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The good news was that they had yet to test Jean’s theory about the effectiveness of a uniform shirt as camouflage.

There was a tense moment when a flash startled Charlie into ducking behind a tree trunk, until Jean convinced him it was a random tourist taking a picture of the waxing moon, even though it would inevitably wind up looking like a watery tennis ball.

Despite the near miss, Charlie was like a little kid hunting Easter eggs, breaking into a run when he spotted the final arrow pointing him toward a winding trail through the brush.

Jean ripped off the tape and wadded it up, shoving it in her pocket as she jogged around behind him to the main path, which was wide, direct, and well lit. By the time Charlie made it through the trees, she was waiting for him on the secluded beach, arms stretched wide.

“Ta-da!” she said, trying not to sound winded.

His face lit up. “I was hoping the treasure would be you.”

“What? No. Look at your map.”

“A river of silver,” he read, eyes moving from the page to the ribbon of moonlight shimmering on the dark surface of the water. “I like that. It’s very poetic.”

She sketched a bow. “Thanks. But the actual prize is the picnic. Although I should have brought a blanket. Or one of your many towels.”

“It’s perfect like this.” He set the basket at her feet, folding his long legs as he dropped to the ground.

During the day this spot would be full of snorkelers and sunbathers in tropical print swimwear purchased for the occasion, sucking in their stomachs as they posed for photographic proof of how much fun they were having.

Jean liked that Charlie didn’t act as if he were starring in his own reality TV show, beaming crucial updates to the world.

And also that he had a little padding around the midsection, in contrast to his skinny limbs. It gave her something to hold on to.

“You’ll be singing a different tune when you’re trying to get the sand out of your butt crack.” She handed him a sandwich and the thermos of wine. “Speaking of poetic.”

“We could go in the water and swish around a little.”

Jean swallowed a mouthful of bread. “I wouldn’t.”

“Too cold?” he guessed.

“Too sharky.”

Charlie was quiet for several long moments. “I’m scared of sharks,” he finally admitted.

“Yeah.” She lightly thumped the side of his head. “As you should be. Even snakes are probably scared of sharks.”

“A black mamba can kill an elephant.”

“On land, sure.”

He turned to her with a curious look. “You think an elephant could outswim a snake?”

Always interesting, the detours and off-ramps of his mind. “I was thinking the snake wouldn’t be out there.” She gestured at the gently breaking surf.

“Snakes are good swimmers. Not even speaking of the aquatic and semiaquatic breeds.”

Jean shuddered. “Thanks for sharing. Like I need more nightmare fuel.”

He placed his napkin and waxed paper in the basket, then patted the space in front of him. Jean happily settled between his knees as he wrapped his arms around her from behind.

“I didn’t think you were scared of anything,” he said.

“Eh. I put on a good front.” She leaned back, resting her head against his shoulder.

He rubbed his cheek over her hair. “Were you ever not brave?”

Jean could hear him drawing a line between them, like they were sitting on opposite ends of a seesaw: Brave Jean on one end, Scared Charlie on the other.

“It’s not that I’m not afraid,” she said, swan diving off the pedestal he’d put her on. “I just don’t care about a lot of things that bother other people. Not including water snakes.”

“Isn’t that what being brave means?”

“I don’t think it should count unless you’re doing something that scares you . Being rude comes naturally to me, so why would I get a gold star for telling people off?”

Charlie hmm ed in her ear, like he wasn’t sure he agreed.

“Do you want to know how I know the difference between being brave and not giving a crap?”

“Yes,” he said at once.

It was not a story Jean enjoyed telling, even to herself. But he’d exposed his vulnerable parts to her (in more ways than one), so maybe she could give him this in exchange.

“When I was in high school—”

“I bet you were cute.”

“That’s beside the point. But yes. I was freaking adorable. Kind of like now, minus the confidence. Which is where the problem started.” She sat forward, picking up a piece of driftwood and dragging it through the sand. “There was a guy.”

Behind her, Charlie grunted.

“Spoiler alert, we hate him now,” she said, before he could get too jealous. Even though she kind of liked that he felt that way. “For context, my parents run a snack bar at a golf course.”

“Here?”

“Back in Wisconsin. Beer and pop and fried things with a couple of homestyle entrées like chili or spaghetti—anything ground meat–based—for people who don’t want to deal with a three-course meal up at the clubhouse restaurant.

That was more of a linen tablecloth place.

As opposed to picnic tables.” Jean recognized that the furniture was not an essential part of the narrative but some things you had to ease into.

“What’s the name of it? Their bar.”

“Bogey’s.”

“Like it says on your box of cards?”

It must be a scientist thing, that attention to detail. “I still have a couple of decks. From back in the day.” Or more accurately, she had one pack left from home, in a faded blue box. Which now lived on Charlie’s bedside table.

“It’s a golf term, but my parents also hung framed pictures of Humphrey Bogart. The actor, like from Casablanca .”

“With the white jacket, and the bowtie? He was cool.”

“Yeah, he doesn’t really give ‘loaded potato skins’ vibes but I guess maybe my mom thought he’d class up the joint.”

Charlie shifted behind her. “It sounds like you didn’t like it.”

“I didn’t like the pressure. My mother was always after me to smile and be polite and not draw weird cartoons on people’s bills or put hot sauce in the ketchup bottles. Basically, she wanted me to be less ‘me.’ Especially when I was working, which was most of the time.”

“Even when you were a kid?”

“Pretty much from the time I could carry a tray. That’s how I knew all the people my age whose families were club members, even though they went to the fancy private school. I guess even rich kids are impressed when you have unlimited access to a Coke machine.”

“I’m sure they liked you,” Charlie said. “With or without the soda.”

“Maybe.” She didn’t say but not enough because that would have given away the ending.

“It was fine until I got older, but eventually it started to turn weird, especially if I had to wait on them. Was it worse if they left me a tip and made me feel like a charity case, or straight-up stiffed me, like I was their bitch? It’s hard enough to know where you stand at fifteen or sixteen without bringing capitalism into the mix.

Plus I always worried I smelled like the fryer, from being there all the time.

You know how when you’re so steeped in something you can’t even smell it anymore?

I figured that was probably me and cheese fries. ”

Charlie’s hand settled on her back, more warmth than weight. She thought of telling him that her perfume habit dated from that stage of life but couldn’t bring herself to admit she hadn’t always smelled like tropical flowers.

“There was one guy in particular who was sort of a ringleader.” Jean forced out a laugh. “So of course that was who I decided I wanted to be with. If you’re going to dream, dream big.”

“What was his name?”

“You won’t believe me.”

“I always believe you. Even when you’re making things up.”

“Smithson Oliver Barrett. Smitty to his friends.”

“Like you?” Charlie asked.

“I thought so. For a while.” She shook her head.

Or maybe it was a shudder. “His great-great-grandfather made a fortune selling cheap beer to the masses, but supposedly they’d transcended their blue-collar roots.

Everything was all very hoity-toity. Golf and skiing and let’s pretend we’re on Downton Abbey, Midwestern edition.

‘Our beverage of choice is champagne.’ That kind of thing. ”

“Barrett as in Barrett’s Best?”

“Yep. The famous blue can of BB. Or as we called it, PP. Because that’s how it tasted. Although nobody said that in front of Smitty because he was rich and good-looking in that money way.”

Charlie reached past her, burying the base of his plastic cup in the sand. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Tan, straight teeth, expensive haircut. Maybe the eyes are a little small and the forehead bulges out, but everyone pretends not to notice because he’s young and cute-adjacent, in a generic way.

” She glanced back at Charlie, catching the tightness in his expression.

“Your hotness is totally unique, like an El Greco saint. Smitty was just okay, but that didn’t stop him from acting like his family was crafting luxury watches in a Swiss chateau instead of churning out the favored brewski of frat boys.

His parents were even worse. They treated him like royalty.

The heir apparent, on his aluminum throne. ”

She waited for Charlie to share her amusement, but his smile was strained. “Families,” he finally said, like that covered it.

“They cut both ways, don’t they? If I’d stopped to think, I would have realized that a girl with ties to the greasy appetizer business was never going to be good enough for the little prince.

But I wasn’t big on slowing down, so I totally blew off my parents when they tried to tell me I was ‘getting too big for my britches.’”

Jean traded her driftwood stylus for raking her fingers through the sand. “I’m sure you can see where this is going.” Maybe she could hand wave the rest, let him fill in the blanks.

“Well, I know you left there and came here, which is pretty far away from Wisconsin.”