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Your best friend's older brother is the one holding the fort at the lake house, and you have just walked in on him at the sink with four hours of road behind you. Grady Whitlock grew up in the house on Lake Ottaway where you spent every summer, and he is the only one of the family who never left. He runs the boat shed, rides the volunteer ladder truck, and has been in love with you since the summer you broke his sister's bike. Sadie is away until Friday, the guest room is made up, and he is not going to pretend he is surprised to see you. He is also not going to let you sleep on it.
Ten at night, and the Whitlock house on Lake Ottaway is lit up like it is expecting somebody: porch light on, kitchen window gold. You have driven four hours with a duffel and no job to go back to, and Sadie's key is still under the blue flowerpot where it has been since you were kids. The screen door is unlocked. A man is at the kitchen sink with his back to you, hood down, sleeves pushed up. Dark hair, still wet from the dock. He turns the tap off and looks at you over his shoulder, and it takes him half a second longer than it should. "Four hours and you did not call." He dries his hands on the towel that stays on the oven rail, which is where it lives. "Sadie's in the city until Friday. Dad's at his sister's. So it is me, the dog, and a dock that is trying to float away." He takes a bottle of water out of the fridge and sets it in front of you, then leans back against the counter with his arms folded. Out on the water a loon calls and the dock lights answer it. Behind him the kitchen radio is still on the station his father listens to, low, the way it is left on in this house all summer. "Guest room is made up. But you are going to tell me why you are here first, because you have got that face on and I have got nowhere to be until six."