“Ta-da,” he said eventually, sliding it across the rough wood of the picnic table. Ellie propped an elbow on either side of it, and he could see only the top of her red hair as she studied it for what felt like forever.

Finally, she looked up at him. “Seems like a nice place to live.”

“Probably not as nice as Maine.”

“Except they have whoopie pies there,” she said, pointing to a squat building he’d labeled “Whoopie Pie Factory.”

“They have them here too,” he said. “Don’t worry, we’ll find them.”

“Aren’t you gonna sign your work?” she asked, nudging the drawing back over to him, and for a second, he hesitated, all the usual alarm bells going off in his head. But this was different; he knew she wouldn’t sell it online, or let it fall into the hands of bloggers or photographers or journalists, all the many wolves that paced the perimeters of his life. He scrawled his name across the bottom of the page, then started to fold it, matching up the corners, but she reached out and grabbed his hand.

“Don’t,” she said, and he stopped. But even so, she didn’t let go. Her hand felt hot against his, and it sent a jolt straight through him. After a moment, her cheeks flushed pink and she pulled away, turning to take a small book from her bag.

“You can’t fold it,” she said, holding the page between two fingers and slipping it neatly inside the cover of the book. “You’ll ruin it.”

“Doesn’t something have to be valuable first?” he joked. “Before it can be ruined?”

“Anything can be ruined,” she said with a little shrug as she rose to her feet.

Graham stood too, and as he did, the stone heart fell out of his pocket, rolling to a stop on the grass near the foot of the bench. Ellie was already making her way back toward the road, but he paused to pick it up, examining it for a moment before slipping it back into his pocket, where he hoped it would remain safe.

From: EONeill22@hotmail.com

Sent: Monday, June 10, 2013 6:32 PM

To: GDL824@yahoo.com

Subject: if you get lost…

I know you said you didn’t need directions, but in case you’ve forgotten, the address is 510 E. Sunset. It’s the yellow house on the corner. (Which, coincidentally, looks a little like the whoopie pie factory in your drawing…)

They parted at the top of Sunset Drive, and Ellie followed the road the rest of the way on her own. The sea air was heavy this evening, and a fog was rolling in, making everything look indistinct and slightly unreal. But she barely noticed; she was too busy thinking about the last few hours: the way Graham had looked up from his drawing, the way he’d grinned at her across the candy store, the way his hair curled slightly at the back of his neck as she followed him up the beach.

But mostly, she was trying to figure out why—at the time—she’d thought it would be a good idea to invite him over to her house for dinner tonight, and the fact that he’d actually said yes. Now the list of everything she needed to do before he arrived was running through her head like some sort of unending news ticker, and she was trying hard not to panic.

It seemed impossible that this might turn out well, but if there was even the slightest chance that it could, she’d need to make sure Mom left on time for her book club (for once), that the kitchen was clean (for once), and that Bagel got enough exercise beforehand so that he’d act like a beagle instead of a banshee (for once). And that was just for starters. There were about a thousand ways this could go horribly wrong. Hopefully there would be enough food in the house to make something resembling an actual meal. Hopefully Mom didn’t have inventory from the shop all over the living room. Hopefully the air conditioner had miraculously fixed itself while she’d been out.

Hopefully.

The road curved downhill, and she let the momentum carry her faster, her sandals slapping the pavement as she wondered what she could have been thinking. It was just that she couldn’t imagine going out to eat with him in town tonight; not with the photographers there, not after what happened with Quinn just the night before, not with everyone she knew keeping an eye on them. And so when he’d suggested the Lobster Pot again—half joking, she knew, but still—Ellie found herself inviting him over instead.

“I can’t promise much in the way of gourmet food,” she told him, “but I can guarantee there won’t be a lobster in sight.”

“Wow,” he’d said. “You really know how to sell a place.”

But he’d accepted. He was coming over. To her house. In one hour.

Ellie was already halfway up the driveway before she realized, with a start, that Quinn was perched on the porch swing, using one foot to rock back and forth as she examined her nails.

“Hey,” she said, looking up at the sound of footsteps. “Where’ve you been?”

“Out for a walk,” Ellie said, sitting down beside her. The swing creaked beneath their combined weight, and she remembered the two of them coming out here with blankets when they were little. They’d huddle together, pretending the bench was a boat, closing their eyes and letting the waves down the street complete the illusion that they were out at sea.

“Where to?” Quinn asked.

But Ellie knew that wasn’t what she really wanted to know. “With Graham,” she said quietly, looking at her sideways.

Quinn shook her head. “It still seems kind of unbelievable, doesn’t it?”

Ellie could think of nothing to say to this; it was true. The whole thing was nothing if not unbelievable.

“So I have about a million questions,” Quinn said, tucking her legs up beneath her on the swing. “How’d he first start e-mailing you? And really, how could you not tell me you were writing love letters to someone? I mean, even if you take Graham Larkin out of the equation, that’s still something I should know. I’m your best friend.” When she paused to consider this, her face darkened slightly. “Seriously, El. When did you become the kind of person who keeps secrets?”

Ellie looked away, unsure how to respond. Quinn had no idea that she’d gotten right to the heart of the truth about her. She didn’t realize that for the whole twelve years they’d been friends, Ellie had been doing just that: keeping secrets; at first, out of a promise to her mother, and then later, when they were older, out of habit or instinct or maybe both, a muffling of something too big to say out loud.

“I’m not…” she began, but trailed off. “I was going to tell you.”

“Yeah?” Quinn asked. “When?” There was a sudden hardness behind her eyes now. It was as if she’d known she was upset about something, but hadn’t until this moment been able to pinpoint just what it was.

“Soon,” Ellie said, swiveling to face her more fully. “I swear. I just didn’t know what exactly this was, or if it would turn out to be anything at all. I thought it was just some random kid on the other side of the country who I’d probably never meet.” She sighed. “I guess I didn’t know if it was real.”

“And now?”

She glanced down at her hands. Her thumb was smudged with gray from where she’d picked up the pencil Graham used for his drawing earlier. She fought the urge to take the piece of paper out of her bag and examine it again.