twenty. He can pick out a tune on the piano or guitar after hearing it once, and he can paint, but he doesn’t. Mom says he’s a frustrated artist and that he belongs in a different era.
My role on this island can’t just be Shunned Daughter of Father Who Can’t Have a Family Anymore. Or Lauren Junior/Lauren’s Shadow. It has to be more than that. And I think again about how Old Claude is dead and New Claude has taken her place, even though I don’t know the first thing about New Claude.
A minute later, I tell my mom I need the bathroom. I go inside, where it is immediately five hundred degrees cooler, down the stairs, and straight to the gift shop, which is empty. I fiddle around with the books and the baseball caps and the cards and pretend this is all I want.
Jared appears from somewhere. He’s dressed in a white button-down shirt and black pants, the uniform for kitchen staff. His sleeves are rolled up, and for the first time I notice the tattoo on his right forearm. He says, “Hey.”
And I have to remind myself that this is an island and there are only, like, thirty-one people here.
“Hey. I’m trying to find the guy who carried our luggage up to the house.”
“You mean Miah.”
“Maya?”
“Jeremiah Crew. But we call him Miah. M-I-A-H. Some of the Park Service guys, back when he first came here, called him J.Crew, but he put a stop to that pretty quick.”
“Can you tell me where to find him?”
“Here, there, everywhere. Miah kind of goes where he wants and does what he wants.”
“He seems like he’s in charge, or like he thinks he is.”
Jared shrugs. “He’s been coming to the island awhile.”
“What does he do, anyway? Like, why is he here? Does he work at the inn with you guys?”
“He works for the Baileys—they live on the north end—clearing trails with Outward Bound groups. He runs errands. He goes to the mainland when people need supplies. He builds things.”
“But why here?”
“Maybe you should ask him.” Then he gives me this look like he knows the real reason for all my questions. “He doesn’t have a girlfriend. At least not as far as I know.” He grins, and I can tell he definitely knows why I’m asking but he’s not judging me for it, and in that moment I think, Maybe Jared and I actually can be friends.
“That’s not why I’m asking. But thanks, Jared.”
“You’re welcome, Claude.”
I start to walk away and then I turn back. “What does your tattoo say?”
He holds out his arm so that I can read it. August 12.
“Your birthday?”
“I got it in honor of a friend of mine who died.”
And I can tell by the way he says it that he knows what it’s like to have the floor disappear suddenly.
“I’m sorry about your friend.”
“Thanks.” He blinks down at the tattoo, just for a second, then looks back up at me. “Hey, we’re hanging out tomorrow night, if you want to join us.”
“Where?”
“The Dip.”
“What’s the Dip?”
“Serendipity. It’s where the staff lives.”
“Maybe. Thanks. I’ll see.”
* * *
—
I sit at dinner listening to the rise and fall of voices, deep in conversation—the same conversations over and over again, so that I have both questions and answers memorized—and I am thinking about Jeremiah Crew. This is what I know about him:
People call him Miah.
He doesn’t like being called J.Crew.
He’s been coming here awhile.
Everyone relies on him.
He probably doesn’t have a girlfriend.
* * *
—
We’re walking back to the house when my phone buzzes. “Is that you?” Mom says, her face to the sky.
I pull my phone out of my pocket.
I love you more than Black Widow and peanut butter and “Umbrella.” When are you coming home?
Rihanna’s “Umbrella” has been our song since we were little.
I type the lyrics back to her as fast as I can, but my phone is now searching, searching, and it’s trying to send the message, and then, like that, Saz is gone.
DAY 3
I wake up early. Sometime during the night I’ve shed my pajama bottoms and I lie there in my top and underwear. I try to conjure Wyatt’s face. His mouth. But instead of Wyatt, I see Jeremiah Crew. Wise-ass expression. Compass tattoo on his shoulder. Hands, broad and strong. I push his image away, but he comes right back.
Claudine, it says, that mouth of his, I want you. Don’t you know how I feel about you? Don’t you know how much I