His voice was so hollow then that Ellie could think of nothing more to say. Her heart was still pounding, and she kept a hand on the doorknob to steady herself.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “Maybe I should have said something. But believe me, I wasn’t trying to make you look stupid.” He paused, flashing a little grin. “You could never look stupid.”

In spite of herself, Ellie smiled at this. She studied him there in the dim lighting, trying to work out whether he was being genuine or whether he was just a genuinely good actor. She could see a thin moon-shaped scar just above his left eyebrow, and with a jolt, she remembered him telling her about this; it was from when he’d jumped off the roof of a van. At the time, she’d been picturing a sandy-haired boy in a leafy suburb, and then an older version of that same gutsy kid, more self-conscious now, perhaps even a little bit nerdy, but with a hint of his former boyish grin as he parked himself behind a computer to open her e-mails.

Now she closed her eyes and tried to edit this image, placing Graham Larkin there instead, writing about his mother’s oatmeal cookies and his obsession with Wii tennis and his complete inability to throw his socks in the laundry basket at the end of the day.

All this time, it had been him.

All this time, she suddenly realized, he’d been writing to her too.

She opened her eyes, and her hand slipped from the doorknob. The screen rattled, and from the other side of it, Bagel scrambled to his feet with a gruff bark, and then another. Ellie turned to placate him, but it was too late. Through the screen, she could see Mom’s bare feet on the stairs, and seconds later, she was standing beside the door in a pair of moose boxers and an I

“He needs to go out, El,” Mom said.

“Give me a minute, okay?” Ellie asked, flashing her a meaningful look that seemed to get lost through the screen.

“What’s up?” Mom said, pushing the door, and though it opened only partway, Bagel slipped out and went barreling over to Graham. Ellie gave up with a sigh, and Mom stepped outside too, her mouth forming a small circle of surprise.

Graham was stooped to greet the dog—who had rolled onto his back in sheer joy over the prospect of meeting someone new—but now straightened and extended his hand.

“I’m Graham Larkin, Mrs. O’Neill,” he said. “I’m sorry to come by so late.”

Ellie was waiting for Mom to make a joke about how nine o’clock is the Henley equivalent of midnight, or how Bagel was always happy to receive guests at this hour. But instead, her eyes strayed out to the yard behind them, raking the darkness for signs of anyone else, and Ellie shifted uncomfortably.

“He just stopped by…” she began, but wasn’t sure how to finish that particular sentence.

“I just stopped by to introduce myself,” Graham said, looking suddenly boyish, less like a movie star and more like a regular kid caught out after curfew. “But I guess I should get going.”

Mom forced a smile, her instinct for customer service kicking in despite her wariness. “Well, it was nice to meet you,” she said. “And welcome to Henley.”

“Thanks,” he said, then nodded at her shirt. “So far, I heart Maine too.” His eyes slid across the porch to find Ellie’s. “I’m really glad someone told me about this place.”

Then, with a little wave, he turned and walked down the porch steps and out into the dark of the yard. Bagel threw his head back, letting out one crisp bark that seemed to echo across the quiet neighborhood for far too long. Mom was staring at Ellie, waiting for some sort of explanation, but it was hard to imagine what she might say. All she could think about was that she was the one who had brought him here.

And suddenly, she was really glad too.

From: GDL824@yahoo.com

Sent: Sunday, June 9, 2013 9:28 PM

To: EONeill22@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: what happy looks like

Meeting new people.

From: EONeill22@hotmail.com

Sent: Sunday, June 9, 2013 9:43 PM

To: GDL824@yahoo.com

Subject: Re: what happy looks like

You already said that one.

Graham was only half listening as his manager strutted around the trailer like some sort of demented rooster, flapping the morning’s newspaper with one ink-smudged hand.

“Is this why you wanted to come early?” asked Harry, tossing the paper onto the table beside where Graham sat slouched in a folding chair. The trailer was small, with little more than a miniature dining area and a tiny changing room with a costume rack that had been set up by a wardrobe assistant. For the past two years, Graham had worn things like top hats and capes and dark robes with velvet lining. But this film was a contemporary love story, and the clothes hanging nearby weren’t a whole lot different from his own: board shorts and solid-colored T-shirts and flip-flops. He wondered if he’d be able to keep some of them at the end. There were few things he hated more than shopping.

He peered over at the picture in Page Six of the New York Post, which was taken from a distance, but clearly showed him at the Lobster Pot with Quinn. She was turned to the side, so that all you could see was a curtain of shiny hair, but there was Graham across from her, leaning over intently. If he had to guess, it was probably the moment he learned she wasn’t Ellie. There was only a small caption beside the photo, which read “Larkin’s New Love?” and a one-paragraph article that Graham didn’t bother to read.

“No,” he said truthfully, and Harry fell into the other chair with a sigh.

When Graham first signed with him, Fenton Management had been up and running for only a few years. Before that, Harry had been an entertainment lawyer who had grown tired of contracts and fine print and thought he might have a knack for managing the careers of actors instead. His first client was a round-faced, bespectacled kid from a popular sitcom, and after that, he’d somehow scraped together a decent roster of young actors with dubious levels of talent.

Before Graham had signed the contract for the trilogy, back when the casting was still under wraps and nobody could have known how quickly his star would rise, Harry had been the only one willing to take a meeting with him. Graham would always be grateful for that, for his faith in him, a completely untested high school kid whose only credit was a middling performance in Guys and Dolls. Now he was by far Harry’s biggest client, and in addition to the usual amount of time and attention this position merited, it also seemed to have earned him an often grumpy, middle-aged shadow while on location.

“This is bad,” Harry was saying, running his hand through what was left of his hair in a worried manner. “You can’t just waltz into a town like this, ask out the first girl you see, and then leave her high and dry.”

Graham looked over. “Is that what the story said?”

“No,” he said with a shrug. “But word’s out.”