“So this is where you’ve been hiding.” The voice darts over my shoulder and makes me jump about three feet.

I let out a breath and shift over to give my half-sister, Renee, room on the bench.

She plops next to me wearing a pink polka-dot coat and an ever-present smile. She extends a latte that gives up a whiff of vanilla.

“The lighthouse coffee hut is finally open,” she says.

I smile at her. Of course she bought my favorite. That’s the kind of half-sister she is. Renee always brings coffee. And, even better, normalcy. Like this idea of what my life would be like if my mother had never taken my brother and me away from this town. What it would be like if I’d gotten to grow up here—middle-school dances and colorful holidays and fathers who set curfews.

“I’m not hiding,” I say. But who am I kidding? I’m sitting on a bench, angled so that it’s hard to see from the harbor. The same bench I’ve been frequenting all week. I don’t even want to think about what kind of person that makes me.

I take another sip of my coffee and pull my sweater tight. Anything to keep from looking at him. Dean.

Renee leans back against the bench, her gaze falling on the harbor that’s set below us. The soft rocking of the boats and the endless extension of gray water. And I pray she doesn’t notice him.

He’s been cleaning out one of the ticket huts over the last few days. But today, he’s working on the siding. A sandpaper block clenched in his left hand, he sands paint off the side. I can just make out the thin black leather necklace that I remember from before. A light blue t-shirt pulls up as his fingers smooth over chipped paint. His movements are certain—like he’s driven to finish the job, focused completely on the task before him.

He seemed so lost when he left the bakery—chasing after a man that came straight from my nightmares. I didn’t know what to do, so I’d handed him that olive bread because I had to do something. And that feeling hasn’t left.

I need to do something. Make sure he’s okay. I should be back at the bakery, planning for the Harborwalk Festival. But instead I’m here. And obsessed.

“I thought you weren’t into dock boys.” Renee grins at me over her latte.

“What?” I fake confusion, hoping to throw her off the trail. I don’t want to admit I’ve been here every day this week.

But, in her Renee-way, she points straight at him. “That guy.” She’s also the kind of girl who wouldn’t sit on this bench just watching someone. She’d walk up and give him a nice-to-meet-you hug. And probably sneak in an ass grab. “Not that I blame you for changing your tastes. He’s a total soup spoon.”

According to Renee, every guy can be classified into silverware. The soup spoon is easy-going smiles and sleeping in on Saturday mornings. Soup spoons take girls to kissing movies and don’t hesitate to give up a window seat. Renee’s dating résumé is a silverware drawer stuffed with soup spoons.

“Maybe he’s more than a spoon,” she muses. “Did you see the cut of his jaw? He’s got some sharp edges.”

I swirl my coffee. “Like a spork?”

“You’re making fun.” She wrinkles her nose. “But he’s edible, don’t you think?”

I take another drink, and my gaze flicks helplessly back to him. The truth of who he is like a rock in my throat.

He takes a step back and kicks a dock shoe into cracked cement before examining his work. Every shift of his muscles is like water poured from a cup—fluid and sliding effortlessly into the next. I drop my stare to the light-pink lip balm mark on my latte cup.

Renee emits a noise that might be a purr. “Maybe we should go talk to him?”

I shake my head vehemently. “No.” It’s not just because of his father. The rule is No dating. None. I’ve never told Renee exactly why I have the rule. Sure it’s because of my mother, but it’s more than that too. The few times I’ve been attracted to a man.... The thoughts I have are just wrong.

Renee turns and raises an eyebrow. She has no problem dating. She’s built of confidence. Floating brown hair, legs that don’t fit into regular length jeans, and a nose wrinkle that rivals kitten-cute—she’d walk over there without a thought. And to top it off, she’s kind and spirited and the sort of half-sister that anyone would want.

If I didn’t love her, I’d hate her for being so damn perfect.

“I have flour all over me.” I gesture to my clouded jeans. As if that’s really an excuse. I always have flour on me.

She sighs. “You’re hopeless.” She unbuttons her polka-dot coat to reveal her work uniform. After a full year, it still surprises me to see Salt’s Gas ’n Stuff stenciled in black across her pavement-gray shirt. She can’t like working at a grimy dock gas station.

As if she’s hearing my thoughts, she tugs on her shirt and stares out at the boats slowly rocking in their slips. “Have you gotten close to the new one? Everyone’s talking about her down at Salt’s. She’s called the Heroine.”

I nod toward Dean. “That’s his boat.”

“Seriously? She’s beautiful.” Her gaze falls on where the Heroine’s masts shoot up over the harbor, the corners of her mouth rising into a smile. “But how exactly do you know it’s his boat?”

I stumble over the words, not finding the right rhythm. “He came into the bakery,” I say, hoping she won’t dig for more details.

Her attention flips to me, her eyes asking about a thousand questions. But thankfully none of them come to her lips. For once. Instead she sighs and shakes her head.

“You need to change your address.” She sets her bag between us and digs into it. Her fingers sort through lipstick and hand sanitizer and crumpled bills until she finally pulls out a white envelope and extends it.

I stare down at the return address, every part of me still. It’s always like this—the letters come out of nowhere. Ripping me from whatever I’d been doing. Reality knocking.

It’s probably nothing. A notice of my mother’s upcoming annual parole review. Some accounting thing I don’t care about. My mother gave me power of attorney over all her finances after she was sentenced. Not that there’s much money or that I would ever spend it.

I must’ve sat staring at the letter for too long because Renee stuffs it in my hand. I fold it in half. I hate opening them. And I never open them with an audience.

“Want me to do it?” Renee’s forever curious.

“No.” I grip the letter harder.

“I could. It wouldn’t be a big deal. I could even open them before I give them to you. Then you wouldn’t have to—”

“No.” I snap the word louder than I meant to. It races away from me—across gravel and cracked cement.

The sanding stops. His fingers curl around the block as he glances over his shoulder, his attention meandering across the stretch of empty benches facing the harbor. He scans the benches close to him.

I pray he doesn’t see us. I’ve managed to stay hidden all week. Watching from up here. What would he do if he knew I’ve been watching him? Slipping out from the bakery early just to get a glimpse.

I don’t even want to think about what that makes me. Did my mother stalk them? I can’t remember—they always just showed up. As suddenly as this letter. Or the Heroine coming back into dock.

I hunch against the bench as if that will make me meld into black metal. Turn invisible. Pretend you don’t exist.

He keeps scanning the lower benches.

Renee grins and waves. She even calls, “Up here!”

His stance widens as he scans the benches. Flicking over the empty Harborwalk and up toward the park. Where it stops. On me. He’s still for a moment—as still as I am. Then he raises a hand, the sanding block gripped in his fingers.

I fold the letter and stuff it in my sweater pocket next to my phone, beyond flustered.

“I have to go.” I grab my half-empty vanilla latte. I need to get away from all of this—him, Renee’s easy smile and prying questions. My first instinct is always the same. Run. Hide. Somewhere dark and alone.

Renee stares up at me with a slightly open mouth. “Okay, well. I’ll see you later, I guess?” She swirls her cup. “Drinks this weekend?” she tags on hopefully.

“Sure.” I nod. I smile. I do whatever sisters are supposed to do. And then I’m up and moving away, hurrying across the edge of the park and down the Harborwalk.

I don’t stop. Not until I’m beyond the huts and at the gate that leads down to the docks and the lighthouse coffee hut our lattes came from. I tuck behind a wooden post that’s at the far end of the dock and finally let out a breath.

Twenty yards away—just beyond the slips—the water’s tipped white with the sunlight. To my right is the Heroine. The letter is a handful of rocks in my pocket. But I pull it out to discover it’s thin.

The wind catches the edge of the envelope and bends it toward my hand. I sit on the edge of the dock, my shoes over the water, and set my latte cup next to me. I flip the letter over. It might be thin, but it weighs so much.

I take a breath and open the envelope, only to discover a second. This one is decorated with my mother’s decadent cursive that reminds me of wedding invitations, the ones we get glimpses of at the bakery when taking an order for a bride-and-groom cake. Scrawling, yet certain, in a deep-purple hue.

Elly

The name she and my brother, Anthony, always called me. The one that Benny still uses when he forgets. The name always feels like the sudden, sharp tip of a knife when I hear it.

I stare at the envelope for a long, silent minute—thinking that I could let the wind carry it away. Like one of the white sails of the Heroine, it might catch on the wind and float out to the blue-gray horizon and beyond. And maybe find some other girl in some other land. The paper soaked and the ink illegible. And the other girl might pick it up and throw it in the trash with no thought to what it says. And that girl wouldn’t wonder—night after night between the shifts of too many dreams—what thing was hidden behind a triangle flap and beautifully scrawled name.

Unfortunately, that girl isn’t me. The envelope draws me just like the Heroine did. A sharp and brittle need to know what’s inside.

It opens easily, as if it was never firmly closed. I let out a long breath and pull out the single sheet of paper folded into thirds.

My Dearest Elly,

I hope this letter finds you.

Do you remember that purple pen you found on the bench at the park? Dark violet like the rind of an eggplant. You loved that pen so much. We lost it in the backseat, and Anthony had to tear the car apart looking for it.

I squeeze my eyes shut, and the paper crinkles. My mother was always so full of stories. Little moments she thought would bind us together if she recounted them. And it wasn’t just with us—she’d spill stories to complete strangers. Lies tumbled from her lips with such ease.

I skim over the rest of the paragraph. Past where Anthony found the pen tucked under the seat, the plastic warped from the sun and leaking out its purple ink. And how I cried six-year-old tears. My mother wrapped her arms around me, and she told me that everything was going to be okay. Family first, she would always say.

Yes, everything is perfect. I haven’t seen my brother in two years, and the last time I saw him, he was living under an overpass and his bones practically rattled when he walked. My mother is six years into a prison sentence that isn’t long enough. And she somehow still manages to touch me. She’s not supposed to contact me directly, so she got someone to send this letter. She’ll never be gone.

It’s not just the letter. The same blood runs through my veins. Like purple ink spilling from the same pen.

The letter continues in stories that I half-remember. And ones that I don’t remember at all. I wonder if I’m the stranger—falling into one of her elaborate fictions.

She ends with the same flourish of handwriting she began with.

I love you, Elly dear. And…

I clutch the paper so hard it crumples, and read the words again, hoping that the sentence will somehow shift its letters around to say something else. Anything else. But the same phrase blinks back at me.

And I’ll see you soon.

Oh, God. My hand trembles, shaking the paper. Did Anthony get one of these? I haven’t talked to him in… months, I realize. Not since the Harpers’ wedding last summer when he called while Renee and I were making the cake.

I can’t believe so much time has slipped by. It’s not like him to go that long without calling, and since his number keeps changing, I never know how to reach him. His only real connection to Portage besides me is a guy who bartends over at the Horseshoe. Although I doubt Mitch will have a current number for him either. It’s not like Anthony has a lot of people he keeps in contact with. Unlike me, he doesn’t know who his father is. He was eighteen when our mother was arrested, so he just… wandered. Never settling anywhere except for when he would come stay with me for a month or two.

Or maybe Carly will have talked to him. She’s the attorney who was appointed to me during my mother’s trial. She’ll want a copy of this letter too. I fold it carefully.

Movement on the far end of the dock makes me turn. A soft padding of feet on wood. My heart leaps into my throat as I scan the empty dock. And then I see it—a black dog sits on the dock. Staring at me with large brown eyes. He tilts his head, as if he’s had a thought.

“Hi,” I say. Because I’m not sure what else to say. The dog stands and walks toward me, listing to the side slightly. Like he wants to go in circles instead of a straight line.

I clutch the letter as he limps over and struggles to sit down, his back hip seeming to hurt him. When he finally gets down, he lets out a doggie sigh. Like he’s happy to be with me. It might sound silly, but it almost feels like he wanted to comfort me.

Tears form in my eyes, and I blink them away as the dog leans his head against my shoulder.

I fold the letter. Again and again. As if I can fold it down into such a small square that it becomes nothing. When it’s a tiny square in my palm, the dog picks up his head and looks at me.

“What’s your name?” As if he’ll answer. I laugh at myself. But it almost feels as if he might understand me.

He struggles up to his feet, listing toward the side again. Toward the edge of the dock.

My heart launches into my throat, and I grab for his collar. But he steps away from me, catching himself before he falls.

The leather slips from my fingers, and he turns back toward where he came from. Still listing to the side. I start to get up—he’s too close to the edge.

His toenails scratch the dock, and then he twists to the side, scrambling to stay on the dock. I lunge toward him, but he’s already gone. Tumbling away from me, his yelp cut off by a splash.

One paw breaks the gray surface.

Then nothing.

I stare at the water. My heart beats in the silence. I wait for his head to surface, and I count to ten.

No doggie head. No doggie paws.

I can’t keep standing here counting.

I glance up toward the Harborwalk, but there’s no one around. That’s why I stopped here—to get away.

“Help.” It’s a whisper. There’s no one to hear me.

This is my fault. Or it will be my fault if he drowns.

I suck in a breath of air and jump. The cold blasts me. My wool sweater turns to cement and weights me down. My hands sweep through thick water, reaching for the dog. I swim farther from the dock, searching the water. I’m colder with each breath, but I won’t stop looking. I won’t give up until I find the dog.

But my fingers touch nothing. Not in the direction the dock was—not in the direction the dog fell. Water curls between my fingers, but I find nothing except more cold. The water presses in, heavier and heavier against my muscles. Trapping me. I kick, but I don’t move. I twist, but my body stays locked in place. I can’t even move, let alone swim. Gray-green on all sides freezing me into an ice cube.

Run. But my feet can’t find land. My lungs seize, screaming for me to breathe. They’re hot and demanding, and I struggle toward the waver of light above me, but I’m sinking. Shivering. The cold water starts to freeze the heat in my chest.

A rope drops onto the surface above my head. It’s silhouetted, with a frayed end dipping toward me. The rope wafts to my right—it’s already too far away to grab. I turn my head to study it, still shivering so hard, but suddenly feeling calmer. The rope becomes smaller, darker. What if I don’t make it through this? Who will help the dog?

Something grabs my hand. I’m pulled—yanked forward by a mass of bubbles and a current of ocean water.

My stomach hits the dock. I gasp as a hand grabs the back of my sweater before looping under my arms. I cough against the wood. I try to breathe, but I keep choking it out. I roll onto my side.

Wet warmth on my cheek. A dog licks my face, and its presence releases my lungs and lets them suck in a breath. I grab for his collar and wrap my fingers around it. He won’t fall again.

“Why didn’t you grab the rope?” The voice is breathless and comes from past the dog. Water drips into blue eyes. He kneels, brown hair stuck against his forehead. I glance down at his hand to see the sanding block, but it’s no longer there.

“I—” My fingers shake so hard it’s difficult to grip the leash. My teeth knock against each other with the cold. I let the dog go and pull my arms into myself. My legs do the same. I can’t stop this shaking.

“Come on.” He grabs my arm and pulls me up with him. I stumble to my feet, and the dock shifts under my weight.

“I n-need…” I pitch forward and grab his forearm. My feet are numb. They could belong to someone else. Water squeezes out of the holes in my shoes, and my clothes hang heavy on my shoulders. Wet jeans rub against my thighs. And I’m still hanging onto his arm. I let go.

“Follow me.” His shoulders shake, and he hops from one bare foot to the other. Where did his shoes go?

“You need to get warm.” He scans me as if making an assessment. Blue eyes dig into every inch of my body. “You’ll get hypothermia.”

He reaches for my hand.

I twist away. “You s-s-shouldn’t—”

The feet that don’t feel like mine slip. I reach to brace myself, but my hands aren’t attached either. My fingertips graze against chinos rolled up at the ankles and hit wood. I’m on the dock. I should stand. I should do so many things.

But I am so very, very still. I don’t know how to stand up. I don’t know how to get home.

“I’ve got you.”

I blink up at his jaw—only inches from my face. Why is he so close?

My feet detach from the dock, and I’m floating. Softly rocking like the boats in their slips.

“N-n-no. I need to get h-home.” But it’s too late for that.