He didn’t come home all day. In the evening I walked to the old lighthouse and looked up, imagining what it was like on the top. Nothing stirred at the lighthouse, but still I waited below for a long time. I sat on the nearby rocks watching for its light to strobe on the water, a dull, lonely light that I couldn’t imagine did much good in warning boats or attracting ghosts.

I was lonelier than I’d ever been.

I thought about going home, turning off all the lights, leading Cole to my bedroom, my narrow bed. I imagined the heat of his body, his beautiful ribs. I imagined how every thought and feeling would fade to nothing, leaving behind only that dense, bright, black hole into which all other feelings disappear—desire.

Instead I went to Jack’s and sat at the bar with Gordon and Sebastian and all the old fishermen. I was as lonely as they were. I found myself telling them about Baby B, about Cole showing up and claiming to be my brother. I told them Cole wasn’t his real name. I told them that he wouldn’t tell us where he came from or what he left behind. I couldn’t stop talking. I didn’t mention his skin or the feeling of his feverish hands on my waist, although I thought about it the whole time. I didn’t tell them how I felt caught in a fierce current, my head barely above the surface, being swept farther and farther away from the things I loved. I didn’t tell them that every time I was near him I felt myself traveling miles away from any familiar shore. They listened attentively, nodding. Sebastian kept his eyes closed. When I was done with the story, he opened his eyes and whistled.

“Yes, indeed,” he said.

“Sometimes I feel like nothing’s mine anymore,” I said. “He’s taking everything. Lucas is my brother.”

“Sure,” Sebastian said.

“And it’s my island.”

“Wait a minute, now,” Sebastian said, looking surprised. “This isn’t your island.”

“I was born here,” I said.

“That don’t make it yours,” he said. “My granddaddy lived on this island. He came over from the Azores, little girl. You just showed up yesterday.”

The fishermen looked at me with sympathy. My eyes welled up, and I felt embarrassed. They were right of course. People had lived here longer than I had. Families had passed down land over generations. Yet I felt deeply that it was mine, that I had some special ownership of the island because I loved it so much. Or because it was all I had.

Grow up, I told myself. Stop agonizing over everything. So you made a mistake, miscalculated. You can fix this.