“Scratchy” was Em’s response. “Want swimsuit. Now.” All winter, Grandpa—and sometimes Dad, freer once Castle’s closed down—took him to swim at the Y in White Bay. Em can dive now, clean and clear into the water, coming up with a smile. And Hideout smells like chorine.

I edge out farther along the grass, looking back at the tent, the swath of lawn, the gray-shingled mansions and the low ranch houses. Seashell.

All the things that stay the same . . . and everything that’s changed.

It was an uneasy truce for a while, all of us adjusting, our shifting alliances. But, in its way, it’s all happened before, and it’ll all happen again. Summer turning to fall, crisp breezes replacing warm salty ones. Corridors and classrooms and indoor pools replacing sandy paths to the ocean, replacing the boathouse, fried clams at Castle’s, the wide open sea. My grandfather, a young man, flexing his muscles as he mows the lawns, whipping up his special lobster sauce. My grandmother, the daring young woman who drove too fast into town, the distance between summer people and island people shorter than the causeway, only as long as it takes to step across the invisible line that only exists if you insist on it.

“Hey,” Cass says, coming up next to me, jacket already off, sleeves already unbuttoned and rolled up. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

The B&T hired the jazz band (thank God not the barbershop quartet) and they’re smoothly playing the lush old-fashioned songs I know so well from Grandpa Ben, the mellow music drifting softly into the night, out over low tide.

Cass is a better dancer than I am—not hard—but we know how, we know now, how to move together, so he dips and twirls me to the music, dance steps I never knew before.

“You’re leading,” he breathes against my cheek.

And I am. “Sorry,” I whisper.

“S’okay,” he says. And it is.

By chance, and maybe a little bit by design, we’re going to the same university, State College. He to study cartography, me, thanks to a Daughters of Portuguese Fishermen scholarship (granddaughter, really, but Grandpa Ben talked his way around the logistics), to study English lit.

I love you, you know, I told him, that night at the Field House. Sort of fiercely, in this aggressive tone I immediately wished I could take back—a challenge more than an admission.

But Cass gets it. He gets me.

“I do,” he said simply. And I knew he did. That that was true.

The old-fashioned music fades away, starts into something jangly and current. Cass pulls my hand and we head farther out into the grass, to the top of Beach Road where we can see everything—ocean, land, even a hint of the causeway far, far off. And I can glimpse it all, trace the path we’ve come along, like the lines on a map. Four kids lying on the sand, fireworks as bright as shooting stars. Two friends on the dock, looking out at the unknown. A little boy leaping for his life, an older one doing the same. A firefly glowing in the night, caught by a boy who shows it to a girl. This girl bending to that boy’s kiss. An old woman who hasn’t forgotten what it was like to be a young one, leaning back on her glider, rocking her feet against the floorboards, looks out over the water, the ocean that changes and never changes. Horizons that seem like endings but only bend farther into the sky, curving into something new, beginning all over again.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Published Book Two is a whole different experience than book one. Most of all, this time around I am incredibly aware of how much talent, hard work, and goodwill go into making my manuscript into the book you hold in your hands.

Thanks beyond the scope of words to:

My family and friends. Father, the best of men, Georgia, the best of stepmothers, my brother Ted and sister deLancey, all my Thomas cousins, Patricia and Kramer, my Concord buddies and friends far and near, who gave me sailing tips, and Colette, Matthew, and Luke. Because because because.

Christina Hogrebe, my savvy, smart, and incredible agent, who works tirelessly to ensure that no one puts Baby (in the form of either my books or me) in a corner. And Meg Ruley, Jane Berkey, Annelise Robey, Christina Prestia, Andrea Cirillo, Danielle Sickles, and Liz Van Buren . . . all my friends at JRA.

To Jessica Garrison, whose story sense and editorial expertise are matched by her dedication and kindness, and who more than once worked over vacations and into the wee hours of the night (2:30 a.m. editorial letters, honest) to make this story as good as it could be.

To Vanessa Han and Jasmin Rubero, for making WITWT beautiful outside and inside. To Molly Sardella, who threw her heart into promoting My Life Next Door. To Jackie Engel, Doni Kay (and the entire awesome Penguin sales team), Lily Malcom, and Claire Evans, for their support and enthusiasm for this book. Donne Forrest and Draga Malesevic, who work hard to send my books beyond borders. To Regina Castillo—fortunately my copyeditor once again, who ensures my grammar, my story logic, and that Cass’s shirt won’t change color—or cease to exist—mid-scene. And huge thanks to Lauri Hornik for her faith in me and my books. And Kristen Tozzo, who kept this baby on schedule.

Virtual bouquets and champagne toasts to everyone in CTRWA, the best friends any writer could ever have, who provided everything from computer savvy to handholding to plot suggestions at a moment’s notice. And most especially to the plot monkeys: Karen Pinco, Shaunee Cole, Jennifer Iszkiewicz, and Kristan Higgins, who radiate imagination and general awesomeness, and who make me laugh until my stomach hurts on a regular basis. You all kept me from the looming danger provided by a certain dwarf.

And yeah, about that Kristan Higgins. You, my friend, get a double dose of thanks. I could not have gotten through this one without your suggestions, your reads, your advice, your borrowed bling, and your endless kindness: true friend, mentor, muse, fairy godsister, and just the person who, like her books, always makes me laugh. And cry.

Also my beloved Gay Thomas, a friend for life, and Jessica Anderson, both of whom read and counseled and calmed when I’d completely lost all perspective on this book.

The eternally awesome Apocalypsies, the talented team whose books, warmth, and wisdom rocked 2012 and kept me as sane as possible. The best club of all.

MLND, WITWT, and I owe the world to the bloggers, readers, booksellers, teachers, and librarians who so tirelessly read and recommend for the sheer love of a good story. Thank you for reading, for writing reviews and blogs and letters, and for caring.

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