There’s nothing between us. No texts. No coffee on the Quarterdeck. No visits to the Nook or getting handsy in my darkroom. No bad pizza or swimming lessons or Sunday dinners.

He’s back to being the outsider. All the beautiful closeness we shared has dried in the August heat. And I miss him. The old Lucky and Lucky 2.0 and all the Luckys I’ve known.

I wish they were here right now.

Wish I hadn’t ruined everything.

“Maybe you should try to talk to him,” Mom says when we’re coming out of the stockroom after totaling the cash, closing up the Nook later that week. It’s Victory Day, and as the shadows lengthen down the street and twilight approaches, everyone’s migrating toward the historic district. “I hate seeing you unhappy. There’s a lot going on right now, and you’ve been friends for so long, shutterbug. Maybe if you just started the conversation?”

I shake my head, but I can’t explain to her why that’s not possible. I haven’t even told her fully why Lucky and I aren’t a thing anymore, because that would involve more talk about that stupid photo. And Adrian. And maybe we’ve all had enough of this summer.

Maybe it’s best I just let it go and move on.

The funny thing is that I think I could tell her. As far as invisible walls go, things are better between me and Mom since that night after the island when everything came out about my father. Knowing that we’re staying here for now helps. Mom and Grandma have been talking about ways to make things work for all of us. There have been a few tense moments, but Rome wasn’t built in a day.

It’s a process.

“Our breakup was mutual,” I say, and it’s not precisely a lie. I was an absolute dramatic dumbass to Lucky and he shut me out: mutual. So now I’m back to my original No-Romance stance that I took when we first arrived in Beauty. Straying from that policy was my mistake, but it’s not too late to correct it. Probably …

“I don’t like Mopey Josie,” Mom says. “She’s the worst of Snow White’s dwarves.”

“I’m not trying to bring down the flotilla,” I tell her, grabbing the trash bag out of the waste can behind the register.

She rolls her eyes. “I couldn’t care less about the stupid flotilla.”

“Oh, please. You love the flotilla.”

“I love you being happy more.”

“I’m fine,” I tell her. Then I think of Lucky telling me to be honest. “Okay, I’m not fine yet, exactly, but I’ll be fine eventually. It’s getting a little better … sort of. I miss him. But I’m trying?”

“I still don’t understand … who broke up with whom?”

“Mom,” I plead.