“So you like the scary stuff?” he asked. “Like Stephen Graham Jones, Riley Sager and Simone St. James?”

The heat of the sun beat down on my head. Why was it suddenly so hot out here? Who was I kidding? This guy was book smart and I was a book moron. Why was I even trying to converse with him?

“Yup, all those guys. Horror’s my jam,” I agreed. Before he could ask me any more questions, I spun it around. “How about you? Who are your go-to authors?”

He looked thoughtful and said, “Oh, you know, Kafka, Joyce, Proust . . .”

Even I, the nonreader, knew those were literary heavy hitters. My voice came out a little higher than normal when I asked, “For fun?”

His blue-gray eyes met mine, and I saw a spark of mischief in them. Relieved, I burst out laughing and swatted his forearm. “Funny, really funny.”

His return grin was like getting hit by a blast of sunshine at the end of a long winter. “What gave it away?”

“Joyce is not really known for his cliffhangers,” I said. I hadn’t read any of that stuff since my D-minus attempt at Eng 101, but I still remembered there were no creepy cornfields to be found in James Joyce. Pity.

He snapped his fingers. “Should have gone with Shakespeare.”

A gentle bump indicated that we’d landed, and as the boat rocked beneath our feet, he reached out a hand to steady me. A current of awareness rippled through me and I was about to ask his name when a shout brought my attention back in the direction of the puker.

“Hey, miss!” I turned and saw one of the frat bros had my duffel bag by the handle. “Is this yours?”

It was! I had completely forgotten it. I took a few steps toward the guy when I remembered my new friend. I turned back but the crowd was already filling the space between us.

I called out to Reader Guy, “Sorry, I have to—”

A large family shuffled into the gap, cutting off my words as everyone scrambled for the exit while avoiding the vomit-contaminated area. I was jostled right into the young man with my bag, and when I glanced back, all I could see of my new friend was the top of his head. He raised his hand and waved over the crowd. I returned the gesture, feeling very unsatisfied by our parting. I hadn’t gotten his name or anything, which did not stop me from hoping I’d run into him again.

Martha’s Vineyard was less than one hundred square miles. Surely I’d see him at some point. Right?

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