He shook his head. “I left a note. Told them I needed to clear my head. If Dad looks close, maybe he’ll notice the extra pushpin where it’s not supposed to be.” There was an undercurrent of bitterness to his voice.

I didn’t know what, if anything, I should say. I lay down on the grass, hair fanning out under me. I started to let my iPhone’s most-played song list begin to play, only to frown and switch to a different song.

After I did that about three times, Levi said, “You’re one of those, aren’t you?” He turned around, the paint box in his hands. Inside were at least fifty small wells of watercolors, all of them well-used, because I could see white plastic peeping out from the nucleus of each one.

“One of who?”

“Those people who love all the songs on their iTunes until it’s on shuffle and then they can’t stand them.”

“I’m the freaking president of that club,” I replied, laughing. I turned off the music, gazing up at him. Sunlight settled in the hollow of his throat, in the curve of his ear. The cutest freckles were starting to form on his nose.

“Do I have—” Levi immediately glanced down to check his shirt for paint spatter.

“No.” My cheeks burned.

“So you were just checking me out?” he asked, sounding not at all weirded out by it.

Without a beat, I said, “No, I was ogling your art.”

His lips twitched. He didn’t believe me.

Unease strummed along my spine. The connection I’d made with him couldn’t go beyond friendship. He was a summer boy. I wasn’t made for temporary and fleeting—I wasn’t good at it.

“Honest,” I said, pretty sure I was fooling no one. Cringing inside, I was relieved he didn’t press me on it before he began painting. Every so often he would pause to clean his brush in the tub of water he’d brought with him, and the swishing sound threatened to lull me into a doze. Soon, the bottom corner of the canvas was speckled with the colors of Oar’s Rest.

While his back was to me, I raised my phone and took a photo of him. It felt silly, but I didn’t overthink why I wanted to immortalize the moment. Maybe I just wanted something to hold on to when the inevitable happened and he left, too. Or maybe—

No, I wasn’t going there.

He swung around just as I dropped the phone in my lap. “Thanks for bringing me here.”