Cam was still grinning. He had made the bed and returned the throw pillows to where they must have been before she crashed the night before.

“Breakfast?” he said. “I make a good omelet.”

Of course he did. She was really hungry. She acquiesced to the omelet, which, it turned out, was one of the best she had ever tasted; it was positively dripping with cheddar cheese, and also included a costarring role of a gorgeous tomato.

While they ate they played a couple of rounds of the name game. They knew a few people in common; they were only two years apart in school. They went to different preschools, Alexa to Knoll-Edge and Cam to Mrs. Murray’s, so their paths had diverged from the beginning. She told him about Colby with a straight face and he said, “I have a buddy there. I’ll tell him to look out for you. He’ll be a junior, same as me. We went to the Prep together. Ethan Whittaker.”

“Great,” she said. “Ethan Whittaker. I’ll keep my eye out for him.”

When she finished her omelet she loaded her plate in the dishwasher and offered to load his as well, not because she considered that woman’s work but because he had done the cooking so it seemed only fair. The omelet pan was already clean, set upside down to dry.

“I have to work at nine,” said Cam. “We’d better get going. I’ll drop you off at home on my way, okay?”

She nodded. “Where do you work?” She figured he’d say something like training guide dogs to help blind war veterans or running summer camps for youth services.

“Market Basket,” he said. “Mostly on checkout. And I’m training to be an assistant manager.” This revelation didn’t add a milligram to the scale on which Alexa had been weighing Cam’s cachet, but he looked so proud that she squeezed out this: “My mom loves Market Basket. She almost never goes to Shaw’s.” And even though she would like nothing more than to repair to the guest room and sink once again into those glorious sheets, under that cloud of a comforter, she said, “I don’t want to make you late.” She pointed at her St. Michael’s spirit wear and said, “Um, I can change back into my dress now and give you this . . .”

“Don’t worry about it,” Cam said. “I have plenty. You can get it to me another time. I grabbed your dress for you.” He handed her a CVS bag with her dress folded neatly inside. Her flip-flops she found in the massive mudroom. Cam swung open the door from the mudroom to the outside. There was a minivan in the driveway. “Your chariot, my lady,” he said, bowing and making a sweeping gesture with his hand that should have been completely awkward but was somehow sort of charming.

She could probably have him if she wanted him, this egg-savvy, golfing, guestroom-offering Catholic boy with the nice brown eyes and the promising biceps. She could take him from Shelby McIntyre in a millisecond, in a heartbeat. It wouldn’t require more than a toss of her hair, a few strategic texts and one sunset beach picnic. But, there were other considerations. There was Tyler. There were her two jobs. There was the fact that Alexa had attracted the interest of many, many different kinds of boys since the year she turned fourteen but had never dated a golfer.

The air was wet and pulpy with humidity. In the yard across the street a kid of six or so was kicking around a soccer ball, and another kid was zipping down the street on a scooter. It was summer, obviously. But in a funny way it felt like it was Christmas morning and Cameron Hartwell was a present Alexa hadn’t yet unwrapped.

Before she got into the minivan she marched up to Cam, placed a hand on each of his cheeks, and kissed him.

10.

Sherri

It cost nine dollars in quarters to wash a comforter at the Port City Laundromat in the Market Basket plaza. Who had nine dollars in quarters? Not Sherri. What she had was a twenty and three sad one-dollar bills. The change machine rejected each of the dollar bills in turn: one, presumably, for being too wrinkled, one for being torn nearly in half, and one for no discernible reason other than change machine prejudice. Finally she surrendered the twenty, trying not to think about the fact that she’d been saving it to take Katie to breakfast at Mad Martha’s on Plum Island, which she’d heard was a local treasure. She watched, half-fascinated, as the quarters poured into the metal cup. It made her think of a trip to Vegas she and Bobby had taken back in the day. They’d stayed at the Venetian and while Bobby hit the craps table, Sherri had played the slots for days. She’d done very well. Not that she’d needed the money, not back then.

How far the mighty have fallen, she thought. She scooped the quarters into her pockets and counted out thirty-six, laying them carefully on top of the washing machine in nine piles of four. When she knocked against one pile with the outer edge of her hand, one quarter rolled off and under the machine. Sherri crouched down and tried to retrieve it, but it had traveled too far under for her to get to it from her crouching position. She’d have to go lower on the floor, Flat-Stanley style. She was not above doing that.

Now the mighty have fallen even farther. That’s what she was thinking when she heard the tinkle of the bells, and a semi-familiar voice say, “Sherri? What are you doing?”

Sherri righted herself, then stood. One of the women from the birthday dinner the night before was facing her. Dawn, Sherri thought her name was, but she wasn’t certain enough to say it.