Cover

ALSO BY GINNY MYERS SAIN

Dark and Shallow Lies

Dedication

To my twin flame, Wes . . . the one I will always find my way back to. Keep pushing me to sing louder, love braver, and live more honestly. This is for all the times we crossed the world while it was asleep.

Epigraph

Lord, we know what we are, but not what we may be.

—Ophelia
hamlet by william shakespeare

ACT I: SCENE 1

I was five years old the night stars fell from the sky. They tore loose somehow and came down like rain. I remember the heavy, dull sound of them hitting the water.

Plop.

Plop. Plop.

Plop.

I’m watching—waiting for them to do that act again—but tonight they stay pinned to the vast blackness above us. Where they’re supposed to be. Which is more than I can say for us, because we’re supposed to be in our cabins. Curfew was like an hour ago.

But here we are on the beach.

The salt hangs heavy in the air. It prickles my skin.

Burns my lips.

Tickles my memory.

I think the girl’s name is Viv. The one with her arm around me. We’re cabinmates. She has the bunk across from mine, and we are perfect opposites. My hair is the color of ice. More white than blonde. It falls just below my shoulders, hanging straight and limp in the dampness, but Viv’s inky curls tumble all the way down her back. Like laughter. Our eyes are almost the same shade of green, but hers are lined in that sexy cat-eye style I can never seem to master. She’s swaying back and forth, and she pauses to whisper in my ear. Then she laughs, throaty and low. And I laugh, too. Because Viv is the kind of girl you want to laugh with. The truth is, I didn’t catch what she said. Her words were lost to the crash of the waves. The cresting swell of voices all around us.

“Avril!” she shouts. “I’ll be right back! I gotta pee!” And that I hear, so I nod and take a deep breath. I’m grateful for a few seconds alone in the crowd. A little time to just stand here and take it all in. This is why I came down to the beach tonight. I thought about skipping the party, but I had to be here. In this place. Something inside me wouldn’t wait—couldn’t wait—for morning.

I’ve always been drawn to the water. Even from landlocked North Texas, I’ve felt the pull of the tides. Craved the brokenness of the coastline. And now, finally, here I am.

Again.

Here I am again.

There are so many people, though. And I’m not really great with big groups.

Or small groups.

Or people in general.