The shop is also super popular with locals, so it’s always busy, especially now, when everyone’s scrambling to buy up what remains. Once they sell out, it’s gone. They don’t keep making them all day like a chain. Hopefully I’m not too late. I head around a wooden clapboard sign painted with cartoon Revolutionary War figures fighting a battle with doughnuts instead of guns and cannons, and step inside.

I inhale the intoxicating scents of yeasty dough and sweet lemon zest as I queue up in a long line that snakes around the tiny shop. Quite a few folks stand ahead of me, so I scroll through articles about photography gear on my phone, and as I shuffle along, a girl in sandals and white shorts backs into me.

“Oops, sorry,” she says, turning around while flipping dark hair over a shoulder.

Holy crap. I know her—or who she is, anyway. Bunny Perera. The Golden Academy girl that Lucky is rumored to have knocked up a few months ago. If she ever was pregnant, she’s not anymore. The sliver of brown skin that peeks beneath her summery shirt is far flatter and fitter than mine.

I smile, a little nervous. Bunny’s not just the Girl Who Got Pregnant. Her father is ambassador to Sri Lanka, and her mother’s family owns a chain of hotels in South Asia. They helped finance a big renovation of the Beauty Yacht Club last year.

“Um, hi … Bunny?” I say.

“Evie’s cousin, right?” she says, cradling her phone.

I nod, unsure of what to say. “Josie. Saint-Martin. My mom is, uh, managing Siren’s Book Nook while my grandma’s in Nepal with, uh, Evie’s mom.” Ugh. So awkward.

“Yeah, I heard about that. And about your trip to the police station with Lucky after Adrian’s party,” she says, gold bracelets clinking as she languidly swipes on her phone, watching the screen between glances at me. “Definitely started the summer off with a bang.”

I manage a weak smile. “Uh, yeah. You could say that.”

“Hey, I’ve been where you are right now,” she says, smiling back sympathetically.

“Umm … ?”

“The town gossiping about you.”

“Oh,” I say. “It’s fine. I think Lucky got the brunt of it.”

“He’s got a habit of doing that. Sometimes I think he’s got a savior complex or something. By the way, I hope it works out between you two. He deserves some happiness.”

Wait, what? I glance around, shuffling forward when the line moves, and say in a low voice, “Um, think you have the wrong idea. Lucky and I aren’t a thing. In case you still had, uh, feelings or an attachment, or, I mean, I don’t know what your situation is.…”