He says it offhandedly, a slip of the tongue, but I recognize it for what it is. He does remember talking to Jenna, and what’s more, they talked about me.

A thrill goes through me, that they spoke long enough for her to tell him I’m stubborn. I feel buoyed, like Jenna is reaching forward from the past to hold my arm in the crook of Nolan’s elbow, insisting I stay by his side long enough to find out what was said, to figure out how she sent the book to me undetected. The whales in the lake sing their songs as they joyfully breach.

“I am,” I finally say. “Persistent, I mean.”

Nolan Endsley nods like he believes me, or maybe like he’s made a decision. I hope the decision is to not hate me.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay,” I say.

I don’t even mind that there are pebbles in my shoes as we begin to walk.

chapter nine

The “fort” ends up being a renovated boathouse that sits downhill from a rather large blue-brick house toward which Nolan nods. “Home sweet home.”

“That is your house?”

He drops my arm, like my wonder has offended him somehow, and sighs. He sighs a lot.

“It’s my family’s house.”

“But you live here?”

“Yes.”

“With Alex?”

“Yes.”

“Does your family live here, too?”

“No,” he says. It’s a hard, sharp word that fills me to the brim with curiosity and chagrin, but I have no time to question him because Wally is barking and running between us and the boathouse like it’s Christmas morning and he’s waiting to open gifts of squeaker toys and rawhides.

We work our way up the stairs from the pebbles and sand to the fort, which is about the size of my living room. I worry it’s going to smell grimy and damp, like old seawater—Not the sea; not the sea, I remind myself—but when Nolan unlocks the door, it creaks open to reveal a cozy room humming with the modern luxuries of electricity and central air.

Despite the bland exterior, the inside of the fort looks like it belongs in one of those high-end children’s room decor magazines. A children’s tent sits in the far corner with folds of blankets and throw pillows spilling through the opening, an oversize stuffed bear guarding the entrance with a dopey smile. One of his ears looks damp and matted and I suspect Wally is to blame. The other corner is stacked high with beanbag chairs, the large kind that you can buy at shopping malls for the price of actual furniture. I used to lust after them. I even tried to convince Jenna to buy one for our dorm room, but she said they were “unsanitary and ridiculous.” She did, however, buy me a much smaller, less expensive version from Target not two hours later.