My heart leaps. I don’t remember Scooter being this thoughtful before. Or was I just not paying attention? Was I too young and self-involved to see... I dismiss the thought that is forming.

“It’s beautiful,” I say. “Can I keep it?”

“Of course. I made it for you.”

Scooter looks at me for a beat too long, running his hands through his silver hair, and I can again feel my knees get a bit weak.

“It will ground me,” I say. “I need that right now.”

“I’m glad,” he says. Scooter kicks at his office tile with the toe of his boot and dips his head. “Listen,” he starts, his eyes on the ground like a little boy in class. “I was thinking...you know, maybe...we could...you know...”

The confident quarterback—the one who everyone said never got happy feet on the field—is really kinda cute when he’s nervous, I think, stifling a smile.

“Well...” he continues, still kicking at the floor. “Maybe we could go for a walk sometime, grab dinner?”

Is he asking me out? As a friend? Or on a date?

“I’d love that,” I say, still unsure. “Let me know a time that works.”

“Tonight,” he says as though he’s about to explode. “Does that work?”

He really is nervous, I think.

I think of my afternoon. I think of the fact I have no food in the cottage. I think of how much I don’t want pizza again. Maybe ever again in my life.

“Sure,” I say.

“I’ll drop by your cottage around four,” he says.

“Four? Is there an early bird special somewhere?”

He smiles. “I was thinking we could go for a quick walk on the beach before dinner, before it gets dark,” Scooter says.

“It’s awfully cold,” I say.

“Won’t get much warmer or clearer than this, I guarantee,” he says. “And the snowmelt is a boon for rock hounds. The melting ice and rushing water usually uncovers lots of beautiful stones that get buried under sand during the summer months. And the water is so clear right now. It’s sort of a perfect storm.”

“Am I a rock hound?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “You can’t be a rock lobster in these parts.”

I laugh. “We played a lot of B-52s when we didn’t have riders on the chain ferry, didn’t we?”

“We thought we were so punk,” Scooter says, his voice wistful. “But really, we were just kids.” He stops and kicks at the floor again before looking at me, his eyes sad. “We were just kids.”

The emotion of his words moves me. I nod in silence.

“See you at four?” he asks.

I nod again and stand, unconsciously touching the stones around my neck.

“The necklace looks beautiful on you, Adie Lou,” Scooter says as I leave.