“Well,” she says, diplomatically, “most things that get screwed up can be fixed.”

“But this isn’t a thing. It’s a person,” I say in a panic.

Oblivious, Mom saunters back to us with a huge grin on her face and a red-and-white checked paper tray filled with hot food. “Ladies, welcome to the taste of summer. Chocolate chip cookie dough rolled up inside an egg roll skin, deep fried, swirled in icing. And it’s on a stick—” Her smile fades. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” I tell her and Evie, “but I can’t wait for Grandma and Aunt Franny. I need to talk to Lucky right now. I need to get back to the boatyard.”

“He’s probably here, baby,” Mom says. “They have a boat in the flotilla.”

Oh God. Of course! “I’ve gotta go.”

“But—”

“I love you, but I’ll find you later, okay?”

Wide-eyed and confused, Mom stares at me, holding her chocolate-chip-cookie egg roll creation, as I swivel away and get my bearings. If the Karrases are in the flotilla, they’d be at the end of the line, not with the fancy boats. That means all the way around the Harborwalk, past Goodly Pier, the beach, and the Yacht Club.

I’ll never make it before the flotilla starts.

But I have to try.

I focus on snaking through the Victory Day crowds. Got to get to Lucky. I can do this. I can make it. I have to. Because I was a complete moron, and I need to tell him before my chest explodes. Tonight. NOW.

It’s getting darker outside as I jog through the boardwalk on the edge of Redemption Beach, heading around a clam shack, then a carousel, then a second clam shack. Head back up to the Harborwalk. Keep going.

Past a row of shops, the concrete dips down toward the water and intersects with a dock in front of the Beauty Yacht Club. Fewer tourists here, more locals. Lots of Goldens … a couple I recognize from the party that first night of summer. Maybe some of them saw the nude photo. I don’t even care anymore. Like Lucky’s dad says, it’s only a body, and we all have them.

I just keep going.

My legs hurt. People stare at me, wondering why I’m running. Don’t care. I take a shortcut through a grassy area of the yacht club—technically private grounds, but no one’s paying attention—and as the sun falls behind the purpled horizon, an announcement blasts over the club’s loudspeaker: “Everyone aboard!”

The flotilla is about to launch.

Crap!

I dart back onto the Harborwalk and jog faster, the soles of my sneakers smacking against the ridged concrete. It’s easier to run now. The crowds thin to nothing, only the boaters and a few stray celebrants hurrying to catch a last-minute spot at the edge of the beach.