It was small and cluttered and shabby. The twelve years they’d lived there showed in the scuffed walls and the scarred wooden floor, the thin film of dust that coated every framed photo. The knob on the kitchen sink had been broken for so long they almost forgot there was something wrong with it, and it was hard to know when the white refrigerator had turned beige.

Her eyes darted around the room, and she pushed down a wave of alarm. How could she have thought this would be a good idea? He wasn’t just some guy; he was a movie star. His bathroom was probably bigger than their kitchen, his bedroom bigger than their whole house. Ellie had never been to California, but she imagined everything there as sleek and new, about a million miles away from this ramshackle place, the paint worn by the salt from the ocean, the porch sagging from years of wear.

She reached for her phone, thinking she’d e-mail him and change their plans. The idea of going into town and facing all those photographers was intimidating, but could it be worse than this? Having Graham Larkin stand on the cracked linoleum floor of their kitchen, eating leftovers out of their chipped bowls?

She knew there would be consequences if her picture ended up in the papers. Her mom would be furious, but it was more than that too: it was the possibility that someone might put two and two together. Their whole existence here was built upon a secret, and it would take only one mistake to ruin everything.

But behind her, the dog was drinking out of the bathroom toilet, and on the windowsill, the air conditioner groaned loudly before chugging to a stop.

Ellie bit her lip and stared at the phone in her hand.

But it was too late.

With a sharp bark, Bagel went crashing down the hallway, and a split second later, the sound of the doorbell rang out through the tiny house.

From: GDL824@yahoo.com

Sent: Monday, June 10, 2013 7:24 PM

To: EONeill22@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: if you get lost…

I’m on my way. (And trust me, I’m not lost.)

For the past hour, Graham had been wandering the streets of Henley. When he told Ellie he needed to run back to his hotel and check on a few things, he’d been lying. He just wanted to give her some time to get ready. The moment the dinner invitation had slipped out of her mouth, he could see that a part of her had wanted to take it back.

He should have told her not to worry, right then and there, as they stood at the top of Sunset Drive, the late-afternoon light coming through the leaves in a way that made the freckles on her nose stand out. He wished he’d told her that he’d grown up in a house not much bigger than hers, where the bathroom tiles were crumbling, and the basement smelled funny, and the stairs conducted a chorus of creaks and groans each time someone had the nerve to climb them.

He should have told her that his parents still lived there, only now, when he came to visit, his mother prepared the house as if for a stranger, some visiting dignitary or long-lost relative who might be impressed by flowers on the windowsill or neatly folded towels, all meant to disguise the true nature of the place, to make it unrecognizable when all Graham really wanted—all he was ever there for in the first place—was the exact opposite: to find his way home again.

But the words had failed him. He’d become so accustomed to keeping those sorts of thoughts to himself that he no longer seemed capable of sharing them at all.

In town, he walked with his head down, moving past small groups of tourists examining the menus outside of local restaurants. At the end of the street, the movie set was silent, the hulking trailers dark and empty. They’d long since wrapped for the day, but even so, Graham knew Mick would still be buzzing around somewhere, going over the script or checking on the equipment before tomorrow’s scene, which would be their first filming out on the water.

As he passed a hardware store with one of those old-fashioned mechanical horses out front, he noticed a sign in the window announcing the annual Fourth of July festival, and he paused to examine it more closely. Every year, it seemed, there was an all-day party in the town square, a concert and cookout followed by dancing and a fireworks display, and even now, Graham could almost picture it: the streets filled with people, kids running around with sparklers, the distant pop of firecrackers, and the swell of music in the air. It reminded him of the celebrations in his own hometown, and he was struck by the memory of all the parades he’d watched with his parents when he was younger, the three of them waving flags as the marching bands boomed past.

He was halfway down the block, heading in the direction of Ellie’s house, when it occurred to him that he’d still be in Henley then. The production wouldn’t be moving back to L.A. until a couple of days after the Fourth, and though Graham couldn’t remember the exact schedule at the moment—had, in fact, hardly even looked at it yet—he was sure they must have at least a little bit of time off during the holiday weekend.

Before he had a chance to think it through, he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed his parents. As it rang, the possibilities of the weekend expanded in his mind, and he found himself smiling at the idea of it. His parents had only ever visited him once on set, and that was right at the beginning, during one of his first scenes, which had been shot in a studio in L.A. They’d been hopelessly out of place, the two of them standing off to the side in their cable-knit sweaters and glasses, his mom shivering from the low temperatures in the studio, his dad squinting against the glare of the lights. During a break, his mother had given him a kiss on the cheek and explained that she wasn’t feeling well, and Graham watched them walk out the door with a leaden feeling in his stomach, a sense that something had already been lost between them.

But this would be different. He could show them around, impress them with his knowledge of the production, let them see him in action in a place where they’d be more comfortable. He’d take them on a tour of the town, buy them dinner at the Lobster Pot, bring them to the festival so that they could watch the fireworks together, just like they had when he was younger. Maybe he’d go fishing with his dad. Maybe they could even meet Ellie.

When the answering machine picked up—the same recorded message that had been on there for years—he snapped back, clearing his throat. “Hey, guys,” he said, then hesitated. “It’s me. Just wanted to see if you had plans for the Fourth. If not, I was thinking maybe you could come out and visit the set. You’d love it here. It sort of reminds me of home. And it could be fun for you to spend the weekend. I’m in Maine, by the way. Can’t remember if you knew that. Anyway, let me know what you think…”

He trailed off, then hung up fast, already feeling less certain of his plan. His parents hardly ever traveled. When Graham was a kid, they took exactly one family vacation a year, driving two hours to an oceanside motel, where they’d stay exactly three days before returning home again, pink-cheeked and sun-drunk from their hours on the beach. It wasn’t that they weren’t curious about the world; it was just that it was all they could afford on two teachers’ salaries.