I slip back inside the apartment and have no problem avoiding Mom, who is buried deep in her phone, a TV commercial on in the background, and I head straight for Evie’s room. But when I rap on her door with my knuckles, she doesn’t answer. Not verbally. She just sends me a text.

Evie: Tired. Don’t want to talk. Please leave me alone.

Well. Classic Saint-Martin move. Communication severed. Can’t help people who won’t listen. Can’t talk to people who isolate themselves.

But who’s responsible for getting things back online, me or her?

Lucky stands on the dock behind the deserted boatyard in shorts and a lightweight navy hoodie, a cooler sitting at his feet.

“Ready to set sail for the high seas?” he asks, smiling at me.

“Took my antihistamine pill half an hour ago,” I say, and then flash him my wristbands. “Got these babies on and a pocket full of ginger. Ready as I’ll ever be. I come seekin’ adventure and salty old pirates.”

He shakes his head. “Nope. You’re not doing a Disney pirate voice the entire trip.”

“Can I at least shout ‘anchors away’ when we set sail?”

“It’s actually ‘anchor is aweigh,’ as in, off the sea floor. Never mind. You can shout whatever you’d like once we’re out on the water as long as you’re not vomiting.”

Adrenaline zips through me. I’ve got my bathing suit on beneath my clothes, which is exactly the same as a bra and panties, but somehow it always feels a little naughty. Like why is one kind of fabric only for underneath clothes, but another kind of fabric totally okay for flashing around in public? One of the mysteries of life.

“What did you tell Winona?”

“That we’re taking the boat out to the same spot we always do.”

“Good,” he says. “I told my mom the same. Said we may be late for Sunday dinner, so not to wait for us.”

“Ugh. Now she’s going to text you, asking where we are.”

“Who cares? I’ll tell her we lost track of time. It’s fine.”

I groan. “Definitely don’t like lying to Kat Karras.”

“You lie to your mom on the regular,” he points out. “It’s the same.”

“But it feels wrong.” He has the traditional family with the big backyard. That makes it worse somehow. I just have Winona, who doesn’t keep track of where I am half the time.

He squints at me. “Got a feeling there’s something else that’s bugging you. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want anything to spoil our perfect getaway.”

“If there’s another broken window, I swear—”

“Stop.”

“Come on, shutterbug,” he teases. “Talk to me.”