Chapter 2
It took forever to clean up the mess. I filled three garbage bags with trash, clogged up the vacuum, and scraped dried paint off the floor. Tossed a bag of dog kibble—I’d never owned a dog in my life—and filled up the washing machine. There wasn’t anything I could do about the broken window today, so I did my best to cover it with cardboard and tape.
When I sat down on the sofa to rest, despite all my hard work, all I could see was my nana’s kind eyes staring back at me from a photo on the table, and I knew she’d be utterly upset if she walked in here and saw things in this state. What if I hadn’t come home this summer? Would this place even be standing by the end of the year? I felt violated on Nana’s behalf, but instead of indignation, I just felt empty. And sad.
Bits of memories surfaced... Nana cooking stew in the kitchen. Swaying me in the rocking chair, which was now broken. Laughing with joy when I got into Harvard. All the grief I’d been keeping in check suddenly breached my defenses, and I held my face in my hands and sobbed.
How can I be in this house without you?
I worried coming back home would be hard, but I was wholly unprepared. Because for a long time that afternoon, while I wallowed on the sofa, it felt like the past year in Cambridge had beena fantasy to distract me from my loss. My heart broke all over again.
When I finally pulled myself together, I surveyed the remaining damage in the cottage.
All of this was Seb’s fault.
I swear to God, I’m going to kill that boy.
Seb Jansen was a walking, talking tornado. An absolute disaster. At least, he used to be. I hadn’t laid eyes on him for . . . two years? Since we were seventeen—Seb’s seventeenth birthday, in fact. He got sent off to a military boot camp for troubled teens that day, right before our senior year was about to begin, and he hadn’t been back since. Not that I’d heard, anyway.
My friendship with Seb soured long before boot camp, when he decided he’d rather spend his days stirring up trouble with the local criminal element, the Vanderburg boys, than hanging out with the Wags.
I was surprised he was in town now.
Trashing a cottage is something the old Seb might do, but notthiscottage. Not my grandma’s house. Nana loved Seb, and he loved her. He’d spent half his childhood here.
Why would he do this to me?
I dreaded confronting him, but there was no way I was letting this slide.
Other than knocking on his father’s door, I had no idea how to track him down. Wiping the remaining tears from my cheeks, I lost my mind and left a voicemail for Jazmine that I instantly knew I should’ve deleted, angrily asking if she knew about the state of the cottage. Then I left another one, apologizing for the first. And when the sun began setting, I realized that I hadn’t had anything to eat all day except dry airplane cookies and a Coke.So I gave up on cleaning, slipped on my favorite old pair of cutoff jeans, and headed out the back door.
Everything looked okay outside, thankfully. A wide porch was attached to the back of the house, with steps leading down to the beach, and at the bottom of them, the trunk of a long-dead tree that had been carved into a great blue heron. When I was a kid, all my friends called it “Mr. Legs” because they seemed to go on forever. Mr. Legs stood as sentry to the porch, and sometimes people walking down the beach would stop and take photos of him.
Heron Cottage is about a quarter mile from civilization in either direction down the beach. To the south were a couple other cottages that I could see from my narrow back porch, if I peeked around Nana’s giant porch swing. But when I hiked down the steps onto sand, and walked in the opposite direction for five minutes, past a hill blocking the view of the town, I ended up at Neely Marina, where all the rich folks docked their boats.
Owned by Jazmine Neely’s parents.
I’d spent more than my fair share of my childhood running the marina’s maze of docks and piers with Jazmine and the other Wags. But it wasn’t where I was headed now. Right outside the marina’s entrance was a small ring of food trucks surrounding a dozen picnic tables. A smattering of tourists and locals dined on burgers and fish tacos under strings of white lights while a jangly classic rock song played over speakers.
I followed the scent of sweet cornmeal batter toward the mustard-yellow food truck parked at the far end of the circle, Patty’s Pups. It was owned by Jazmine’s older sister, who, despite being in her late twenties, looked so much like my old friend that the sight of her made me both happy and hurt. Istillhadn’t heard back from Jazmine.
“Well, what do we have here?” Patty grinned down at me from the open window of the food truck, splotchy freckles smattering her light brown skin. A bandanna that matched the yellow of the truck was tied tight around her head, binding springy curls. “The big brain is back from Princeton, and she’s got bangs.”
“Harvard,” I corrected, smiling back at her as I fiddled with my bangs. “And I’m not sure about them yet.”
“They’re different.”
High praise—typical Patty. “Still serving up the best corn dogs in Michigan, I see. Thought I was hungry before, but now Ireallyam. Smells like home!”
Patty’s mouth lifted into a pleased smile for a moment. Then she frowned. “Nuh-uh, I keep telling you guys, this isnotyour personal kitchen. I’ll let you have three on the house this summer,” she said, holding up fingers. “After that, you’re paying—I’ve got the same deal with Jazmine. This isn’t gonna be a repeat of last summer.”
No Malone in my family tree would dare turn down free food.
“Fine. I’ll take one now, extra mustard.”
Patty nodded, and while she dunked a hot dog into cornmeal batter, I grabbed several napkins from the metal counter. “Speaking of, I’ve been trying to get in touch with Jaz all day. Is she at the marina? She was supposed to pick me up from the airport ...”
One brow shot up. “And she didn’t?”
