“She’s Zander’s girlfriend.”

All I get from Ellis—who has been to most of my baseball games since forever—is a blank stare.

“Zander. My catcher.”

Ellis shakes his head and turns away to go back to the boat shed. “Sorry, man,” he tosses over his shoulder. “Just doing my job.”

Fantastic. Now not only do I have to work with someone from school, I get to worry about Zander coming around. I rarely saw him around school without her. And the best thing about River Depot is that local kids don’t hang out here. Not yet, at least.

It’s almost seven, close to closing, and River Depot is nearly empty. Everything is quiet, and I can finally hear the river sounds now that it’s calm. The river is really shallow, and along the banks the water just barely skims over the tiny pebbles that line it. Even the deeper part, where we put the boats in, is barely past my knees in this section. The weeds that grow there float with the current, rippling just under the surface.

My mom is right, this would have been a beautiful spot for a house. That was the plan, fifteen years ago when my dad bought this place from my grandpa. It was struggling, barely getting by as a tiny general store and gas station. So my parents bought it with the plan of running it for a few years and then building a house here. But then my dad quit his construction job, doubled down on additions to the building, and started offering trips down the river. Our gas pumps are mostly for decoration now—the drive is usually too cluttered with boaters or shoppers, to actually pull in for a fill-up.

By the second summer, it wasn’t a general store anymore, it was a local tourist stop, right along with the beach and the wineries, and everything else. And now it’s my summer hiding spot. Sort of.

It’s never pitch black along the river. There are houses dotting the banks, and then there’s the moon shining off of the water, but I grab one of the lantern attachments anyway, because it could be late by the time I get back and my night vision is crap these days. I clamp the curved metal onto the canoe and step into the water. It’s like bath water in the ankle-deep shallows of the river, even after a seventy-degree day. One foot, then the other, and I’m sitting on the hard metal, wishing I had thrown one of the red flotation squares under me. They’re in front, shoved up under the seat, and I’ll never get to them without tipping myself. A kayak would have made more sense for a solo trip, but the canoes have more room. My black bag is sitting in front of me, a thin line of water trickling under it.