“Well, you left town before the Quarterdeck opened, so I should’ve warned you that the only thing good here is the cold brew. Because I’ll take coffee in a bookstore over coffee in a tourist ship any day of the week,” he says, peeling off the top of his plastic cup to drink without a straw, like he can’t even be bothered. He downs half of it in three swallows. “What’s that?” he says, nodding toward my portfolio. “Is this the big idea you wanted to talk about?”

“This is nothing.” I cover it up.

“Weird, because it looks like a portfolio. And you look dressed up.”

“So?”

“Come on, Saint-Martin,” he says, stretching out long legs under the table. “Thought we already agreed you’re still a terrible liar.”

“Don’t think we agreed.”

“You said you were going to try to weasel your way into a magazine internship.” His eyes crinkle at the corners; he’s teasing me and clearly enjoying himself.

“Hustle my way in. Not weasel.”

“Because when people tell you no, you can’t have something, that’s when Josie Saint-Martin digs in her heels and tries harder. You haven’t changed one bit.”

“I resent that. But okay, yes …” I glance around to make sure no one is listening to us and briefly explain what happened at Coast Life. “… and that’s when I saw you.”

“Now that, I believe.”

“It’s the truth.”

“You never used to lie to me, you know.”

I nod, a little heat creeping up my chest, both embarrassed and pleased. “I remember.”

“I like it when you are teeth-gratingly honest. That’s part of your charm. When you’re honest, then I can be honest, and it feels like … I don’t know. It feels like there’s this invisible wall that comes down between us? The wall is kind of electric, or lasers, or something—”

“An electric, invisible wall.”

“And you’re the only one with the key to switch it off. When you’re honest, whoosh! It comes down, and we both can cross over freely and talk.” He squints, smiling with his eyes. “Does that make any sense?”

I’m not sure how to respond to this divulgement. It feels like tasting a wedge of lemon on a dare: unexpectedly bracing, too much all at once. But … I quickly get accustomed to the foreignness of it and am surprised to find myself craving more.

“I think so,” I finally admit, still a little uncomfortable but fighting it. “In a weird way?”

“Just don’t hold back with me, okay? Otherwise, we’ve got this wall between us and it’s hard to communicate.” He gestures toward my photography case. “Can I?”

“My portfolio?”

“Yeah. Unless it’s private or something.”

Something inside me shrivels up, and all the good will we’ve been kindling nearly dies.

“A joke,” he amends. “I wasn’t—”