after she married, but of course she didn’t want it, so it became a home away from home for family and friends, a place for everyone to gather. Claudine saw its potential. She was a woman outside her time. And that”—she nods at the woman in white—“is Clovis Samms. She built the island’s first hotel, up at the north end, and was the first and only female root doctor here, some said the best in all the South. She used herbs, roots, and ointments to heal people. Also a woman outside her time. I don’t know enough about her, but I want to learn more.”
She puts her arm around my shoulders, and we tilt our heads, letting them touch. Then we separate and, carrying our drinks, mingle with the guests. I imagine myself through their eyes. Lanky. Freckled. My mom’s younger twin.
Maybe that’s why. Because we’re too much alike. He feels outnumbered.
After a few minutes, I tell my mom I need the bathroom and wander down the hall to the bar, which is empty. I give it a minute, and when no one comes in, I slip behind the bar itself, double-check that the coast is clear, and grab a beer from the fridge. I twist it open and take a drink.
“I’d say you’re about five years too early for that.”
The boy who carried our luggage moseys over to me, takes the bottle out of my hand, and empties it into the sink. He’s wearing the same shorts and black shirt from earlier, his feet still bare. He looks totally out of place here in this genteel old inn with everyone else dressed in their finest.
“Actually, now that I look at you, maybe six years too early.”
“I’m eighteen.”
He studies me for a second. “Huh.” Then he picks up a pen and flips open the notepad that sits on the corner of the bar. “Drinks work on the honor system, Lady Blackwood, so you’ll want to write down everything you take, which I’m guessing is going to be a lot. I’ll let this one slide.” He walks around to the fridge, where I’m still standing, for some reason, and reaches past me, so close I can smell him—like fresh sheets and the great outdoors. He hands me a soda. “Go ahead, you try.” He nods at the pad of paper. Gives me an encouraging smile.
I set the soda down unopened.
I say, “My mom is waiting for me.”
“Don’t let me keep you.”
I reach past him this time, grab two minibar-size Absoluts, and drop them into my pocket.
I say, “You can write them on my tab.” And walk out. A second later, I come back in. He’s watching the door like he’s expecting me. “By the way? I’m older than my years. And if there’s really ‘everything to do here,’ why don’t you show me?” I cross back to the bar, pick up the pen, and write my phone number on the notepad.
Heart thumping, I walk out again and into the first room I come to, which is a cozier version of the living room. It is floor-to-ceiling books and smells like leather. I meant to find the living room instead, but the boy is still out there, so I pretend this is where I want to be. I choose a book at random—The Secret Garden—and take a seat on the couch. I fish the vodka bottles out of my pocket, swallow the contents of both, and place the empties side by side on the end table.
My head buzzes a little and my blood feels warm. I flip through the book for a minute and then lay it down and scroll through my phone, rereading the text chain from Wyatt. I pull up the shirtless picture and stare at it, imagining lying beside him, on top of him, underneath him, just so many naked limbs intertwined.
The universe is clearly playing a funny, funny joke on me. Because now he asks. Now.
I write: I’d love to hang out. In Georgia right now with my mom but will be home soon. But there’s nowhere for it to go, so it sits there, unsent.
I sink back, disappearing into the couch, and chew on my finger, thinking of ways to get to him. I could catch the ferry tomorrow and go to the mainland and ask Saz to pick me up. I could call my mom’s sister, Katie-May, who lives in Savannah. Or hack into my dad’s Uber account and order myself a car to