Page 2 of Adrift

“Really. Quit it,” I snap at him, smacking his hand away. I button and zip up, hopping from one foot to the other to pull socks on. My T-shirt is inside-out, but who cares?

“Stay a little longer. I can call you a taxi,” he wheedles, and I snort a laugh.

I already told him earlier tonight that I live on a fucking island.

Dumb and hot is my type, but only if they keep their mouths shut… andtake less than a decade to finish plowing my ass.

“You really can’t.”

“I just want my dessert,” he tries to coax me as I pat down my pockets. “My… my hot little glazed Irish. Get it?”

My brows slowly furrow as I stare at him.

“Oh, that’s not the right one.” He stares at the ceiling in thought, and then he lights up. “A Danish! What’s the other one?”

“End me now,” I groan, ducking around him to shove my feet back into my shoes.

“Irish shortbread! Get it? Because you’re?—”

I turn around on my heel to give him a withering stare, my eyebrows creeping up. “Short and Irish?”

He’s just grinning back at me. “Yeah!”

Oh, fuck away off.

“Bye,” I tell him, yanking open the front door. I rush down the steps, closing it in his face. As much as I want to be pissedabout the whole thing, I’m laughing my ass off before I even reach the sidewalk.

It’s a lot harder to jog to the harbour when I’m giggling too much to breathe.

“Irish shortbread?” I gasp when I finally get to the harbour wall, bracing myself against it to wipe the tears out of my eyes. “Jesus wept.”

Men, right?

I wish I could swear them off. But I’ve tried, and it doesn’t work—they’re too irresistible. Even the big, dumb ones.Especiallythe big, dumb ones. I can’t help being so good at taking thebigand ignoring thedumb.

All I can do is swear at them afterward. Speaking of which, the ferry’s just entering the harbour mouth. If I miss it, I’ll invent brand-fucking-new words for probably-Brian.

Time to do the other thing I’m the best at… and get running.

I snort with laughter, clutching the stitch in my side as I take off for my own bed.

Chapter

One

GAGE

I’m standingin our orchard again.

Considering it’s been thirteen years—exactly half my lifetime—being here doesn’t feel as weird as I thought. And walking here from the ferry dock only took ten minutes. Either Sunrise Island is smaller or my legs are a lot longer.

“Down you go,” I grunt, swinging my backpack to the ground and leaning it up against the little white fence. Or what I think is the fence, under all the grass and blackberry brambles.

Then I pull out my precious yellow paper envelope and open it up, thumbing through the photos inside.

Decades flick past in a heartbeat. A few precious photos in grainy sepia, more in black and white, and then Dad’s Polaroids and a couple of Mom’s artsy point-and-shoot snaps.

And, of course, my most treasured possession: a map of the orchard, hand-drawn on aging paper. Even the Ziploc bag it’s tucked into is old enough to be in a museum.

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