My mind swam between visions of Nora and her sister debating my usefulness and Dad’s face, closing off, when Oscar asked for his blessing. The way he’d been avoiding looking at me all summer.

Dad raised a hand. “Maybe in another life, another time, the two of you would make sense, but this is—”

“Another time? This is the twenty-first century, Dad. And we’re us! Progressives, smart.” I stood from the bed, pressing the glass of the window. “I cannot believe you’re saying this!”

“You’re not listening, Ruby.” He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m not such a wordsmith, as you know, so I’m going to be a blunt instrument here. I don’t think you’re what he needs right now.”

“What he needs.” I could only dully repeat his words as they fluttered around in my head. Oh.

Oh.

“This is his shot, Ruby. This summer, this school—everything is conspiring to give him a launch pad into an incredible career. I believe in Oscar like I’ve never believed in a student before. He’s the real deal, but this”—Dad motioned to me with both hands, sketching the general shape of a girl—“isn’t helping.”

“I’m not distracting him,” I croaked.

“You say that.”

“I’m not. I’m not pulling focus, I’m not doing anything but supporting him.”

A chill shot through me, like I’d confessed something deeply incriminating.

Dad gestured to my face. “And look how happy you are about it.”

Another goddamned tear slipped out.

Dad scooted over to wipe it off, but I flinched. Undeterred, he leaned forward and wrapped me in a hug. I was angry, I wanted to wiggle loose, but it had been so long since he’d held me like this, a real squeeze. I’d missed it—his scratchy beard, his musty vest, the way the world seemed like a diorama that just belonged to the both of us: Marty Chertok and Daughter at Home.

“Listen, I’m not asking you to make a hard-and-fast decision,” he murmured, patting my hair smooth. “But I have a suggestion.”

I leaned away to look at him.

He smiled, eyes sad, then pointed to my digital picture frame. “Why don’t you head down and spend some time with your grandparents? Couple of weeks, fish off the dock, clear your head.”

“I never fish off that dock.”

“Dangle your feet.” Dad nudged my shoulder.

I was thinking about it. The coastal island where they lived. Grandma Jean’s cooking. Gramps’s jokes. Their vegetable garden. The endless dock where seabirds landed. Cicadas and crickets and marsh frogs. At night, fireflies came out, flashing and swirling. They had a porch swing where I used to watch the stars, feeling like I was on another planet entirely. A world of my own. An anchorite.