His lips lift ever so slightly, and he slides his backpack over his shoulder. “I’m Micah. Maybe I’ll see you around the point.”

“The point?”

“This”—he gestures to the rocks—“is called the point.”

“Ah. That’s…” Obvious. “I’m Meg.”

“It’s been interesting to meet you, Meg. Good luck with”—he waves his hand, gesturing at me—“all that.”

My face heats, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to defend myself, but I’m a mess, and anyway, he’s not wrong.

Besides, what do I care? I’ve never cared what a guy thought of me, and I’m not about to start now with judgy Mr. Grumpy Pants. I want to shout something after him, like, “You should see me in my fairy wings!” but 1) I left them downstate, and 2) he’s halfway down the wall, back toward solid ground.

Instead, I carefully pick my way over the boulders to the last one not submerged in the clear, probably frigid water and sit down. The rocks are gray and warm to the touch. My muscles instantly relax as I pull my knees to my chest and shut my eyes, turning my face to the sky and letting the rays soothe my nerves.

I don’t know what I’m doing here, but I do know with bone-deep, 100 percent certainty this is where I’m meant to be. Right here. Not on some dude ranch in California, and definitely not at home. And I have to believe that, while every single thing that’s happened over the last forty-eight hours has come as a complete shock to me, it hasn’t been a surprise to God.

Which, whatever.

I don’t waste any time contacting my great-grandmother. My grandparents are gone, but Elizabeth, or Betty, and my biological dad’s younger brother are alive and well in Marquette. I decide to start with Betty. I love older people, and they usually love me, so hopefully this was a good idea.

In a very small way, maybe it’s better Andrew is gone. There’s none of that tense “Guess what? You’re a father!” drama. But there’s plenty of opportunity for rejection all the same. Which means I’m practically puking in my mouth when the door to apartment 305 at the senior center opens, and a vision in beaded scarves, bangle bracelets, and a cloud of violently purple hair smiles at me.

Like, not soft lavender fields. We’re talking electric fuchsia.

And that’s all it takes for me to love her.

“Meg?” she asks, and I nod, probably too enthusiastically. “Well, come on in! I love your stripes!”