The summer between sophomore and junior years, I was fifteen, being on the younger side of my class, since Mom had kicked me into kindergarten when I was four. One sunny, perfect afternoon when the gulls drifted on air currents and red-winged blackbirds called to each other, I took my sketchbook down to the tidal river. The school fields were nearby, and I’d heard some sportsball type of yelling, but I was on another plane. When I was drawing or painting, I was adrift in the moment . . . It irritated my mom that she’d have to say my name over and over before I’d lift my head, but to me, it was the best, most beautiful way to be, alone in a world of my own making. I’d go for hours without eating or drinking. I could sit in the cafeteria at lunchtime and not hear a word . . . unless it was said by Noah.

This day, I was sketching with a new set of graphite pencils, a gift from my father, focused on the sway of the reeds and the curve of the piping plover’s head as it darted along the muddy edge of the river. The sun was hot on my hair, the gentle gurgle of the tidal river was music, and the quick steps of the little bird were so cunning and sweet. All of it flowed from my pencil onto the paper, and I was in a state of utter bliss.

Then a black-and-white ball bounced down the hill, and instinctively, I stopped it with my foot before it hit the river and was carried out to sea. It took me a second to put the pieces together: soccer ball. Intruder. Sports. Boys.

Noah.

He stood there, hands on his hips, his legs already a man’s legs, tan and muscled, appropriately hairy, which I suddenly found extremely attractive. Sweat dampened his T-shirt, and his cheeks were ruddy, his hair tangled and unruly and glorious.

“Hey, Sadie,” he said with a half grin, and my stomach contracted with a strong, hot squeeze.

“Hi,” I managed.

“Thanks for saving the ball.”

“Sure.”

He glanced at my sketchbook. “Wow. That’s incredible.”

The heat of pride (and lust) crept up from my chest, tickling my neck. “Thanks.”

He sat down next to me, taking the ball under his arm, the smell of his sweat and grass from the soccer field enveloping me. “You having a good summer?”

“Mm-hm.” My cheeks were hot, and I kept my eyes on the drawing to avoid melting into a puddle of lust. “Are you?”

“Sure.”

I sneaked another look at him. Long lashes on top of that wild beauty. His face had taken on more definition in the past year, and I had to swallow. I wanted to draw that face. Heathcliff. He was Heathcliff of the moors, if I ignored the Ramones T-shirt and gym shorts.

“I should get back,” he said.