The boat rocks with the motion of the waves, heaving slightly in the current as we motor around the breakers at the mouth of the harbor.

I smile as I breathe in the sea air - the smell of salt brine and the cool edge of the Atlantic breezing across the bow of the ferry where I stand. You don’t get this kind air in New York City, which is fine in a way, because there’s a reason I left all this years ago.

There’s a reason I left Shelter Harbor.

I take another big lungful of New England air as I crack open the little nip of vodka I picked up at Logan International. I dump it into the tiny plastic cup of ice I got from the booze-free snack bar below deck and bring it to my lips, regardless of the late-morning hour.

Sometimes going home requires a little fortification.

I turn at movement, seeing the grizzled ferry captain grinning at me from the wheelhouse next to me. He adjusts the Red Sox cap on his head, scratching his silvered hair as he raises an eyebrow at the little bottle in my hand.

“I’m on vacation,” I lie, smiling.

“No judgment here, sweethawt,” he says, the thick, familiar Boston accent of home washing over me as he chuckles. “If I weren’t on the clock, I’d join ya.”

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” I mutter as he turns back to the wheel, taking another quick sip. We’re almost there.

“Are we there yet?”

Ainsley looks green as she comes up from below deck, her mouth a thin white line as she grips the railing tightly.

I raise the second little nip out of my shoulder bag at my assistant, which brings on a whole new color of chartreuse to her face as she quickly shakes her head.

“God, no.” She swallows queasily. “Remind me why we couldn’t take the train, or drive in like normal people?”

“Because this is way more fun.”

The boat crests another small wave, and Ainsley almost loses it.

“Thanks for coming, by the way.”

“I mean, it’s my job, Ivy.”

I roll my eyes. “Well, yeah, but coming back here is always….” I wave my hand distractedly.

I’m home for a week this visit, which is about three times longer than I’m ever home. And it’s not that I don’t like coming back here - I do, and I love my family - it’s just that I left the small town and all the baggage that came with it years ago. College in New York City, the fashion blog I’d started sophomore year took off, and then the age of Instagram launched me into the face of lifestyle and “fitspiration” that I am today.

“What’s our shoot schedule look like, by the way?”

It’s the other reason I’m home, aside from my dad’s dedication ceremony. All those Instagram stars with half a million followers who are always telling you about their favorite new cotton t-shirt, or sunscreen, or brand of sneaker?

Yeah, we get paid for that. And when Lori, my management liaison heard I was coming back to Shelter Harbor, she opted to turn my three-day visit into a week long “product exposure and brand expansion” business trip.

This really is what I do for work.

Ainsley pales. “There is no way I can look at my phone right now,” she croaks out.

I wink at her. “Yeah, but I’m sure you’ve got it all in your head. That’s why you’re the best assistant ever.”

She grins wryly. “Nike and Under Armour want ‘active’ shoots by the beach, so we could do those whenever. Bliss wants the new skin line on display somewhere ‘shady but quaint’, as they put it.” She frowns. “I guess like, a picnic table by the water or something would work.”

“I know a place.”

I know all the places. Even being away, I know nothing changes in Shelter Harbor. The same New England beach town north of Boston. The same tourist-filled summers, the same cold, snowy, empty winters. The same active harbor, the same lobster boats. The same knick-knack shops, lobster take-out places, and “dive” bars for tourists. The same actual dive bars for locals. The same historic house where George Washington allegedly camped, the same Congregationalists church up on the hill where my dad’s been giving sermons every Sunday since before my siblings and I were born.

“Oh, and Active wants the nail polish displayed by the water too, actually.” Ainsley frowns. “They actually all want that ‘New England chic’ look, come to think of it.”

“Well, Shelter Harbor has that by the shit-load,” I say, belting down the rest of the vodka.

“You sure?” I raise the second nip, and Ainsley goes green all over again.

She takes a shaky breath. “And then of course, management wants your new line in as many shots as we can get.”

I grin - the new yoga line. I actually worked my damn ass off to get to the point where I’m going to have my own line. I’ve spent years now pimping the latest green juice smoothie cleanse fads, and active wear, and sneakers, and no-mess makeup, and sports bras, and running shoes, and basically anything else that fits the “fitspiration” social media trend. Basically, if you’ve seen it marketed to you by a girl on Facebook or Instagram in sweatshop-free sportswear at some yoga retreat - and it is being marketed to you - I’ve probably sold it.

“And then when Blaine gets in, you’ll do some shots together of course.”

Right, for the high ratings. For the massive number of likes we get when my boyfriend - an Instagram star in his own right managed by the same agency - joins me in pictures. Blaine’s the outdoorsy type of product placement - hiking boots, surf boards, kayaks. And he’s been home with me to Shelter Harbor before, but it’s always strange, bringing him here.

Here where the history runs deep.

Here where the boy from my past - the ghost of my time in this town - still haunts my thoughts.

Silas Hart.

The boy that I fell for all those years ago, and the thief that stole my heart when he left.

The harbor is getting closer now. I can see the docks, the lobster boats, the crowds of tourists along the piers. The engine throttles as the boat starts to turn to make a backwards approach. Ainsley shuts her eyes, her knuckles white on the railing.

But I just take another big breath of sea air, letting the memory of home fill my lungs. And when I exhale, I let the last little thoughts of Silas Hart that come with being here out with my breath.

And at this point, that’s all they are - a lingering breath of sea air blowing out and away with the breeze.

The ferry clanks against the docking port, the engine throttles, and the gangway lowers, and once again, I’m back in Shelter Harbor.

Welcome home.