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“You see, there isn’t one.”

“Naturally.” I didn’t make the reservation. Daniel did, and although he’s not usually one to fuck up, the stress of the past couple weeks didn’t only have an effect on me. I smile at Tiffany to let her know I’m not upset or blaming her for the mix-up.

“I can offer you an upgraded vehicle?” she says carefully, nudging my phone back across the counter with her fingertips. I look down at the miraculously disappeared reservation for a small, four-door sedan. She adds in a tentative voice, “But it will be a little more expensive.”

When I’m finally handed the keys to a rental, I’ve wasted enough of my driving time that I’m starting to once more regret the decision to leave now. Watching as my shiny new rental Jeep is brought around to the sidewalk, I rest an elbow on the handle of my bag and clutch my final energy drink like it’s the nectar of life. Even if I wasn’t going to sleep tonight, at the very least I could lie in a bed with my eyes closed. Oh well, it was too late to change course now.

“Thanks,” I say to the man who brought the vehicle around, watching sheepishly as he loads my luggage into the back. There is something ridiculously embarrassing about letting someone do something for you that you are perfectly capable of managing yourself.

Sitting in the driver’s seat, I adjust the mirrors, hook up my cell to the Bluetooth, and bring up a map app. It’s been seven years since I’ve been home—which, now that I think about it, might disqualify Siren’s Point from being home any longer. The realization curdles in my stomach, mixing unpleasantly with the energy drinks. I’m a little ashamed of the fact that I need the map at all.

I hadn’t been planning on staying away. Hell, I hadn’t even planned on succeeding in this career. The world is filled with artists skilled enough to make it big, but lacking that dynamic something to get them there. Even as an eighteen-year-old kid, I’d known my shot at success was a narrow gap, and I had very little hope of hitting it.

But hit it, I did, mostly thanks to Daniel and a one-in-a-million connection. The sleepy little fishing town of Siren’s Point had seemed so small and so far away when blinded by the sudden whirlwind of making it big on the art scene. I had never planned on being gone so long; never planned on stretching that first year away to seven. And now, flying down the interstate, Jeep pointed toward the coast, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing.

You need a break, Daniel had told me a week ago.We need a break.He was right, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe, instead ofimmediately booking a flight back to Siren’s Point, I should have taken the coward’s way out and gone to Cabo. Maybe found a long-term rental on a beach in Mexico or taken a monthlong safari in Africa. Maybe what I should have done is take a break somewhere where nobody knows my name or recognizes my face. Is home still home when you’ve neglected it for seven years? Or, more importantly, are the people who once loved you in that home still going to love you when you’ve neglectedthemfor seven years?

I think about blond hair and clear blue eyes, a scratchy laugh, and a lanky teenage body stuck between adolescence and adulthood. I think about loyalty and friendship and love, about whether any of those will have survived the seven years since I last spoke to Shiloh Lepage.

Leaving the radio off, I crack the windows when I start to see a bit of blue peeking around the edges of the map. Glancing at the dashboard, I watch my little GPS dot getting closer and closer. For the first time today, I feel a little bit of excitement fighting against the trepidation. I’m a grown man. I shouldn’t care whether a town of people I grew up with will welcome me back, any more than I should care what some random person on the internet thinks of my art. I continue telling myself this right up until the moment my phone rings, the sound offensively loud through the speakers in the car.Danielflashes across the dashboard screen.

“Hey,” I answer.

“You in a wind tunnel?” he asks. Peevishly, I roll up the windows. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone as dramatic asDaniel. Car sealed up, with no trace of fresh air to be found, he adds, “That’s better.”

“I’m driving,” I tell him, hoping it’ll get me off the hook for this conversation.

“I’m surprised you remember how.” I snort, because honestly, it is a little surprising. I don’t do a lot of driving in Los Angeles. A siren echoes through the line from his end. He adds, “How’s traffic?”

“Not bad,” I reply honestly. Considering both Daniel and I are used to the bumper-to-bumper traffic in LA, this is the smoothest drive I’ve had in years. Seven, to be exact. I clear my throat. “What’s up?”

“I checked in with the rental. They’re all ready for you to arrive.” He pauses, huffing a bit as he chuckles. “Get this—they left your key under the seahorse by the door, since you’re getting in late.”

I smile at the disbelief in his voice. Daniel grew up in San Francisco before relocating to Los Angeles. His world is locked doors, security cameras, and only knowing enough about your neighbors that you could identify them to the police. Leaving a key where anyone could find it probably sounds incredibly foreign to him. It probably sounds like asking for a crime to be committed, which in LA, it might be. In Siren’s Point, however, life has always moved a little slower.

“It’s a pretty safe place,” I explain. “There wasn’t a lot of crime when I was growing up. Just small stuff—kids vandalizing the school, tourists getting drunk and starting fights. That sort of thing. Poaching is the biggest problem around there.”

“Well, please don’t leave the key under the mat, Ewan. Things happen, but I’d really prefer we didn’t help it along the way.”

“I won’t.”

“You’re staying in the…Kelpie Kottage.” Another laugh as he reads something off his notes. I’m glad one of us is finding humor in my impending homecoming. “Kottage with aK, in case you were curious.”

I shake my head as he laughs, reaching forward to lower the volume on the stereo. His hilarity is hurting my ears. The cottage in question—Kelpie Kottage with aK, as Daniel so helpfully pointed out—is one of the few options for long-term visitors in the Point. Growing up, the little coastal cabins had been owned by the Libby family, which means that’s likely the way they still remain. I do hope whichever Libby is running the joint now has done a little upgrading in my time away. My memories of the cottages aren’t super clear, but I do remember Shiloh saying once that he hoped the family of opossums was enjoying their stay there.

“It’s a small town,” I tell Daniel, suddenly feeling the need to come to the defense of the same place I was desperate to escape all those years ago.

“I’ll say,” he agrees. “Anyway, you’ll have to steal your key back from the seahorse if you wish to sleep in the kelpie lair. I’m going to ship you down some supplies tomorrow, once I know you’re there and will be available to take a delivery.”

“I probably won’t paint,” I warn him quietly. Maybe too quietly to be heard over the sounds of interstate driving. Evenif he did hear me, any declination on my part isn’t going to do much to sway Daniel. He’ll send the canvases down no matter what. And they’ll likely sit and rot, untouched and blank, mocking me with their possibility and my inability to tap into it.

“You need anything else?” he asks. I sigh.

“No.”

“All right. Remember, the whole point of this is to relax, have a little fun. Try not to stress so much. Also, make sure to get groceries tomorrow. I tried to find a delivery service to stock the kitchen before you got there, but surprise, surprise, not available. The woman who handled my booking thought it was a hilarious thing to request.”

I grimace. Whomever he spoke to probably had a hell of a laugh at his expense. Only someone from away would expect their groceries to precede their arrival. Fucking city folk.