My nerves tingled all over when we pulled up outside the Gardners’ house that afternoon. I blamed having spent an entire day in Boone’s presence without having sex with him. Without even touching more than hands.

I kept waiting for him to make a move, as he always had before, but he didn’t. Maybe he, too, was waiting. All I knew was that by the time the barbecue started, I felt ready to crawl out of my skin.

There were already several luxury cars crowding the driveway and parked on the curbs up and down the street. I directed Boone to park in my parents’ driveway, and together we walked up to his mother’s door. I cast a glance at him—his jaw was set in a firm line, and there was tension in his shoulders as he reached for the doorknob. For a second, I thought he might even knock.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

He gave me a half smile and took my hand. For a moment, I thought he might kiss it. “Sure. You’re here.”

But I knew it wasn’t. A party at his mother’s house was the belly of the beast. Here, where she wanted him to be Ronnie Nesbit, where she told people he was taking a gap year from school and tried to pretend their lives hadn’t been cleaved in two.

Suzanne’s house looked just like ours inside: professionally decorated, with new furniture and fine art and bowls with fruit that no one ever touched. We passed through room after room and then out the sliding glass doors into the backyard, where I could finally get a glimpse of Boone’s handiwork.

I should have guessed what to expect based on what I’d seen on Boone’s boat, but I still wasn’t quite prepared. All those weeks of Boone in the yard and on the porch roof, but I hadn’t translated that to his actual work.

Which was gorgeous. Paving stones stretched out from the house in undulating curves, hugging the edges of the lawn and lined with rock in a contrasting shade. A small terrace was set off with a counter and a grill built into a low rock wall. The covered patio was finished with glossy dark wood floors and paneled ceilings where massive fans with blades shaped like sails shifted the evening air. Everywhere I looked, I saw urns filled with flowers and succulents. Lights like little torches had been set at regular intervals along the walls.

I stared at it. Boone had built this. He’d peeked over the fence at me, day after day, and built…this.

And his mom made up stories about business school?

“Wow,” I whispered, leaning hard on his arm. “This is amazing.”

“Thanks,” he replied.

“I would hire you in a heartbeat,” I went on. “Except I rent. And I don’t have a patio.”

I saw my mother first. She swept up to me, gin and tonic in hand. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, her capri pants and lime top summery but not breaking any “after Labor Day” sartorial rules. “Hannah! You came. And… I’m sorry, is it Boone?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Boone said, and shook her hand.

A wrinkle appeared between Mom’s eyebrows. She would have been appalled if she knew. “But a few weeks ago when we met—”

Boone cleared his throat. “My father and I are estranged, Mrs. Swift, and I don’t use his name. My mother occasionally forgets.”

“Oh.” She seemed momentarily taken aback. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. But I’m so glad you and Hannah have been, um…getting to know each other.”

“Actually, Mom, it turns out that we’d already met. I just didn’t realize that Boone was the man you were talking about.”

Mom smiled for real this time. “Really? How did you meet?”

“When I was doing the patio for my mother. Hannah was out by your pool and we started talking.”

“Oh!” Mom blinked. “Well, how about that. I had no idea this patio was your work.”

Beside me, Boone stiffened. Who was his mother telling people had done the renovation? At the very least, she should be passing out her son’s card to people.

My mother was still filling the silence. “I envy Suzanne. We don’t have anyone handy in my household.”

“This is true,” I informed Boone. “I can barely change a lightbulb.”

“Noted.” He craned his neck to look over the crowd. “I’m going to grab a beer. Can I get you something? White wine?”

I smiled. “You know it.”

He headed off and I turned to my mom. “Okay, you can tell me that you told me so.”

She watched Boone disappear into the crowd, then lifted her glass. “I told you so. That’s the cutest millionaire I’ve ever seen, Hannah.”

“He’s not a millionaire, Mom. He’s a construction worker.”

“He’s a Nesbit.”

I took a breath. “No, he’s a Smith. He wasn’t joking about the estrangement thing. He doesn’t speak to his father, won’t touch his money…”

Mom waved her hand. “Whatever. It’s a phase.”

I now realized why Boone had such a hard time with his own mother. But I wasn’t okay with it. This patio should have been a killer advertisement for Boone’s services, but it wouldn’t be if his mother kept his work a secret.

“In the meantime, enjoy the muscles and the tan that manual labor provides. There’s no Wall Street exec or CEO with a body like that, I don’t care what the romance novels say.”

“Eww, Mom.”

She threw back her head and laughed. “Sorry. He is cute, though. Even better-looking than that Dylan, don’t you think?”

I chuckled. “Okay, sure. That one I’ll give you.” And then, before I thought better of it, I added, “I actually saw Dylan the other day.”

She looked at me. “Oh? Well, Canton’s a small school.”

I took a deep breath. Do it. Just do it. Then you’ll know. “He was with his new girlfriend. Her name is Tess McMann.”

My mother flinched. It was a split second, but I saw it. Then she took a sip of her gin and tonic and looked out over the crowd. “I’m sure she’s not half as pretty as you are, dear.”

“They seem to be a good match, though,” I pressed, and hated myself for it.

Mom took another, longer sip. “Well, there’s no accounting for a man’s taste, is there?” Meaningfully.

Mom. I hated myself. All this time, I’d been hoping I was protecting her. But it turned out her torment had gone on even longer than my own.

“Mom, I…”

“Oh look, Boone’s brought you a drink.” I looked up to see my boyfriend maneuvering back through the crowd, a glass of white wine in one hand, and a brown bottle in the other.

“Here you are.” Boone handed me a glass of wine, then looked at my mother. “Ran into my mother. She tried to introduce me to someone again. As Ronnie.”

Ugh. “What did you say to her?”

“What I always say,” he replied. “It never makes a difference.” He looked at my mother. “Oh, I should have gotten you a fresh drink, Mrs. Swift.”

I looked to see my mother had indeed drained her glass, then felt even more like a heel.

“I’ve probably had enough. Look, Hannah. It’s your father.” Her tone was flat.

Dad approached, then leaned in to air-kiss me. “Hannah.” He extended his hand to Boone. “And…Ronnie Nesbit, right? Suzanne’s boy?”

“I prefer Boone, Mr. Swift. Boone Smith—I use my maternal grandfather’s name.”

“Ah, of course,” Dad said. “You’ve been working on his old yacht, I understand, over at the club?”

“Yes. My grandfather was quite the sailor in his day.”

“I imagine you went out a lot growing up,” Dad said.

“With my grandfather yes. My father wasn’t much for boats. He had a bad experience when he was younger. Pirates.” Boone took a sip of his beer.

I chuckled.

“No, really,” he said. “He was kidnapped by pirates.”

“Wait, what?” He couldn’t be serious.

“What a shame,” Dad said quickly, then turned to me. “Hannah, how is school?”

Um, school? I wanted to hear about the pirates.

But Dad, as always, cared about nothing that didn’t have to do with himself, and the glory of the Swift name. “Is your schedule shaping up as we planned?”

Here it goes. I swallowed. Beside me, Boone shifted, ever so slightly, until his arm brushed mine, softly, reassuringly. I could do this.

“Actually, no,” I said.

Dad’s expression didn’t change. Mom’s eyes widened.

“I’ve dropped one of my Comp Lit requirements to take a special, invitation-only seminar.”

“An invitation-only seminar!” Dad said, impressed. “Well, they’ll have to make some sort of arrangement for you, then. To get around that requirement.”

Oh God. Oh God. “It’s not in the Comp Lit Department, Dad. It’s in Film.”

He didn’t say anything.

“It’s a screenwriting seminar. I entered a screenplay I wrote and it was accepted.”

“Hannah!” Mom exclaimed. “That’s amazing. I didn’t realize you’d finished a screenplay.”

“It’s very good, Mrs. Swift,” said Boone. “It’s a horror movie.”

“Figures,” said Mom. “That’s what she’s always watching.”

“Hannah,” said my father. “This was not part of our agreement.”

“True,” I admitted lightly. “I don’t think I’m going to be a Comp Lit major after all.” I waited to see how that landed. Dad wasn’t moving a muscle.

“But what will you major in?” Mom asked. “Film? How long will that take to finish?”

“I don’t know,” I said, honestly. “All I know is I have to take this class.”

“We’ll talk about this later.” Dad was seething.

I took another sip of wine. “We can talk about my major later, Dad. But I will be taking the screenwriting class this semester.”

“Hannah!” he growled. “You can’t keep doing this. You need your degree.” He looked at Boone. “Don’t you think?”

“No,” said Boone. “I never went to college, myself. If she wants one, fine, but that’s up to her. Personally, I’m thinking if she wants to go into film, maybe Canton isn’t the best place for her.”

My father was officially flabbergasted. “Canton is where all the Swifts go.”

“Don’t worry, darling,” Mom broke in, glaring at my father. “Even if Hannah leaves, I’ve little doubt your legacy will remain intact.” She handed him her glass, while he stared at her with an open mouth. “Go get me another gin and tonic, and stop harassing our daughter.”

Still speechless, Dad wandered off.

“Mom,” I breathed.

But she wouldn’t even meet my eyes. “Oh look, it’s Mary Ann. Excuse me, dear.”

Boone turned to me the moment we were alone. “I missed something, I think.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, then finished off my wine. “I have no idea what I’m doing anymore. Who am I keeping this secret from, Boone? I think…I think my mom knows about Tess. I think she’s always known. So if she knows and I know and he knows we both know…what is this all about?”

“Appearances? You can all still pretend that everything is fine, as long as no one talks.”

I groaned. “I’m so done with this. Secrets, lies…”

Boone lifted his hands. “Hey,” he said. “I was done with it years ago. You want to walk out of here now, I’m fine with that.”

I shook my head. “And what? Run away? You tried that. I tried it, when I went to Europe. All our problems were waiting for us when we got back.”

Boone considered this. “Maybe that’s our problem.”

“What?” I asked.

“Coming back.”

I looked around the party. At my mother, silently living with secrets for what she no doubt thought was my own good. At my father, who was trying to make my choices as well as Tess’s. At the faceless club friends and gym buddies, grown-up versions of the people who’d left me on the floor of a restaurant bathroom and never even bothered to call and check. I looked across the crowd at Suzanne Gardner, who let her only son fend for himself on the streets and still would not call him by his chosen name. Boone, who knew from hard experience who he should run away from, but had come back time and time again to me.

I set my wineglass down on the nearest flat surface and held out my hand.

“Then let’s go.”

He stared at my hand, then took it. “Okay.”

As we headed for the door, I asked, “Was your father really kidnapped by pirates?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you sometime.”

“It sounds like a screenplay.”

“I have the feeling everything sounds like a screenplay to you.”

I smiled at that. Maybe. Maybe it was.

As soon as we were outside, I headed across the lawn toward his truck in my parents’ driveway. But right there on the border between the two properties, he stopped me, pulling back. “Are you serious about not coming back?”

“I’m done.” I shook my head. “I’m just done. Your mom is throwing a party to show off that beautiful patio, but she’s embarrassed that you’re the person who built it. My parents won’t even listen to me talking about the one thing that would actually make me excited about school.”

The sun was setting over the treetops, bathing the lawn and Boone in a delicious, rosy light. The magic hour, as filmmakers called it. The hour it had been the first time I was with Boone.

“You’re right,” he replied. “It sucks.” He looked more gorgeous than ever right now. My bit of rough. My trusted friend. My man, if I dared enough.

“And you’re right. They aren’t going to change. We come back because we love them, and we want them to love us. But they can’t even begin to love us if they refuse to accept who we are.” I took a deep breath. “Like you love me. Like I love you.”

Boone’s eyes widened. “Hannah—”

“Maybe I’m not ready, or I’m too screwed up to do it right, but I know what I want, Boone. I want you.”

He was silent, staring at me, his bright eyes alight with some emotion I was too terrified to name.

I swallowed, suddenly unsure. “Do you—is that okay?”

“Okay to want me?” He smiled.

“Okay to love you.”

He caught me up in his arms. “Say it again.”

“I love you, Boone.”

“I love you too, Hannah.” He kissed me. “The rest we can just figure out as we go.”