“You gonna sleep over there, too?” He laughed and pointed at the backpack at my feet.

“I was at the beach for a while... you know towels, sunscreen and such,” I lied. Owen eyed me skeptically, but accepted my answer and didn’t press for more.

“You want me to take you over there?” he asked. “It’s not far.”

“Sure.” It was still early, but I figured I could get something to eat before finding a place to crash for the night.

I looked over at Owen as he watched the road, his face illuminated by the blue dashboard lights. I guess he could feel my stare. “What?” he asked with a smile.

“Nothing,” I responded, still unable to take my gaze away from him. There was something about him that was intriguing, different than other boys I knew. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but he seemed almost familiar to me.

“Nuh uh. You have to tell me why you’re looking at me like that.” He turned into the broken shell parking lot of Bubba’s and put the truck in park.

“It’s nothing,” I said. Owen made another face, and I found myself muffling a laugh.

“Tell me, Abby!” He locked the truck from the automatic lock button on his door. “I’m not letting you out if you don’t tell me right now what you were thinking.”

“Fine,” I said, giving in. “Unlock the doors first, and then I’ll tell you.”

He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment. “Ok, there.” He clicked the button. “Now, tell me.”

Before the words were out of his mouth, I jumped out the door and ran from the truck. When I was almost to the entrance, I looked back and saw Owen’s bright, open smile. He put the truck in reverse, shook his head and laughed as he backed out onto the road and drove away into the night.

Maybe I did have a friend after all.

Maybe.

CHAPTER FOUR

BUBBA’S WAS ALWAYS BUSY, but during the months when the tourists were occupying all the motel rooms and vacation rentals on the island, it was a total madhouse. It mostly happened during the winter, when the snowbirds migrated south, or during a few weeks in summer when families took vacations together.

I knew nothing about either of those.

Vacations or families.

I grabbed a spot at the end of the bar and ordered a burger and fries. I took my time eating, observing all the colorful characters that came out for the night—locals and tourists alike. An older woman with curly maroon hair sat on the lap of a man wearing sweatpants, her use of blue eye shadow was epic, reaching all the way to her eyebrows. A crowd of college kids turned the pool table into a beer pong station. The small dance floor was packed with people who were either rhythmically-challenged or three sheets to the wind. Either way, they all looked like they were having a good time. For a just a moment, I found myself warring with feelings of jealousy. Until I saw a couple of kids my age making out in the corner booth.

The jealousy faded as quickly as it came.

When I finished eating, I ordered another Coke to extend my stay. I was exhausted and certain that I smelled as if my entire body had been beer-battered, deep-fried, and rolled in an ashtray. Still, I stayed until the last person shuffled out of the bar.

“Everything okay, Abby?” Bubba asked. “I was so sorry to hear about Georgie, she was a great woman.” Bubba was older, in his late-sixties with salt and pepper hair. He and Nan would always chat whenever she brought me in for Sunday brunch. I’d once asked her if she’d ever thought about going out on a date with him, but she’d always shrugged it off, as if the idea was as ludicrous as wings on a dog. I always suspected there could’ve been something more between them than just Sunday morning chats.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” I lied. “Just not tired yet. Figured I’d hang out late.”

Bubba nodded and took out his keys to lock up after me. “Yeah, busy nights like this used to get me all wound up. I wouldn’t be able to get to bed until the sun came up.” He yawned again. “Obviously, those days are behind me.”

“Hey, Bubba, any chance I can trouble you for a job?” I cringed inwardly at having to ask. I knew I wasn’t exactly qualified. For anything. I could easily have told him my sob story about being alone and having no money in an attempt to persuade him, but I didn’t want his pity. More than that, I couldn’t allow myself to sob at my own sob story, so I definitely didn’t want others to.

Bubba looked me over. “How old are you now, Abby?”

“Almost eighteen.” It was sort of a lie, and sort of the truth. Depending on your definition of ‘almost.’