, the sun burning low and pale orange in the sky.

“This is the most beautiful place in the world, isn’t it? I never want to leave. Everything I love is right here.” She rests her head on Nic’s shoulder.

I look at our legs lined up together. Viv’s skinny and already tan, Nic’s well-muscled and sturdy, and mine, long and strong.

Nic scrounges in his pocket for the skipping stones from earlier, hands me one, nods at the ocean. I squint, slant the stone to what seems the perfect angle, fling it out. One. Two.

Three . . . sort of a sinking four. Nic edges Vivien off his lap, cocks his head to the side and throws.

Six.

“Still the champion.” He hauls Vivien to her feet, swoops her in for six kisses.

“It’s not as though Gwen is after what you are,” Vivien points out, a little breathless after kiss number four.

No, it isn’t. But . . . God, I wish, for the millionth time, that I could be like her and Nic, so sure of what they have, what they want. That I didn’t always feel jangly, restless, primed to jump off a bridge and let the current carry me away. I glance over my shoulder at the distant blond figure standing by the bonfire.

Especially tonight.

Chapter Eight

Dark’s just starting to glow into light the next morning when I bike down to the beach. I can barely make out the figure stand-ing at the end of the pier, hands on hips, surveying the water.

Only that familiar stance tells me it’s Dad. As I get closer, I see his tackle box open, a big bag of frozen squid beside him. He called last night, told me to meet him at Sandy Claw early.

I’d expected him to get on me for bailing on him at Castle’s this summer. But when I’d said on the phone “Hey Dad, I’m sorry that I—” he’d cut me off.

“You gotta do what you gotta do, Gwen. But, since you’re not gonna be around every day, I want to do this. I’ve got something for you.” Now he looks up from the hook he’s baiting as I scramble over the rocks. Noting the cooler I’m carrying, he gives me the flicker of a smile.

“What’d you bring me, Guinevere?”

He takes the loaf of zucchini bread with a grunt of satisfac-tion, motioning to me to pour coffee from the thermos. I stayed up late last night, following the directions in Vovó’s stained old copy of The Joy of Cooking, and turning that engagement ring over and over in my head. When she’s worried, Vivien gives herself pedicures and facials. Nic lifts weights. I bake. So, Vivien ends up looking more glamorous. Nic gets fitter. And I just get fat.

“Damn good thing you can cook. Not like your mom. A woman who can’t cook . . .” He trails off, clearly unable to think of a terrible enough comparison.

“Is like a fish without a bicycle.” I was on debate team last year and we used that quote from Gloria Steinem as a topic.