“Badass, right? So much better than a flying horse. Still a fan of the kraken, actually. But Gabe is scared of anything with tentacles.”

“I see.… Don’t remember your cousin Gabe.”

“He moved here after you left. He’s nine, but he’s got a big head for a kid—this is actually an adult helmet that I tricked out for him, so it should fit, I think? Better than my brain bucket.” He helps me slip the helmet on my head. “Yeah. See? Your dome is protected by the power of Trig-asus. Hop on, shutterbug. You’re street legal now. And you get to reintroduce yourself to my big Greek family. This is what happens when you walk into the boatyard and chat with my mother.”

“Sort of regretting that now.”

“As well you should. Too late to turn back now. May God save you.”

Following his reminders about how to ride, I straddle the Superhawk’s seat behind Lucky and put my arms around him, pretending it’s no big deal. I did it before when we went to the hospital. It’s practical, not sexy, and I should not be enjoying the smell of his leather jacket or how solid he feels under my arms.… Wait. Oh God. He can probably feel my breasts pressing against his back.

How can he not?

Oh God. I think I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.

Right. That’s it, then. Should probably just bail now. Jump off the bike and run. No one would blame me. But he’s right. It’s way too late now. With a rev of the engine, we’re pulling out of the alleyway, and me and my boobs and my anxieties will just have to cling to him and pray he doesn’t notice any of us.

The motorcycle bounces on setts and cobblestones as we turn down the boulevard and head west, away from the harbor. We pass a slew of eighteenth century houses with historic-registry signs like the one on our house, two Revolutionary War statues, and a white church with a grand steeple. And after several blocks, when the tourist traffic clears and the streets widen, I spot the familiar sign for Greektown.

No turning back.

The Karrases’ house is a pale blue Cape Cod and not unlike most of the others on the quiet, tree-lined block—simple New England homes with small, neat yards framed in white picket fences. Cars line the curb on both sides of the street, and more are driving around the block, looking for a place to park. Lucky squeezes his bike between two Nick’s Boatyard trucks in the driveway and stops in front of the detached garage that’s painted the same pale blue as their house.

I’ve been here a hundred times before. Hundreds. Literally.

It feels like the first.