Early on, we pass the expanse of the island’s airport, which is less an airport and more an expanse the size of two football fields with a couple of propeller planes parked in it.

‘Have you lived here your whole life?’ I ask.

‘Kinda. I was b-born here – well, not on the island; the mainland, b-but you know – and we moved away when I was little. Then we came back when I was ten.’

‘Interesting place to grow up.’

He slumps in his seat. ‘Yeah. Interesting is a word for it.’

‘Oh. Sore subject.’

‘No, I like the p-place. I think it’s p-pretty cool. Kinda small. I mean, really sm-small. Different, I guess. It’s just the p-people.’

‘Mm,’ I say like I know what he means, and I want to say more to get him on side but am uncertain what the words might be.

‘Their attitudes about stuff – it’s like they’re stuck twenty years in the p-past, you know?’ He pivots to my backseat. ‘Hey, can I have some of those sunflower seeds?’

‘Knock yourself out.’

We reach the strip, barely big enough for the road it holds, the perimeter seeming to gradually break up the further it stretches to the sea – slate then rock then pebble. There isn’t a cloud in the sky and the sun’s reflection against each peak of the trembling ocean forces me to squint. There’s something dizzying about the warm blue haze.

Ellis breaks the not-uncomfortable silence, punctuated only by the thwip of shell being spat out the window. ‘My mom is really overprotective. That’s why she was being weird. That’s why I was annoyed. Sorry.’

‘Do you have a habit of getting kidnapped by girls via Subaru?’

‘N-no. I guess she just worries p-people will … judge me.’

‘Why?’

‘Probably b-because I’m so g-g-good-looking.’

I turn to him, eyebrows raised, but he breaks, a smile punctuated by teeth that look like they’re fresh out of braces. Not often swayed by anything overly cheesy, I’m surprised to feel myself smiling back. ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘You got me.’

‘Sorry.’

‘And do they? Judge you, I mean?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘I’m sorry that happens.’

He shrugs. ‘Eh, it’s whatever. Annoying. What can you do. Anyway. We’re up on the left here.’

The white Colonial sits on what’s probably an acre of land, well maintained – flower beds blotch the lot’s boundaries; wilful little bursts of lavender and baby’s breath and orchids. Above us, tidy rows of windows framed by black shutters and sycamore trees. Tinkle of a windchime. A dark wood sign at the entrance reads WILLOWWOOD INN.

‘It’s pretty,’ I say. My car’s the only one in the lot. ‘No one staying?’

‘Not right now. I mean, it’s a B-B-B and B, so it’s never actually that full anyway. There’s only, like, five rooms. And tourist season’s b-barely started.’