She needs to break free of Visor Man posthaste, but the bar is crowded and there’s nowhere else to go. Then Tabitha feels a hand on her shoulder. She turns to see Franklin Phelps holding his guitar by the neck as though it were a strangled goose.

“Harper,” he says. “I thought maybe you’d gone for good.”

Visor Man slams back the rest of his drink and gets to his feet, swaying like a tree in the breeze. “Hey, I was talking to the tourist.”

“Back off, pal,” Franklin Phelps says. He elbows Visor Man out of the way and takes his stool. Then he beckons to Friendly Bartender Girl and says, “Caroline, can I get a Guinness, shot of Jameson, please?”

Beer and a shot, Tabitha says to herself. For a brief moment, she feels like she’s starting to figure things out.

Visor Man squares his shoulders. “I was sitting there.”

“Go home, bud,” Franklin says. “You’re drunk.”

“Are you the husband?” Visor Man says. He looks at Tabitha with the eyes of a wild killer. “Or are you just banging her?”

In an instant, Franklin Phelps is on his feet. He launches Visor Man across the bar so that he collides in a tangle with the mike stand and Franklin’s stool. Visor Man doesn’t even try to get up.

“That’s Tripp Malcolm,” Caroline, the bartender, says. “He owns that big fat house at the end of Tea Lane.”

“I could not”—here Franklin Phelps takes a sip of Guinness, winks at Tabitha, and throws back his whiskey shot—“care less. I do not pander to the summer money.”

Tripp Malcolm gets to his feet and charges Franklin like a bull. Franklin grabs his beer and moves deftly out of the way so that Tripp slams into the bar, where he breaks a glass.

“That’s it! You’re out, Tripp!” Caroline says. She shakes her head at Franklin and Tabitha. “I don’t pander to the summer money, either.”

Franklin points to Tabitha. “Put Harper’s drinks on my tab, Caroline. We’re leaving.”

Tabitha wakes up at three in the morning in an unfamiliar bedroom… next to Franklin Phelps.

This is happening, Tabitha thinks. She squeezes Franklin’s bicep, and he stirs and reaches an arm around to cup her ass. She throws her leg over his. This is happening!

He raises her chin and kisses her. “I’ve never wanted anyone like this before.”

She would love to believe this is true. It’s certainly true for her. Sex with Wyatt was fun for exactly eight weeks—then Tabitha got pregnant. After she split from Wyatt, Tabitha dated Monroe, who was the son of one of Eleanor’s friends. He was elegant and appropriate and had a stick up his ass; he wouldn’t initiate sex unless they had both just showered. That pretty much said it all.

And sex with Ramsay was fine for a while, but then it became exhausting both physically and emotionally. Ramsay had wanted, so badly, to please her. He had done everything short of handing her a survey afterward. Did she like it better on top or on bottom? On her stomach? Lights on or off? How did she feel about massage oil? Were her orgasms more or less intense than the ones she’d had on Thursday? Because to him it sounded like she’d been more into it on Thursday. Also, Ramsay didn’t like to have sex after they’d been drinking, because he’d read that alcohol dulled women’s nerve endings and he didn’t want her to have a subpar experience—or, God forbid, one she couldn’t fully remember. Are you kidding me? Tabitha thought. What was the point of going out drinking if you weren’t going to enjoy some off-the-wall sex afterward? Alcohol consumption lowered inhibitions; that was the time to try the things that might have embarrassed you when you were sober. But Ramsay hadn’t seen it that way.

Tabitha doesn’t kiss Franklin so much as taste him, and then, soon after, devour him. He’s alive—sweaty, salty, strong. His fingers press into her arms, most likely leaving bruises; his mouth opens on her neck in a place that sends nearly painful waves of ecstasy through her. When his fingertips find her nipples, she groans. Nothing has ever felt this good—the sweet longing, the strain of not screaming, not swearing, not striking out. She locks her legs around him. For the first time ever, Tabitha indulges her animal instincts. She is a woman, Franklin is a man, they are coupling, it’s natural, it’s nature. How has sex never struck her this way before? It had been something to enjoy or endure, but it had never been a revelation.

Until now. Franklin.

This is happening.

She barely knows him, but that doesn’t matter. They fit. They lock together like two pieces of a puzzle. Tabitha rides him up and down until she cries out and he cries out, his hands clenching her waist. She falls on top of him, exhausted.

He says, “You are the most breathtaking woman I have ever seen.”

She laughs. “What about my sister? She looks exactly like me.”

“You’re so different from Harper,” he says. “More elegant, more pulled together, more graceful. It’s funny, because now I can see how distinctive you are.”

“Yeah, right,” Tabitha says. It wasn’t until they stepped out onto Circuit Avenue that Tabitha confessed she wasn’t Harper but rather her twin sister.

Ahh, Franklin had said. I heard there was a twin.

I’m Tabitha Frost, she said. Sorry to disappoint you.

That was when Franklin reached for her hand. Are you kidding me? he said. That’s the best news I’ve heard all night.

Now Franklin grabs her chin. “I would never have gone home with Harper. You need to know that. I was friends with her…”

“Was?” Tabitha says.

“Was? Am, I guess. I don’t know. She made some questionable choices…”

“She was sleeping with our father’s doctor,” Tabitha says.

“Reed Zimmer,” Franklin says quietly.

“You know about that?” Tabitha says. “Everyone on the Vineyard knows about that?”

“Pretty much,” Franklin says.

“I’m not Harper,” Tabitha whispers.

“I know,” Franklin says. “I can tell.” He starts to sing “Here Comes the Sun” by the Beatles. His voice is so clear and true that Tabitha is nearly encouraged to sing along. She does sing along, and the moment is so incredibly romantic that Tabitha allows herself to believe that she sounds okay. When they are finished—doo do doo do—she rests her head on his chest, and he rubs her shoulder.

“You know what?” she says.

“What?” he says.

“I’m starving.”

“Stay right there,” he says.

It’s the best meal she’s ever had at four in the morning, maybe the best meal she’s ever had, period: a pastrami-and-Swiss sandwich with tangy bread-and-butter pickles and horseradish mustard on Portuguese bread that Franklin has griddled until the bread turned golden brown and the Swiss melted and the whole thing became a gorgeous, gooey mess. They eat their sandwiches in bed, and Franklin pops open two icy Cokes, the first sip of which is so crisp and snappy it makes Tabitha’s eyes water.

The sandwich is ridiculously delicious. “You can really cook,” she says with her mouth full. She’s grateful her mother can’t see her in this moment, for many reasons. She pops a pickle that has fallen onto the sheet in her mouth. “So who are you?”

Franklin George Phelps: he has one sister, Sadie, eighteen months younger. His parents, Al and Lydia Phelps, are still married. They live in a house out in Katama, a house his father inherited from his own parents, who used it as a summer cottage. Al and Lydia winterized the house and raised Franklin and Sadie there. Al was the principal of Martha’s Vineyard Regional High School for thirty-five years, and Lydia baked pies. Now they go to Vero Beach in the winter.

“It’s amazing everyone on the Vineyard isn’t bipolar,” Franklin says. “This island is one place in the summer and another in the winter.”

“Same with Nantucket,” Tabitha says. She often wonders if this isn’t the cause of Ainsley’s troubles. The winter is quiet and boring. It’s too cold to go outside, but there is nothing to do inside. Everything closes down; everyone leaves. Then in the summer, there is too much to do and not enough time to cram it all in. Tabitha works all the time, and there are social commitments nearly every night. The people who come to Nantucket are wealthy and privileged, even the kids. Especially the kids! They have access to their parents’ boats; they have access to their parents’ pills. Girls like Ainsley and Emma struggle to keep up, Tabitha knows.