Charlie made her way back down to the beach, taking a different route than before, relieved that she’d recovered her bag sans any embarrassing run-ins, her pulse returning to normal, breath evening out, becoming less quick, less shallow. She was safe. Then she looked up. Realized she’d spoken too soon. There he was, the very person she wanted least to see, smoking a cigarette by the statue of that peeing baby, wearing sneakers, jeans, a gray hoodie. His face was angled away from her, pointing down and to the right. And there was a possibility that she could escape without being spotted if she moved fast, got a little lucky. But as she was about to turn, she stopped herself. No, she couldn’t slink off like a coward. She had to face him, give him the chance to tell her to go fuck herself if he wanted to. She forced herself to keep walking, stay the course. Ten seconds later, she was standing in front of him.

“Hi, Stan,” she said. Up close she saw a small Wolcott Academy insignia on the breast of the sweatshirt.

He glanced up at her, continued smoking. He didn’t look surprised to see her, or unhappy to see her. He didn’t look anything to see her. His eyes were blank. “Hey,” he said.

“So you’re not perfect,” she said, indicating the cigarette between his fingers, smiling. “Nice to see you’ve got a bad habit or two.”

Not returning her smile, “I’ve got more than one or two.”

“I owe you an apology. Again.”

“Okay.”

Charlie licked her lips, nervous. “So, here it is. I’m sorry.” When he didn’t say anything back, she forged on, “I hope I didn’t get you in too much trouble with your boss.”

“Nope. I only got a warning.”

“What does a warning mean?”

“Nothing. Unless I get a second warning, in which case I’m fired.” His voice as he said these words was cool and neutral, not hot and mad.

“I could talk to him,” Charlie said, “explain the situation. Tell him that it was me, not you.”

“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t.”

She nodded. Stan was acting polite but too polite, polite in a way that kept her at arm’s length. She’d rather he yell.

A long silence developed during which it grew clear that he had nothing more to say to her, probably wanted nothing more to do with her. Not that she blamed him. With a sigh, she said, “Okay, well, I really am sorry. I’ll see you around.”

As she turned to go, he said softly, “That guy’s not worth it.”

She turned back. Stan’s eyes were glowing bright green in the moonlight—cat eyes—and they were right on her face now, the look in them anything but blank. “You don’t know him,” she said.