“Ah, well. I didn’t want to stalk you around the department store or creep around the boatyard, and I didn’t have your phone number.”

“Tell me yours.”

“What?”

He lifts his chin, encouraging. “Go on. Tell me yours.”

“Now?”

“Right now.”

I recite my number. “You’ll remember that without writing it down?”

“Yep. Mind like a steel trap. Remember? I used to help you cheat on math tests.”

God. He totally did. “Is that because you’ve turned into a genius?”

He groans.

“Evie said you got a perfect score on the SAT,” I say.

“Gossip,” he says, dismissive.

“Really?”

“Near perfect.”

“Shut up! Then it’s true?”

“Who cares?” he says, shrugging. “Test scores don’t measure intellect. They just prove you’re good at taking tests. And who cares if you can get into an Ivy League school if you can’t afford it? None of them offer scholarships. You still have to pay. All the rest of the colleges offering full rides want extracurriculars and students ‘of character.’ I think we can all agree that’s not me.”

“But—”

“It’s not even what I want to do. No one stops to ask me that. My mom wants me in college. My dad wants me to take over the boatyard.…”

“What do you want?”

He hesitates. “Maybe I’ll show you sometime. If you’re interested …”

“I’m interested.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey,” he says. “Did you ever call the woman at the magazine?”

“Oh, her. Uh, she hasn’t gotten back to me,” I lie.

He squints at me, and I remember his talk about the invisible wall and honesty.

“Okay, fine. I haven’t emailed her yet. What if she’s heard about the police station? Or …”

“I’m sure she hasn’t seen your mom’s nude photo,” he says after a moment.

“Now I’ve got seasickness to add to the mix. Regatta Week … ugh.”

“You can beat that with practice. Email her,” he insists, “if that’s what you want to do. I wish you wouldn’t, because I personally don’t think you should go to Malibu, but that’s just my stubborn and ill-informed opinion.”

“Did I tell you about the ticking time bomb that is my grandmother returning from Nepal next year? I can’t stay in Beauty forever, even if I wanted to. You want me to be teeth-gratingly honest? Well … there you go.”

He looks hurt for a moment but sighs deeply. “I get it, okay? You should do what you want, and that’s the important thing. Email the magazine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Do it. Weasel your way in there, Saint-Martin.”

“Hustle.”

He smiles. “Hustle.”

We blink at each other, and … there it is again. A little thrill that wasn’t there before. Nothing that I can point to definitively, but it makes every tiny hair on my body flutter as if an unseen breeze has gusted inside my clothes.