When the doorbell rang ninety minutes later Joy had already brushed her teeth, walked Pickles, spoken to Maggie on the phone to say good night, set her alarm for the morning, put her hair in its messy evening bun, paid the electric bill, and cleaned out some old food from the refrigerator. She was trying not to miss Maggie too much but, really, the silence when she was gone was deafening. Thank goodness there was nothing for teens to do on the island in the winter—once October came, she’d have Maggie back to herself.

“Oh, for the love of Pete, Pickles,” she said. “Who could that be?” Maybe it was Holly, with more wine. Maybe it was Maggie—she’d changed her mind, she wanted to sleep at home (bless!). She opened the door. And there, on her doorstep, wearing the same gray T-shirt and a sheepish expression, was Anthony Jones.

“Hey,” he said softly. “I came back.”

“You came back.” She held the door open, and he stepped inside. Joy reached for her messy evening bun and released her hair. Her heart was beating very, very fast. Her cheeks felt warm. “I thought you couldn’t,” she said.

“I didn’t think I could.” His face was so close to hers. He had brushed his teeth: she smelled mint.

“But now you can?” She was whispering.

He nodded. “I regretted saying that. And I realized that I actually can.” He put his thumb on her cheek again. Something about that thumb.

It was hard to say, after that, who kissed whom first. Did it matter?

Pickles sighed and flopped onto the floor, turning her face away, giving them privacy, which Joy appreciated, because it had been a long time, and she was worried she was a little rusty, and she certainly didn’t need an audience.

Chapter 17

ANTHONY

ANTHONY AWOKE ONCE in the night to a cacophony outside an open window. He lay there for a moment, confused. This wasn’t Fitzy’s uncle’s cottage; this wasn’t the four-poster bed. This wasn’t the quiet and isolation of Corn Neck Road. Then he remembered the artichoke hearts, and the banana bread pudding, and quite soon after that he remembered his own fractured heart, which he could feel opening and turning toward the light, like a heliotropic flower.

There was a throb of disco music from down the street. Outside the open window a drunken fight was playing itself out.

A girl: “You did too, Sully, you did fucking too!”

The answering voice (presumably Sully): “Come on, Mariah, why you gotta go and do that? Why you gotta do it every time . . .”

The voices faded; Sully and Mariah went on their un-merry way.

He thought, Is this really happening? Am I really here? He felt in the darkness for the body next to him. He thought, Joy. He turned on his side and fell into a sleep like he hadn’t experienced in months, since before Huxley Wilder called him to tell him about Anonymous Source.