Chapter 2
It took forever to clean up the mess. I filled three garbage bags with trash, clogged up the vacuum, and scraped dried paint
off the floor. Tossed a bag of dog kibble—I’d never owned a dog in my life—and filled up the washing machine. There wasn’t
anything I could do about the broken window today, so I did my best to cover it with cardboard and tape.
When I sat down on the sofa to rest, despite all my hard work, all I could see was my nana’s kind eyes staring back at me
from a photo on the table, and I knew she’d be utterly upset if she walked in here and saw things in this state. What if I
hadn’t come home this summer? Would this place even be standing by the end of the year? I felt violated on Nana’s behalf,
but instead of indignation, I just felt empty. And sad.
Bits of memories surfaced . . . Nana cooking stew in the kitchen. Swaying me in the rocking chair, which was now broken. Laughing
with joy when I got into Harvard. All the grief I’d been keeping in check suddenly breached my defenses, and I held my face
in my hands and sobbed.
How can I be in this house without you?
I worried coming back home would be hard, but I was wholly unprepared. Because for a long time that afternoon, while I wallowed on the sofa, it felt like the past year in Cambridge had been a fantasy to distract me from my loss. My heart broke all over again.
When I finally pulled myself together, I surveyed the remaining damage in the cottage.
All of this was Seb’s fault.
I swear to God, I’m going to kill that boy.
Seb Jansen was a walking, talking tornado. An absolute disaster. At least, he used to be. I hadn’t laid eyes on him for .
. . two years? Since we were seventeen—Seb’s seventeenth birthday, in fact. He got sent off to a military boot camp for troubled
teens that day, right before our senior year was about to begin, and he hadn’t been back since. Not that I’d heard, anyway.
My friendship with Seb soured long before boot camp, when he decided he’d rather spend his days stirring up trouble with the
local criminal element, the Vanderburg boys, than hanging out with the Wags.
I was surprised he was in town now.
Trashing a cottage is something the old Seb might do, but not this cottage. Not my grandma’s house. Nana loved Seb, and he loved her. He’d spent half his childhood here.
Why would he do this to me?
I dreaded confronting him, but there was no way I was letting this slide.
Other than knocking on his father’s door, I had no idea how to track him down.
Wiping the remaining tears from my cheeks, I lost my mind and left a voicemail for Jazmine that I instantly knew I should’ve deleted, angrily asking if she knew about the state of the cottage.
Then I left another one, apologizing for the first. And when the sun began setting, I realized that I hadn’t had anything to eat all day except dry airplane cookies and a Coke.
So I gave up on cleaning, slipped on my favorite old pair of cutoff jeans, and headed out the back door.
Everything looked okay outside, thankfully. A wide porch was attached to the back of the house, with steps leading down to
the beach, and at the bottom of them, the trunk of a long-dead tree that had been carved into a great blue heron. When I was
a kid, all my friends called it “Mr. Legs” because they seemed to go on forever. Mr. Legs stood as sentry to the porch, and
sometimes people walking down the beach would stop and take photos of him.
Heron Cottage is about a quarter mile from civilization in either direction down the beach. To the south were a couple other
cottages that I could see from my narrow back porch, if I peeked around Nana’s giant porch swing. But when I hiked down the
steps onto sand, and walked in the opposite direction for five minutes, past a hill blocking the view of the town, I ended
up at Neely Marina, where all the rich folks docked their boats.
Owned by Jazmine Neely’s parents.
I’d spent more than my fair share of my childhood running the marina’s maze of docks and piers with Jazmine and the other
Wags. But it wasn’t where I was headed now. Right outside the marina’s entrance was a small ring of food trucks surrounding
a dozen picnic tables. A smattering of tourists and locals dined on burgers and fish tacos under strings of white lights while
a jangly classic rock song played over speakers.
I followed the scent of sweet cornmeal batter toward the mustard-yellow food truck parked at the far end of the circle, Patty’s
Pups. It was owned by Jazmine’s older sister, who, despite being in her late twenties, looked so much like my old friend that
the sight of her made me both happy and hurt. I still hadn’t heard back from Jazmine.
“Well, what do we have here?” Patty grinned down at me from the open window of the food truck, splotchy freckles smattering her light brown skin.
A bandanna that matched the yellow of the truck was tied tight around her head, binding springy curls.
“The big brain is back from Princeton, and she’s got bangs. ”
“Harvard,” I corrected, smiling back at her as I fiddled with my bangs. “And I’m not sure about them yet.”
“They’re different.”
High praise—typical Patty. “Still serving up the best corn dogs in Michigan, I see. Thought I was hungry before, but now I
really am. Smells like home!”
Patty’s mouth lifted into a pleased smile for a moment. Then she frowned. “Nuh-uh, I keep telling you guys, this is not your personal kitchen. I’ll let you have three on the house this summer,” she said, holding up fingers. “After that, you’re
paying—I’ve got the same deal with Jazmine. This isn’t gonna be a repeat of last summer.”
No Malone in my family tree would dare turn down free food.
“Fine. I’ll take one now, extra mustard.”
Patty nodded, and while she dunked a hot dog into cornmeal batter, I grabbed several napkins from the metal counter. “Speaking
of, I’ve been trying to get in touch with Jaz all day. Is she at the marina? She was supposed to pick me up from the airport
. . .”
One brow shot up. “And she didn’t?”
I shook my head. “She isn’t mad at me, is she?” Honestly, I couldn’t understand why she would be. We kept in semi-regular
touch over the past year. Texting. Commenting on socials. A few phone calls. When I told her my summer plans were changed
at the last minute to come home, she seemed so excited.
Her sister squinted at me with a little suspicion. Was I missing something?
“Not that I’m aware,” Patty finally said, using tongs to lower the battered corn dog into hot fat. “However, Jaz has been,
shall we say, struggling a little lately.”
“Struggling?” That alarmed me. Jazmine hadn’t said anything to me about this. I knew we weren’t as involved with each other’s
daily grind like we were before I left for Harvard, but she was still my best friend. I would’ve liked to feel confident that
she’d reach out to me if she needed anything. But now I wasn’t so sure.
“You didn’t hear that from me. If she wants to share, she will . . .”
I nodded. “Of course.”
Patty shrugged lightly and clapped her tongs together. “She rarely comes down to the food truck anymore, unless our parents
threaten her with death. However, if you don’t need to get in touch with her tonight, she should be at work tomorrow, bright
and early.”
“Thanks,” I told her, when a flash of light caught our attention farther up the beach. A bonfire roared to life, and a crowd
of people cheered. “I thought the mayor put a stop to bonfires inside city limits?”
Patty signaled for a waiting customer to approach the counter. “Dock bros don’t care about rules.”
Dock bros were Haven’s version of a beach bum.
Their beach bonfires were legendary—not for parties, but as beacons that drew crowds to their version of a non-secret Fight Club.
Most of the crowd that ran with these guys were rowdy high school dropouts who liked to pretend they were the next MMA champions.
Some of them were scumbags with serious police records.
The highest in the food chain were the Vanderburg boys—a family who lived on a compound outside of town.
Daddy Vanderburg, otherwise known as Big Burg around town, was a “prepper,” one of those end-of-the-world, let’s-amass-guns-in-the-woods, fuck-society types.
If there was an illegal way to make money, he took part in it.
The Vanderburgs were not good and decent folk.
“Big Burg’s doing house arrest for manslaughter. Not sure if you heard.”
“Jaz told me a few months ago.”
“And Big Burg’s oldest, Paul? He got hauled off to jail a few days ago for drunk and disorderly,” Patty informed me, and then
added, “fighting your boy.”
She didn’t have to say his name. I knew from the way she arched a brow that she meant Seb. Who else did I know in this town
who would be fighting on the beach? None of my actual friends, that’s for sure.
“He hasn’t been ‘my’ boy for years,” I complained when she set the freshly fried corn dog into a paper food tray and slid
it across the metal counter. “Last I heard, Seb was practically Paul Vanderburg’s shadow. Are they on the outs now?” To be
fair, I hadn’t heard much of anything about Seb since he got sent away to boot camp two years ago.
“Apparently. Not sure what Seb did to piss off that crowd, but they don’t seem to be friendly anymore. Bet you a million bucks
he’s over there at that bonfire right now, about to get his ass beat again. If he keeps taunting the Vanderburgs, he’s going
to end up in jail,” Patty said, shaking her head. “Dammit, got a line forming. See you around, Paige.”