I shook my head, smirking. ‘You two have a strange relationship, Wynn. One of these days, you’re gonna have to tell me about it.’

‘Whatever, man,’ he said, dismissing the subject of Pearl Frank. ‘Any new adventures for you? Threesomes? Orgy parties? Cougar professors sexually harassing you?’ He waggled his brows, hopeful.

I ran my teeth over the ring in my lip and shook my head, laughing. ‘You know I’m studying or working all the time.’

‘Yeah, man – your hundred and one jobs. You can’t tell me you don’t take T-and-A timeouts, just to break the monotony.’ He glanced behind us at the growing crowd. ‘You’re too damned picky or I’d suggest one or two of the girls in this bar. What about that tutor job? Any hot chicks needing supply and demand demonstrated at close range?’ I stared into my beer for one second too long, and he slapped his hand on the table and leaned closer. ‘Maxfield, you son of a –’

I put my head in my hands. ‘I’m kinda getting over something. Or trying to.’

He was quiet for about five seconds. ‘One of those students you tutor?’

Fuck me – how did he know that? But Boyce always knew. I nodded.

‘Hmm. Knowing you – and I do – that sucks ass. If it was me? I’d be all over that shit. Just as well I’ll never be anyone’s tutor. Or boss.’ He tossed back the last of his tequila and signalled the waitress for another round. ‘See, me – I need to get hired by some hot chick so I can be the one being harassed.’

In one flash, I imagined Jacqueline and me swapping positions – if she were the tutor and I were the student. If I’d been a high-school-senior bass player to her college-girl bass tutor … Every muscle in my body contracted and hardened. Goddamn, I would seduce her so fast her head would spin.

The waitress thumped our second round down and Boyce laughed and clinked his shot glass to my frosted pint glass. ‘To whatever you’re thinking, dude. That’s the look of a guy who’s gonna get him some. Anything I can do to help?’

I shook my head, startled at the intensity of that one-minute fantasy.

That’s what it was, of course. A fantasy.

Two more weeks of economics classes. Two more self-defence modules. Over.

When Boyce was driving me back last night, I caught the altered sign of the Bait & Tackle, which had added ‘Coffee & Wi-Fi’ to its name. I could imagine old Joe painting the sign extension himself – which is exactly how it looked. I thought about stopping by, signing into my campus email to see if Jacqueline had written to me. To Landon.

Once I thought about her – home alone, parents skiing, dog boarded, I couldn’t stop worrying. I reminded myself that we’d travelled in opposite directions for this break. She went four hours north while I’d meandered four hours south. If she was in trouble, there was nothing I could do about it.

If she was fine, I could relax. All I had to do was check.

But I’d left her standing in front of the language arts building three days ago, when I’d made the decision to suspend this craving, at least for the break. If I texted her now, everything would start all over. That wouldn’t be fair to either of us.

Then Caleb fell asleep on my bed after eating at least two pounds of turkey and double helpings of everything else. Dad, Charles and Cindy were all glued to a closely contended football game I couldn’t focus on at all, and Carlie whined, twice, ‘I’m so boooorrrred.’

My convictions vaporized and I volunteered to accompany Carlie on an exploratory drive around town. Her father happily surrendered the keys to his SUV. We rolled down the windows and I submitted to a pop station in exchange for stopping at the Bait & Tackle & Coffee & Wi-Fi.

‘That’s a mouthful,’ Carlie said, one brow angling with the sort of superiority only a sixteen-year-old girl can deliver. Once inside, she observed, ‘This place is like a stage set. Are they for real with these flowery chairs?’ Her opinion of the coffee: ‘Blech. It tastes like fish.’

She checked out the souvenir shelves while I signed on and encountered a dozen useless emails, but nothing from Jacqueline. Landon had no plausible excuse to write to her. There was no worksheet to send. No upcoming quiz. So I described the new-and-improved Bait & Tackle, and above my usual signature, LM, I added a casual: You’re locking and alarming your house every night, right? I don’t mean to be insulting, but you said you were going to be home alone.

I stalled for fifteen minutes, but she didn’t answer.

Carlie, all out of pithy observations on the décor, purchased a bright pink T-shirt with bait written across the chest – which her mother would probably confiscate immediately – and a snow globe containing sand-coloured ‘snow’ and a tiny replica of the original Bait & Tackle, sans coffee and Wi-Fi.

‘C’mon, Lucas, let’s go sit on the beach,’ she said. ‘If there are cute boys my age in this town, they are definitely not in here.’ I decided not to inform her that cute boys her age would be unlikely to come anywhere near her if I was there.

Six hours later, my phone’s screen cast a greenish light in my pantry cocoon. My willpower was depleted.

Me: When will you be back on campus?

Jacqueline answered seconds later: Probably Sunday. You? I took a breath, relieved. She was okay. I told her I’d be back Saturday, and out of nowhere I added: I need to sketch you again, and told her to text me when she got back.

Friday, Dad and I took Charles and Caleb out on the boat while Carlie and Cindy sat on their rental’s porch, drinking virgin daiquiris and reading. After we got back, I borrowed Dad’s truck and headed to the Bait & Tackle. Jacqueline had replied to Landon’s email minutes after we’d texted. My smile over the fact that she was engaging the security system every night didn’t last long.

I spent the day at my ex’s, she wrote. He wanted to see her Saturday to talk. I could guess what kind of talking he wanted to do. I shut the laptop without replying.

When Caleb announced that he had a science-fair project outline due Monday – and he hadn’t chosen a subject yet, the Hellers decided to head back Saturday morning. Dad had booked an all-day fishing tour anyway, so we said our goodbyes before dawn, and I was back home by noon.

I pulled up Jacqueline’s email again, imagining that she might spend the evening – if not the night – with Kennedy Moore. He’d treated her like she was expendable, replaceable, when she was so far from either. She was stronger than she knew, but her relationship with him had made her weaker. She’d accepted his view of her. She’d followed his dreams, and not her own. She’d let him change her name, and who knew what else about her.