“I insist. You’re new to town and you haven’t seen all the good places yet. Consider me an ambassador of Newburyport. And anyway, it would be a favor to me. I could use someone to talk to. We’ll go to Michael’s Harborside. Have you been to Michael’s yet?” No, Sherri had not been to Michael’s. “I’ll pick you up at noon. No, eleven-thirty. We’ll have a better chance of snagging a table on the deck that way.”

They got the last open seat on the deck, which overlooked the Merrimack River; across the river, they could see the town of Salisbury, and the deck of another restaurant (which was actually called the Deck). There were boats everywhere: boats docked just below them, boats docked across the river, boats docked to the left and to the right, boats moving and boats tied up. Sherri had never seen so many boats in her life. She thought of the pontoon ride and cringed.

When the waitress—an adorable college-aged girl with a messy bun and a really good tan—came to take their drinks order, Sherri asked for an iced tea.

“Two,” said Rebecca. Then: “Actually. You know what? Plot twist. I’ll have a sangrita.” Sherri looked at the menu; the sangrita was sangria mixed with tequila. “She’ll have one too,” added Rebecca, pointing at Sherri. “Forget the iced teas.”

By the time their food arrived—a lobster roll for Sherri, fish and chips for Rebecca—their drinks were half gone. Sherri’s lobster roll was delectable; it was served on a grilled hot dog bun, in what Sherri understood was the New England way, without too much mayo. Rebecca popped a fry into her mouth and when she was done chewing she said, “So here’s the thing. I’ve been seeing someone.”

“You have?” said Sherri. “That’s—exciting?”

“Confusing,” said Rebecca. “But also exciting.” She took another slug of her sangrita. Already she was faintly flushed. “I’m telling you because—well, because I want to tell someone. And so far I haven’t told anyone, not a single soul. I’ve had to keep it very much under wraps. Very much.”

“None of your friends?” said Sherri, feeling flattered. “Not Melanie or Brooke or Gina or anyone?”

“No. Especially not Gina.” Rebecca leaned over her fish and chips platter. She looked furtively around her. “Daniel and I just had a fight about this. Our first real fight! He’s tired of sneaking around, acting like we’re doing something wrong. But obviously, I can’t tell Gina.”

This wasn’t obvious to Sherri. “Why not?”