“She seemed pretty surprised when she walked in on us earlier, and given how she’s been acting toward me all day…” He motions vaguely, clearly embarrassed.

“Oh, oh. You’re worried she was upset over catching us… together?”

He nods. I click my molars. Truth time.

“She’s fine. We talked. And actually, she doesn’t like you like that.”

He jerks his head back in surprise. “Well, good. That’s good news. But then why all the—”

“Flirting?” I say. “This is going to sound crazy, but she was trying to distract you. To help me, I guess. She figured if you were focused on her, you wouldn’t be focused on the promotion.” Twisting my hands together, I wince. “Sorry. I didn’t know that’s what she was doing.”

Graeme scrubs a hand through his hair. “Well, I was trying to make you jealous, so let’s call it even.” The corner of his lips twitches, and he begins meandering down the beach. I fall into step beside him. Low, indistinguishable chatter hums through the trees; we’re alone, but the guests aren’t far away.

“Did you bring a postcard?” I ask. Not the most riveting conversation piece, but at least it’s a safe topic.

He nods. “Who are you sending yours to?”

“Haven’t decided yet.”

“Parents?”

I chuckle. “They’d probably never get it. No one goes to Careywood, Idaho. I’m thinking Christina.”

As Gustavo explained it, the way Floreana’s post barrel works is you leave a postcard inside and future travelers serve as unofficial mailmen. They look through the cards and take any with an address close to their final destination for hand delivery—no stamp needed. It’s apparently a tradition that started with early sailors to the Galápagos.

The catch: there’s no telling when someone will come along who will be going where you want your postcard to go, so it could be weeks, months, or years before your postcard gets delivered. And bumble-bum, Idaho, is a long way from just about everywhere.

“How about you?” I ask. “Will Mom get a note from her favorite son?”

Graeme’s mouth tightens and his jaw muscles twitch. “My mom passed away a year and a half ago.” His voice is soft and matter-of-fact, but it still reverberates through the balmy air like a gong.

My stomach bottoms out and my mouth goes drier than the sand on my toes.

The pieces begin clicking into place. When I FaceTimed with him the other week, he was walking through a cemetery. Probably the cemetery where his mother is buried. His desire to move somewhere completely new and leave his old life behind suddenly makes sad, perfect sense. Even his offhand comment about not being on his A game when he first started at Seaquest was probably because he was grieving his mom.