“We’ll dry fast in the sun,” I say.

He hands the skirt back to me and I spread it on the sand so we can sit down.

“Don’t you want to put it back on?” he asks, eyeing my tank top and underwear. He seems embarrassed, but they’re black. It’s not like they’re see-through. Everything’s covered. Bathing suits are expensive.

“I’m good,” I say, but I hate watching him take in the frayed strap of my tank top and the outline of my nipples in wet cotton. I hate the way he looks around to see if anyone is watching us. I try to ignore the twinge of shame creeping up from my chest, like when all the other kids in my class had big packs of pristine crayons in September and I had the same old sandwich bag of broken ones from a rummage sale.

Once he’s sure no one is paying any particular attention to us, he sits on my skirt next to me.

“Not a big swimmer?” he asks.

“Nah,” I say, “not really.” But I do love the water. It makes me feel better. If Justin weren’t here, I’d have stayed in, swimming under waves until my fingers pruned up and salt burned my nose. We’re all small at the ocean; none of us have control. I like being reminded of that.

We stare out at the waves. We’re waterlogged and sun-touched. It makes us quiet.

Once we’re mostly dry, we get hot dogs at a snack bar across the street from the beach. I hate hot dogs, but they’re cheap. Justin orders three and a soda. He has no understanding of money, or the fact that everything always costs so much more than it seems like it will. I try not to be the kind of person who’s always running calculations, but I can’t shut my brain off. We won’t get back to Binghamton on what I have left.