My hand itches with a desire to run my fingers through his hair, to remember what he felt like under my palms, and I want to write it all down, don’t want a second to slip past me, but shame needles into my skin. I don’t want him to know how much I can’t do, how changed I am from the girl he knew.

“G . . . g-o ahead,” he says.

“What?”

“Write it down.” His eyes are soft and kind and something else. “I’d like for you to remember. Besides”—his smile is mischievous—“for years, you’d w . . . w-ait until I could form a single word. You . . . never made me feel embarrassed or stupid. You made me feel n . . . n-ormal and I haven’t forgotten it.” He points to my notebook. “Now I g . . . g-et to return the favor.”

A burning sensation sweeps across my cheeks, and I dip my head and write, adding more asterisks than I need to indicate that this part of my day is important. I feel a wrinkle form between my eyes. “Why did you move back to Whittier?”

Tate holds my gaze, and for a minute I don’t think he’s going to answer me, and when he does, it’s a machine-gun patter of “V . . . V . . . V . . . V . . .” until a gate opens and the words he wants are released: “I’m the new harbormaster.”

A smile stretches across my face. “That’s a big deal. Congratulations, Tate.” It’s also the kind of job that keeps someone in Whittier, at least until they tire of the ever-present wind and heavy clouds that cling nearly year-round to our town.

But what do I think could happen between us? I know the truth. Nothing can happen anymore, not with me as I am. I turn inward, as though to protect myself because the idea has teeth that bite. “But why here?”

“Well, first because there are some exciting p . . . p-lans for the city, like updating the boat ramps and there’s this whole new concept for the waterfront. It’s exciting to be a part of the g . . . g-rowth around here.”

There’s a spark in his eyes when he speaks and an excited lilt to his voice that diminishes the verbal pauses, smooths his words. This is Tate when he’s confident and in control. This is the boy I remember. But I find myself lost in the cadence of his words, missing the meaning, and when I try to write down what he’s said, my pen doesn’t move. “Oh . . .” My face is hot and I can’t bring myself to lift my eyes to meet his, don’t want to acknowledge the emptiness of my thoughts. I decide to take a stab. “So, um, are you visiting or here to stay?”