“I can be there in fifteen minutes,” she said.

Phone calls from Julie’s school didn’t use to cause concern. They would be happy messages from a teacher or coach, letting Camille know that Julie had earned honors student status, or had won a blue ribbon in a race, or was getting a good-helper award.

Lately, she’d been getting “What’s going on with Julie?” calls. Julie was in trouble again. She had skipped class. Her grades were slipping.

Adding to the discomfort of the meeting was the fact that Drake Larson was the reason she’d sworn off dating. Because even with a great guy like him, her emotions were flat. Feelings could not be plucked from thin air or manufactured out of whole cloth. If they didn’t develop from a slow burn, like a photo print in a chemical bath, or if they didn’t strike her with the force of a tsunami, they simply weren’t meant to be, and she couldn’t force them.

Could be that was the reason she kept thinking about Finn. He was a tsunami, for sure. What she needed to remember was what remained after the tidal wave passed—wreckage and destruction, and irretrievable loss.

The school secretary ushered her into Drake’s office. The space was as neat and organized as Drake himself. He was the opposite of a tsunami. His desk was a flawless landscape of order; there wasn’t even a power cord to mar the scene. On the wall behind him were his diplomas as well as a trio of iconic scenes from high school life—a varsity letter jacket hanging in a locker, the vintage bell that still summoned kids to school every day, and the surf rescue team in action.

Standing behind the desk was Drake himself—clean-cut, his pants and shirt pressed, his expression somberly professional. “Thanks for coming on such short notice,” he said.

“Of course. I’m glad you called. I’ve been so worried about Julie lately.”

He gestured to a chair in front of his desk. After the very difficult breakup conversation, he had promised her no hard feelings, but she knew she had hurt him, and she felt awful about it. The little wounds we inflict on each other, even inadvertently, cannot be ignored, thought Camille.

“Julie and Mrs. Marshall will be in shortly.”

Mrs. Marshall—the school counselor. “After that day in the ER, I thought you were done scaring me,” she said. “What’s going on?”

“Ah, here they are,” Drake said, aiming a look over her shoulder. “We need to have a conversation. And then all of us need to work together on a solution.”

Camille stood up and moved aside as Mrs. Marshall came into the office with Julie in tow. Camille’s daughter wore her usual “uniform” of baggy jeans and T-shirt, old sneakers, hair in a messy bun. Julie used to love putting together cute outfits and fixing herself up. “It’s because I’m one-quarter French,” she used to say, speaking nearly perfect French. “I am so dans le vent.”