I coil a line that doesn’t need coiling. Everything is polished and perfect—just waiting for the first run out for the season. But still I coil. And I wait, my attention flicking to the hatch every few minutes. I wonder if there’s enough hot water for her. If she found the towels I forgot to mention. Why she seems so ridiculously familiar. Like she belongs in my bed.

Is that a weird thought? It might be a creepy thought.

But I’m going to think it anyway.

The sun hangs just a few inches above the hills, drawing shadows across the boat. A few seagulls call and then drop into silence. I kick off my shoes and hop up on the gunwale, my eyes traveling up the mast and double-checking the lines. I’d ordered the gooseneck, and it’ll be here about the time Dev gets back from exams. We’ll get it fixed, and everything else looks… perfect.

So then why do I feel so uneasy?

I’ve always sailed with heart instead of head. Learned a long time ago that instinct can be just as compelling as fact. More so, sometimes.

But, fuck, where was my instinct with Matty? I rub a hand over my face. I can’t believe I let that happen. He’d been asleep on deck after spending most of the night up with his hip aching. I didn’t want to wake him. Figured he couldn’t get over that gunwale—he never had before. Dev’s gonna be pissed. And rightfully so.

It was my fault she had to go in the water. What if I hadn’t glanced up just then? Hadn’t made it in time? What would have happened to them?

I roll my shoulders, trying to shake out the tension that makes it feel like there’s a metal rod stuck between them. The same tension I’d felt every day since moving back to Portage. A few months ago I was living on the Neverland, going from one port to another with the wind and saving up money to take her down to Panama. Sometimes I’d stay awhile and pick up some renovation work, but never for more than a few months. I’m not exactly sure how I was the one who ended up here while my brother is off climbing in Colorado.

But the only thing that seems to relieve that band of tension are the glimpses I get of her, even though I’m not fully sure why. I mean, she’s stunning. And seeing her in my bed? Well, it would be a lie to pretend I didn’t have a few thoughts about that.

But I still don’t even know her name. Millie? Lilly?

I could have asked, but maybe I like the mystery.

The hatch inches open, and she steps out onto the deck. She clutches a white trash bag that must be filled with her wet clothes—I should have thought of that and set one out for her.

She scans the dock first, holding that bag. She finally turns starboard, and stills when she sees me. “I don’t think you’re supposed to stand on the ledge. The edge. Whatever it’s called.”

I grin and look down at the polished wood. “The gunwale?” I crouch, feeling the way the Heroine shifts in response to my movement. “You don’t like boats.”

She shrugs and offers a thin smile. “I don’t know any boats.”

“Then you should get to know this one. She’s the most beautiful boat you could ever hope to know.” Beautiful, yes. But a weight too. A huge, daunting weight. I have this flash of desire to tell her about it, but I shake it off. I’m sure she doesn’t want to hear my random thoughts. “She’s a recreation of a 19^th century French schooner. With a lot of modern details to make tourists happy.”

“And you…” She looks up at the furled sails. “You like to sail her? I mean, you’re happy? With the b-b-boat.”

She’s asking me if the Heroine makes me happy? No one asks about me. They ask about her history. If they sail, they ask about how she’s outfitted. They never ask if she makes me happy. Because it’s assumed. I mean, who wouldn’t want to sail her?

It’s what I’m supposed to want.

“Yeah,” I say. “Of course.” Even I can hear the pause in my words. The place where I want to say something else, but I’m not entirely sure what it is yet. How can something be both a blessing and a curse? “It’s more like a family legacy.”

She clutches her clothes so hard that water pools in the bottom of the bag.

“Legacy,” she repeats.

“I guess that sounds odd.” I jump off the gunwale and go back to coiling the line, pulling it tight against my elbow and wrist to keep it even.

“I understand family legacies.” Her eyes flick to the line cutting across my palm and then back to her bag. I don’t get her. It’s like there’s something stuck inside of her—and it comes out for a second, and then disappears. Curious doesn’t even begin to describe it.

“You have a legacy of your own?” I ask.

“Not really.” She shakes her head, then sighs. “It’s just that I’ve never liked that word. It’s too big. Like something that’s hard to escape. An echo that keeps coming back.”

I stop coiling. Hell, I stop doing everything. Breathing. Thinking. The Heroine shifts steadily, as she always does. I usually don’t feel it that much, but in this moment, it’s like we’re rocking on tall ocean waves.

“What are you trying to escape?” My voice is quiet, and I wonder if I’m asking her or myself.

“It’s nothing.” Her face pales, and I realize how closely I’m studying her. But I can’t seem to stop. “My mother…” She bites her bottom lip.

I set the coil on the deck, waiting for her to talk. And trying to focus on her words instead of the way her teeth run over her lip.

“I haven’t seen her in a while.”

I nod. A perfectly reasonable thing to say. Except something’s not adding up. There’s the instinct I was talking about earlier. I tuck a hand into my pocket, trying not to let my confused thoughts register on my face.

“Actually, there’s something I need to talk to you about,” she says quickly. “We’re doing a Harborwalk Festival. I was hoping the Heroine could be involved.”

“Just tell me when.” I smile, glad to see her moved on to something else. She seems easier now. Almost a little excited. “I could give tours. I’ve also got these little handmade sailboats the kids can build and release. Used to do it all the time in Upper Bay. What’s the theme?”

“Theme?”

“In Upper Bay they do Lobster Day. There’s the other obvious ones, like blueberries or apples.”

She bites her bottom lip, her teeth running over it a little.

“Lewiston does hot air balloons,” I say absently. How many festivals can I come up with? I can probably name a hundred if she’ll keep looking at me like that. “More people seem to come if there’s a theme.”

She looks up at the rigging. “What about something like kites?”

“Kites. Like from childhood.” I smile, a hazy memory forming of a bright-red kite. Was that with my mother?

Her bag of clothes starts to slip, and I step forward, putting a hand under it for her, but she jumps back.

“I need to go.” The way she says the words with an urgency sets me on edge. Something’s suddenly wrong. I cycle back through the last minute—festivals and kites and childhood. What would have made her uneasy?

She steps back, leaving a footprint of water on the deck.

“I’ll walk you,” I offer.

“No,” she says—fast. Like she didn’t need to think about the answer at all.

“I don’t think you should walk alone.” Should I be pressing her so hard? But someone should see her home. The sun has fallen behind the hills, and a chill wind is starting to pick up. The temperature is going to fall. “Not with how cold you were. Someone should walk you.”

“I should go.” She turns toward the ramp to the dock and hurries down—her hair half wild and half wet. Even with how it looks now, I dig that hair. And other things, of course.

“Wait.” I cross the deck and jump off the edge of the ramp. It’s not hard to catch up with her, but I have to leap over some coiled fishing nets. “Maybe you could text me when you get home? I know it’s odd—but just to make it sure you get home safely.”

“I lost my phone in the water.” She stops walking, and the wind catches her hair. The red kite. It’s so familiar. Not like the vague feeling that’s a forgotten thought on the tip of my tongue. This feeling has an image. And a name.

Her eyes are dark and steady on me.

“Is your name Elly?” I ask.