I throw a glance his way. “I think you’re pretty good at the daily marvel.”

“Sometimes,” he says, then, “You are too.”

I snort. “I’m more of a cranky pessimist and we both know it.”

“You moan every time you eat,” he says. “I don’t think you’re as pessimistic as you think.”

I flush, reroute the conversation neatly: “I think as a kid, the library was the thing that made me marvel. I never felt lonely there. I felt so connected to everyone. Honestly, I think it also made me feel connected to my dad.”

There it is, a hideously embarrassing truth dropped right into the middle of a conversation. A fact I’ve never admitted aloud.

It might be an oversimplification, but it’s the truth: “He’s why I love libraries.”

“Big reader?” Miles guesses.

I laugh. “No. He just never planned his visits ahead or had any money, so he’d blow into town and take me there to check out some books, or do an activity or whatever. So when I was little, I really associated them with him. It felt like ‘our thing.’ ”

“Are you close?” he asks.

“Not at all,” I tell him. “He’s lived in California for a long time now, and his visits are unpredictable. Doesn’t come when he says he will, shows up when you’re not expecting him. But he was a really fun dad when I was a kid. And the library trips felt like this amazing gift, specifically from him to me, you know?”

Like he alone had the key to anything I wanted to read.

“My mom never had time to get over there, and I was kind of terrified of the school librarian, so once I got old enough, I’d just walk over to the local branch after class and Mom would pick me up when she got off work.”

He grins. “A good librarian makes all the difference.”

I angle myself toward him. “You joke, but it’s true.”

“I’m not joking,” he says. “If you’d been my librarian, I would’ve read a lot more.”

“Because I would’ve told you audiobooks count?” I say.

“For starters,” he says. “Also I would’ve wanted to impress you.”

My face tingles. “Julia’s great,” I say.

“She is,” he agrees. “She’s the best.”

“Have you always been close?” I ask.

“Pretty much,” he says. “I mean, I was, like, thirteen when she was born, so I was out of the house a lot, but when I was home, she followed me like a puppy. Like literally just crawled around after me.”

I grin, picturing it. A brown-eyed, dark-haired baby Julia scooting along after a scrawny brown-eyed teenage Miles.

“She was only five when I moved to the city,” he says. “But I tried to make it back to see her as much as I could.”

“She said you visited every Saturday, took her out.”

I catch a subtle grimace. “Just needed to get her out of the house every once in a while.”

There it is again, that crack in the box. Just as quickly, though, it’s flipped over, its contents hidden.

We fall back into silent paddling. Sweat rises along my hairline, drips down the seam of my rib cage and the ridge between my shoulder blades. “You can talk about it, you know,” I finally tell him.

“Talk about what?” he says.

“Anything,” I say. “Whatever’s bothering you. I’m actually a better listener than talker.”

“You’re a great talker,” he says. “But nothing’s bothering me. I’m fine. I just need to figure out what she’s running away from.”

“Did she say she’s running from something?” I’ve only just met her, but it’s hard to imagine Julia running from anything. “Even if she stumbled upon that black bear who was addicted to cocaine, I picture her fighting back and faring pretty well.”

“She keeps insisting she’s here to ‘be there’ for me,” he says.

“Well,” I say, “maybe she is.”

He gives me a look. “She never tells me when things are bad, but she’s not good at hiding it either.” He looks away, out toward the island, and shakes it off. “I’ll figure it out. It’s fine.”

When he looks back, he’s grinning, seemingly unbothered, though this time I’m not totally convinced. “You still good, or you want to turn back?” he asks, clearly done with the topic of Julia.

So I let it go. “I’m good.”

When the sun is high enough for the water to settle into its usual brilliant crystal green, Miles stops paddling and takes off his sweatshirt and shirt in one move, dropping them into his lap. I hold out for another twenty minutes until I can no longer stand the way my tank top sticks to me, then relent and peel it away from my bathing suit.

“It’s pretty amazing,” Miles says.

I pull my shirt off and glance over at him as I slip my life vest back on. He’s gazing toward the forested island, the last morning remnants of mist clinging to it, his kayak bumping into mine.

“It is,” I say, feeling the need to whisper it, for some reason.

He looks. “Thanks for coming with me.”

“Thanks for inviting me,” I say.

He tucks his chin, a teasing curve to his lips. “Even though you hate it?”

“I don’t hate it,” I say.

He seems unconvinced.

“I actually think I like it,” I say. “I’m just not good at it, and it stresses me out feeling like I’m making someone wait on me.”

“Why?” he says.

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“But I don’t mind,” he says.