I know what he means. Because I felt it, too. With him. That instant shock of recognition. Some kind of deep pull that threw me off-balance. Powerful enough to scare me, right from the beginning.

Cole looks at me for a few seconds, like he expects me to get it. But I don’t. Nothing makes sense tonight. It’s like the fog has found a way inside my brain. So he spells it out. “I hear that whispering, Avril. Same as you. I’ve heard it my whole life.”

The stage is spinning. “I feel sick,” I manage to say. I can’t talk about this. Not now. Not with him. Not with my clothes still damp from the waves. I’m not ready. And I don’t even know if I believe any of it. “I need to go to bed.” Cole nods.

“Yeah. Of course.” He stands up and leads me back into the night. Across the gravel and over the grass. Right to the porch of my cabin. It isn’t until we stop on the front steps that I notice my hand in his. His grip is strong. Sure. There’s heat in it. And my whole body goes warm when I remember that fire we lit in the amphitheater.

When he lets go, I miss his touch immediately. I hand him back his jacket, and I feel his eyes on me as I lean down to brush the last of the dried sand from my legs.

When I stand back up, he’s holding out his hand. Two more little chunks of sea glass rest in his palm. A pretty red one and a pale yellow one. “Take them,” he says. But I don’t reach for his sailor’s charms. “Red and yellow are the rarest colors.”

“Are they really good luck?” I ask, and as tired as I am, I can hear the skepticism in my voice.

Cole holds up the bits of polished glass so they catch the porch light. And I like the way they shine. The soft glow of them. He gives me a little smile. “I found you, didn’t I?”

“Yeah.” I breathe my answer into the night. Because he did. And so I let him press the smooth pieces into my curled fingers.

There’s a moment when either one of us could pull away.

But neither of us does.

“It’s almost five o’clock,” he says. “Sun will be coming up. The fog should be lifting soon.” I’m so confused. None of this makes sense. “Try to get some sleep. While you can.”

“You, too,” I say. And he laughs under his breath.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

And then he’s gone. I’m alone in the fog again.

I search the field between the farmhouse and the cabin. I’m looking for my ice-blonde hair. Gold-flecked eyes. The figure of a woman.

I’m looking for my mother.

Like always.