Page 14 of Hearts on the Line

I’m a coward. I couldn’t marry Jason, and I ran, just like I ran after that night years ago.

The storm door screeches open, and I bolt up off the couch, nearly knocking over the wineglass and empty bottle on the coffee table.

“I see you’re dealing with your feelings,” Annie nearly sings as she bounds through the door and snatches Wally’s leash. “Congratulations. That’s the first step of admitting you have a problem.”

“Only one problem?”

“We’ve all got to start somewhere.”

I rub my hands over my face, feeling more than a little sluggish. “I don’t remember you being so sarcastic.”

“I was eight when you left.” Annie laughs. “I’m happy you’re back, even if it’s just for a few days, Sloane. And I know my grumpy-ass brother won’t admit it, but he’s happy too.”

Somehow, I doubt that. I feel like he’s ready to call in the bomb squad to safely remove me from his couch. I can all but feel the way he’s tiptoeing around me, waiting for me to detonate and wreck his life.

Again.

Before I can think better of it, I jump up. “I can take Wally for a walk.”

“Are you sure?”

My heart might be broken, but not my legs. “I can walk a dog.”

“Ethan really has you sleeping on the couch?”

“Where else would I sleep?” I play it off, but I’m already planning on heading out and grabbing a hotel room until the car’s fixed. It’ll be better for me, and I don’t want to put Ethan out anymore.

She shrugs, heading for the door. “Figured he’d give up his bed for you. That’s all.”

“They say chivalry is dead.” I walk into the kitchen, this time not finding any iced coffee. A little stab of disappointment radiates in my chest. “It’s fine.”

“I’ve already sublet my place. Sorry.”

I bend down and call Wally over as the screen door closes between us. Annie adjusts her baseball cap, another ridiculous addition that’s brown corduroy with hot-pink stitching that declares “Hamburger Help Me”.

So I toss on a T-shirt to throw over my cami and boxer shorts, slip into her sandals, and grab my wallet and phone. My heart sinks at the notifications that piled up overnight. Jason made a public statement via Instagram asking for privacy during this difficult time. I scan the comments, then instantly regret it.

“I can help you again downstairs when I get back. I don’t mind.”

Annie lights up, bouncing from foot to foot in her dad sneakers like Tigger. Impressive, really. “You will?”

“Sure.”

What else am I going to do? Throw myself off the pier as chum for the great whites? I’ve watched the news. No way am I going near the water.

She winks, then gives me a small wave before she sprints away. I head out a minute later with Wally, who tries dragging me along when I stop, peering up and down the length of the main street.

This end is crowded with old buildings, several dating back to when the seaside town was founded in the early 1600s. They’ve become warped with age—some even look like they bulge from the middle, the painted clapboard struggling to hold everything together. But they all are still full of life as cute boutiques, souvenir shops, and candy stores tucked between restaurants and cafés.

It’s funny. I loved Merritt Point growing up, even if I wanted to see more of the world. It was only that I felt too big, and it felt too constricting. And I was never going to be anyone but Jimmy Arden’s daughter if I stayed. A nervous knot lodges itself in my throat.

I was positive I was going to have the best summer of my life that year. I left heartbroken but determined to finish out high school living with my mom in California instead of with my dad. It was easier to be away from the backlash. Small towns and all. I knew Ethan probably hated me, definitely still does, and I don’t think the rest of Merritt Point has forgiven me for wrecking his chances of securing that hockey scholarship.

Wally tugs me forward, excitedly wagging his tail as a mother pushes a stroller down the sidewalk, her hair pulled back in a slick ponytail, wearing pristinely white sneakers and crew socks. Tourists haven’t changed much, I guess. Merritt Point is decidedly blue-collar until summer, then old money floods back to the family properties passed down for generations on the east side of town. The one exception is the Breakaways Estate, owned by the actress Jacqueline Truesdale—or at least used to be. No one’s seen her in years.

I spot the cutest bookstore I’ve ever seen, with a bright bubblegum-pink door. Wally insists we continue on our way. I’m about to grumble when I realize the lovely pooch has quite literally dragged me to the coffee shop.

“What a good boy,” I croon, bending down to give him a quick pat. “You’re right. Coffee, first. I can sort out the rest later.”