“You’re leaving town?” he shouts into the car, slamming both hands on the window before I can get it down all the way. His eyes jump around the faces in the car, and I know it doesn’t escape him that Evie’s mother is sitting behind me—maybe he’s even watched what’s been happening from across the street.

“My grandmother came back—” I try to explain.

“No!” he shouts. “You promised, Josie. You can’t leave.”

“Hey, Lucky?” Mom lowers her head to peer across me while she speaks to him. “I appreciate that you were trying to help, but we’re going to have sort out this window thing with your parents. Josie’s told me the truth about what happened the night of the party.”

He looks astonished. All the color drains from his face. “Please don’t make her leave.”

“Whoa, Lucky—” she starts.

And then in the distance, his mom calls out to him, leaning from the boatyard office doorway. “Lucky! Get inside. Let them be.”

A car behind us beeps their horn and swerves around us.

“We need to go,” Mom says.

“Hey,” I tell him quickly, covering his fingers with mine. “Look at me. We don’t know what’s going to happen, but we’re not leaving town tonight. You have to trust me. Please, Lucky. Trust me.”

He stares at me intently, face lined with worry and dark shadows.

Then he sticks his head through the window and kisses me. Firmly. In front of both my mom and his … our relationship now boldly out in the open. He kisses me like it might be the last time. Like he wants to trust me, but he’s filled with doubt, because how do you do that when you’ve got scars and a history of being left behind?

And the worst thing is, I’m not sure I blame him for worrying.

Chapter 22

MARBLECLIFF RESORT: Snootiest and oldest resort in Beauty. Rude people at desk. Walls paper-thin. Best breakfast in town, though, I’ll give them that. (Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)

Chapter 22

I didn’t think I’d sleep that night. Not with the gilded antique furniture, mounted butterfly collection, a nineteenth century portrait with eyes that seemed to watch me in the darkness, and a fireplace big enough to burn all four of us at once.

But just add that to the ever-growing list of Josie Was Wrong about These Things.

Take, for instance, time bombs. I was so certain of an explosion when Grandma Diedre entered town, but I was wrong. Granted, something crouches in the back of my head, still waiting for my grandmother’s presence to blow my life to smithereens; maybe she’s one of those buried bombs from WWII that you suddenly walk across in a field and it detonates after years of being lost. Or your ship runs into one at sea, and kablam! The worst of the bombs.