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legs, at his feet. So he had nice ankles. So what? How could I be so shallow as to fall for someone because of his ankles ? Ankles didn’t mean anything. They just held you up. Shinbone connected to the anklebone connected to the footbone, etc.
    He was wearing the same Birkenstock sandals he wore last summer.
    Last summer . The last time I’d seen Evan, we’d stood outside on the docks at five A.M. , shrouded in fog, hugging each other, and I was crying because summer was over and he was catching the ferry and leaving the island to go back to Philadelphia.
    It was like something out of my grandmother Templeton’s favorite movie, Casablanca , which I must have watched with her at least ten times. Instead of the ferry, there should have been an airplane whirring its propeller blades behind us. We should have been in black-and-white, not color. And Evan should have been wearing a fedora hat and a trench coat, instead of a T-shirt and shorts and Birkenstocks, and talking about our problems not amounting to a hill of beans.
    What is a hill of beans, anyway?
    A hill of blueberries I could understand.
    Anyway, whenever I thought about that awful morning, I remembered Evan’s faded blue T-shirt, and pressing my face against his chest, how soft the cotton shirt was and how it smelled.
    I used to think Evan wore this really cool cologne, because he always smelled so good, no matter what. But it turned out to be his Ultimate Endurance antiperspirant.
    I could have used some Ultimate Endurance right about then.
    â€œWhat—what are you … doing here?” I stammered.
    â€œHey, you.” He slid off the freezer and wrapped his arms around my waist.
    And there it was. What it had taken me so many months to forget. That feeling. That scent. Us. Lying on the beach together. Swimming together. Walking together. Being together.
    â€œAre you … working here?” I finally managed to get out. “Or something?” My voice came out as a pathetic whisper, as if the words or something could ever be sultry.
    Without answering me, he stepped back and spotted Samantha standing behind me. “Hey you, too.” He gave her a quick hug, and she playfully kicked up her leg behind her as if this was her prom, or an end-of-World-War-II V-Day photo. Evan dipped her, lowering her toward the freezer, and they both laughed.
    Why was their hug more romantic than ours? No fair.
    Erica acknowledged him with a shy nod. “Hi.”
    â€œHey, Erica. How’s it going? What’s up?” Evan replied.
    He had the nerve to ask what was up . How about my pulse , buddy?
    â€œSo. Are you working here?” I asked. “Nobody said you were working here.” I can be a bit blunt when I’m feeling cornered.
    â€œWhat, am I required to file papers with the government?” Evan joked. “The island’s cracking down on outsiders?”
    No, I thought, but maybe they should be .
    â€œFunny, we were just talking about that,” Sam started to tell him.
    â€œBut … are you working here?” I asked again.
    Evan raised his eyebrows.
    â€œBecause, I mean, Trudy said you weren’t working here.” In fact, I think I asked her to swear to it in blood, like something out of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn . We had a pact, or at least I did. Since when did Trudy lie to me? I’d been working here for four years, and I couldn’t ever remember her lying to me. Well, except for that one time when she told me Saturday nights would not be “all that busy.”
    Evan shrugged. “I changed my mind. My other plans fell through—”
    â€œWhat other plans?” I asked.
    I couldn’t help feeling angry to see him again. He’d blown me off. He’d dropped me. Completely. Sure, we were hundreds of miles apart, and maybe it was pointless to have a long-distance relationship. But he could have kept in touch. He could have warned me he’d be here again. Not