Quint releases my hand. “I can design the flyers and posters.”

I shake my head. “No, that’s okay. I can do it. And I’ll call around to some local businesses. Maybe we can get a few sponsors for the cleanup. And I’ll check with the festival, too, see if they have room for one more tent and if maybe they’ll give us a discount on the rate, given our nonprofit status. And oh! I’ll order up buttons to give out to all the vendors! They can say something like ‘I support Fortuna Beach wildlife! Ask how you can, too!’” I start scrawling my thoughts on the notepad again. They’re coming so fast, my wrist is starting to ache by the time I’ve jotted everything down.

“Okay,” says Quint, slowly. “So what do you want me to do?”

“Nothing, for now. I’ve got this. You know what else? I’ll make up some stickers. I wonder if we can get them shipped here in time. But we can put them on all the festival trash cans, with cute little encouraging—”

“Prudence.”

I glance over at him. “Yeah?”

He opens his palms, a question in his eyes.

I blink. “What?”

“I’m perfectly capable of designing flyers and posters. And buttons and stickers, too.”

I open my mouth to respond but hesitate. I try again. “It’s okay. I’ll do it tonight. Get everything ordered and then—”

“While I do what, exactly?”

He no longer sounds happy. If anything, he’s starting to sound mad.

A little exasperated, I gesture toward the row of windows overlooking the yard behind the building, full of seals and sea lions. For the most part, their barking has become white noise, hardly noticeable, but every now and then something excites them down in the yard and sets them all off at once in a great noisy racket. “You have things to do here, don’t you? Pools to clean or whatever?”

“Oh. So I’m just the manual-labor guy?”

My brow furrows. “What are you talking about? I’m just saying—”

“You’re saying you don’t trust me.”

My jaw opens and closes again.

“You’re saying that you can do a better job. On your own. Without my help.”

I’m trapped. I know I’m trapped. He knows I’m trapped.

“Well … but that isn’t—”

His chair legs screech as he pushes back from the table and launches to his feet. “I knew this was a bad idea. I knew I would regret this.”

I gape at him. “Quint, stop it. This is what I do. I plan. I prepare. I’m a perfectionist. I like being in control of things. You know that! And seriously, what’s the problem? You’re off the hook! Go help your mom or … or do whatever else you do. I can handle this. Everybody wins.”

“No!” He spins back toward me. “Don’t you get it? This is the problem. You are the problem!”

The air leaves me as though I’d been kicked in the chest.

Quint drags a hand back through his hair. “Not … not you,” he amends. Letting out a guttural sound, he steps closer again and grips the back of the chair he abandoned. “Okay. You like to be in control. You don’t trust other people to help out, because you’re afraid they’re going to screw up. I get that … sort of. But I did not agree to work with you over this summer just to repeat biology class all over again. This”—he gestures between us—“isn’t going to work.”

This? What does he mean, this?

The biology project? The beach cleanup? Him and me?

“I’m sorry,” I say slowly, with a knife-sharp edge to my voice, because, darn it, I’m still smarting from that you-are-the-problem comment. “But I don’t understand what this is about. Two minutes ago, I thought we had a plan. We’re finally getting somewhere. And suddenly … what? I’m too much of a control freak and you can’t stand the idea of working with me or…?”

“Kind of. Yeah. Actually, that’s exactly what this is about.”

I gape at him, dismayed. Heat climbs up my neck and I slam my mouth shut. We stare at each other, and I think maybe he’s willing me to cave first, but this is too ridiculous. I’m offering to do all the work here. To make sure everything is perfect. So what if his pride is a little hurt? This is about what’s best for the center, not him!

Turning away, I start to gather together the papers, shuffling them back into an orderly pile as quickly as I can. “Fine. I wasn’t exactly thrilled to be working with you again, either.”

“Prudence—”

“No. Whatever. I wish you and the center all the luck in the world.”

Quint reaches forward and grabs the stack of paper out of my hands. “Would you stop messing with the papers and listen to me?”

“Why should I?” I yell, jumping to my feet. “So I can hear more about how difficult I am? How much you hated working with me? News flash, Quint! The last nine months weren’t exactly a joyride for me, either!”

“That’s not my fault!” he yells back.

“It is entirely your fault!” I make an angry sound and squeeze my fists tight. Please, Universe. Please bring your wrath down on him. For speaking to me this way. For making me feel like something’s wrong with me. For rejecting my ideas, my help, me. “If you weren’t so unreliable and irresponsible, then maybe I would be able to trust you! But how can I possibly know that you won’t screw it up?” I stomp my foot, a little petulantly, but I don’t care. “It’s just better if I do it on my own!” I snatch the papers from his hands. An edge slices through one of my fingers. “Ow!”

I throw the papers back onto the table and inspect the wound. Sure, it’s just a paper cut, but it’s a gnarly one. I cast a disgruntled look up at the ceiling, the sky, the universe. “Seriously?” I shout.

Quint huffs and turns his back on me. I think he’s going to storm away, which infuriates me more. I’m supposed to be the one storming away!

But he doesn’t leave. Instead, he opens a drawer, riffles around for a minute, and then comes back. He’s holding a box of bandages. He doesn’t look at me as he tears open the box, takes out a Band-Aid, and rips off the paper. He holds it out to me.

I snatch it away and tape it around my finger. I’m still simmering. I can tell that he is, too. But our last brash words have started to dissipate in the silence, and when Quint finally speaks, his tone is even, if still frustrated.

“I wanted to help with our assignments. But within the first two weeks, you were convinced that I was a useless lab partner. I took notes—you took better ones. I drew graphs—you went home and made digital pie charts. I measured the salt for that … that saltwater experiment way back when? And you immediately started remeasuring. You double- and triple-checked everything I did. At some point it became clear that nothing I did was going to be good enough, so why keep trying?” He shrugs at me, but the gesture is anything but nonchalant. “I stopped helping you with the lab assignments because you didn’t want help.”

I stand there, not saying a word, my jaw clenched. It feels like there’s a thundercloud brewing between us, preparing to let off a bolt of lightning, though I don’t know which one of us it’s going to strike.

“And yeah,” he continues, “I know I suck at spelling and I’m not a great writer or whatever, but I’m not useless. I mean, design stuff? Things like flyers and posters? I’m actually pretty good at that. You saw the paper, didn’t you?”

My shoulders loosen, just a little, as I think about his report. The columns, the footers, the fonts.

“Yeah, but I figured…”

He waits, daring me to finish that sentence.

I swallow. “I figured you just downloaded a free template or something.”

“Of course that’s what you figured.” He shakes his head. Sighs deeply. And collapses back into a chair. Not the chair he was in before. He leaves that one empty—a wall between us.

I press down on the Band-Aid, feeling the sting of the cut underneath, and timidly lower myself back into my chair as well.

“It wasn’t a template,” he said. “I’m not completely incompetent.”

“I didn’t say you were incompetent.”

He gives me a weary look. “Yeah. You did. Maybe not with words, but that’s what you’ve been saying all year.”

I swallow. Guilt is starting to scratch at my throat, and I’m finding it hard to hold on to my own anger when I can’t fully deny what he’s saying. The truth is, I did think he was incompetent. Or at least, not capable of working to my standards. And maybe I still feel that way.

“Look,” I say, trying to keep my tone even, “I’m not trying to be difficult. I just know that when I do something myself, then I’ll know exactly what I’m getting. I don’t have to stress out about it, and whether or not it’ll be done how I want it to be, or if it will be any good, or if it will be done on time. And yeah, I know my life would probably be a lot easier if I could just say, you know what? Who cares? They’re just flyers and posters. It’s not a big deal. Let someone else handle it. But I can’t. I can’t just accept…” I struggle to find the right words.

Quint finds them for me. “Crappy work?”

I flinch. “I was trying to find a nice way of saying it.”

He shuts his eyes, clearly disappointed.

“For the record,” I add, “the paper did look really nice. Nicer, probably, than even I would have done it.”

His lips twitch humorlessly to one side. “Thanks for that,” he mutters. “I’m sure it wasn’t easy for you to admit.” Then he sighs and looks at me again. “Prudence, I’m not asking you to accept crappy work. I’m asking you to accept that maybe, just maybe, I might be better at some things than you are. Like—that presentation board you’d made up? You definitely should have let me take care of that part.”