Remembering our earlier conversation and hoping I’d get points for trying, I ventured, “Eight?”

“Know when to fold ’em, kid.” My dad shook his head and started to head back to the kitchen. “You can walk him to his car.”

“Uh,” Clark said. “That’s great, except my car is outside that gate thing.”

“Why?” my dad asked, sounding baffled.

“Well, there was nobody inside the gatehouse,” Clark explained. “There was a note saying they’d be back in five. So I just parked outside and walked. I didn’t want to be late.” He gave me a tiny smile, and I felt the forgetting-our-date guilt hit me once again.

My dad shook his head. “Andie, remind me to have a conversation with the Neighborhood Council about what passes for security around here.”

I nodded quickly. “Totally. So . . . can I still walk Clark to his car?”

My dad looked between me and Clark for what felt like an eternity before he finally nodded. “Fine,” he said. He raised his eyebrows at me. “No driving anywhere. And be back before seven a.m. this time.”

“Fine,” I said grudgingly, and then a second later, added, “I mean, thanks.” My dad nodded, then walked into the kitchen again, tapping his watch as he went.

? ? ?

I looked over at Clark as we crossed from the driveway onto the road. It was a long summer twilight, like the sun was fighting to stay around as long as possible, even as it slowly, steadily, got darker.

“So,” Clark said, nodding toward the street we were approaching. It was the main street that wound through Stanwich Woods, the one that carried you past the gatehouse and around in a circle, until you returned to where you came from. “Want to show me around?”

I hesitated for just a second. It had seemed like my dad was giving me permission to stay out a bit longer, with his seven-a.m. comment. “Sure,” I said as we walked onto the main road, gesturing for him to follow me. “Though there’s not all that much to see.”

“Well, I doubt that,” Clark said, falling into step next to me. We were walking a little closer than I did with most people. I could have reached out and touched him easily, not even needing to extend my arm.

“Welcome to Stanwich Woods,” I said, doing my best imitation of Toby’s docent voice. “As you can see, actual woods were torn down to make it, but at least they acknowledged them with a nifty name.”

Clark turned to me, his eyebrows raised behind his glasses. “I guess you don’t like it here?”

I looked around as we took the curve in the path. To our left was a pond, complete with tiny, picturesque footbridge and weeping willow hanging over it. The streets were almost empty of cars, and in the houses we passed—all looking vaguely alike—I could see lights on in the windows and families sitting down to eat, people going about their evenings. The streets curved gently, and the wrought-iron streetlights arched over the road from either side, guaranteeing that when it was dark enough, the evening joggers and dog walkers would be able to see just fine. But you couldn’t see the stars here like you’d been able to at our farmhouse. “It’s fine,” I said after a moment of walking next to Clark in silence. Somehow, without even really being able to say how, I knew he’d wait until I was ready to answer him. And I didn’t feel the impatience coming off of him the way I sometimes did with Topher when I was taking too long to gather my thoughts. I could somehow tell that Clark would be happy to walk next to me in silence until I knew what I was going to say. “We used to live way out in backcountry,” I finally said, by way of explanation. “And then we moved here, after . . .” I hesitated for just a second, then made myself continue. “After my mom,” I said quickly, not letting myself linger on any of the words. “And it just seems so fake. Like the idea of what a picturesque village once looked like.”

Clark glanced over toward the duck pond, which was free from ducks at the moment. “I don’t know. If you ask me, living way out in the middle of nowhere is overrated.”

“How far were you from civilization?” I asked as we followed the curve in the road, and I took a tiny step closer to him—so small that even Clark might not have noticed it.

“An hour to the nearest gas station,” he said. “Two and change to the closest real town.”

“Wow,” I said, shaking my head. “That is far.”

Clark laughed. “Tell me about it. I got to see, like, two movie-theater movies a year.”

“Don’t tell my friend Bri that,” I said, smiling at him. “She’d make you get caught up on your film history, decade by decade.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad,” he said, giving me a shrug. “I’ve got some time on my hands this summer.”

The comment hung in the air between us, and I noticed there was just an edge of bitterness to it.

“So, about your book,” I said after a moment of silence in which I tried not to notice how close together our hands were, both swinging by our sides as we walked. Clark didn’t say anything, and I was about to change the subject, start talking about something easier . . . but then I remembered how patient he’d been, walking next to me, and I bit my lip, forcing myself to keep quiet as I walked next to him. I didn’t know how exactly, but I could tell he was trying to find the right words.