like you very much right now, but I love you more than Riverdale and bookshops and sunflowers.”
What about Yvonne? Do you love me more than her?
The door to the store opens and the photographer from the inn walks in.
I say, “I have to go.”
And then I hang up on her.
I stare down at my phone, where Saz just was, and my heart is pounding and my blood is boiling and my pulse is racing and my head feels like it’s going to burst. I pull up the texts from Wyatt and try again to send the photo of me in the bikini. This time it goes through. I write: Wishing you were here.
* * *
—
I don’t pay attention to direction. I just walk. I walk until I look around and I don’t see the bright blue shotgun house or the wild horses, only trees and marsh and sky. I turn back toward where I think the general store is, but the underbrush soon grows wilder and the trees thicker and the sky disappears.
If I could, I’d call my dad right now and tell him: It’s your fault I’m lost. You figure it out. If I don’t make curfew, you find a way to get in touch with Mom and tell her I’m okay and where I am, and then you get me back to where we’re staying. You fix this.
I search my phone for some sort of GPS, but it comes up blank. So I try walking in another direction and another until I’m completely turned around. At some point, I feel drops of water on my face. I look up at the sky, and a storm cloud the size of Texas has gathered overhead.
“Shit.”
And in that moment the sky opens and the thunder booms, and once again I am soaked through, but I keep walking because this storm isn’t going to stop me. I am the storm. I walk and walk until I hear voices and see a building through the slanting rain, and then I run for it. This is not the house I saw earlier. This one is two stories, yellow paint chipping, set against a backdrop of live oaks and Spanish moss that have a haunted, murderous look. There are people on the porch.
Jared says, “Claude?”
DAY 3
(PART TWO)
Jared is sitting on the top step, beer bottle in hand. A girl with thick black braids and large, dark eyes is next to him, along with another boy, African American, round face, round body, who gives me a wave and a smile, even though I’ve never seen him before.
I climb the steps and join them, and Jared passes me a beer. I drink it down, and it’s cool and bitter, and I like the taste of it. Something in it reminds me of Ohio and Trent Dugan’s party. I take off the fisherman’s cap and run a hand through my wet hair, trying to smooth it down and give it some sort of shape.
“Welcome to Serendipity,” Jared says, opening his arms. “Better known as the Dip.”
* * *
—
Several beers later, I know that the girl is Wednesday, another inn staffer, originally from Alabama, and the boy is Emory, a junior nature guide who grew up in South Carolina. He takes inn guests for tours of the island in the Park Service trucks. Today is their day off. The rain rattles against the roof of the porch as the sky turns into night, and I feel my bones start to settle. You’re safe. Not lost. It’s okay. You’re here. They’re here. You’re not alone.
The three of them start telling ghost stories and I’m half listening, half thinking about Saz and my dad and Wyatt, who is probably, right this minute, having sex with Lisa Yu.
Wednesday says to me, “Have you ever seen a ghost?” Her voice is velvety, and something about it and the beer and the rain act like a lullaby. I feel warm and content, eyes heavy, body heavy.
I answer, “No.”
“You will here.” My skin prickles.
Emory shakes his head. “Man, Behavior Cemetery has some scary vibes, but nothing like Rosecroft or the Dip.”
I say, “Why does the inn staff live all the way out here anyway?”
Emory stretches his legs out, crossing ankle over ankle. “You’re not allowed to build on the island because it’s protected, and this is the only place big enough to house us all.”
I glance around at the woods. No other houses, no other lights. The Dip feels like the most remote