"My hands are hideous. I know."

"No. Look."

I turned her palm up and showed her the blister and fever. She only sighed.

"I didn't think the plate was as hot as it apparently was. It's from earlier at the grill. It's no big deal, Callum. I already saw."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because it's no big deal. You've seen my hands. You know this isn't a first."

"I mean, you must be in so much pain. How could you not say something?"

She stared at me as if to say, "Go on. Figure me out." I looked at her hand again. It was impossible for her not to be writhing in agony.

"Come sit on the lounge chair. I'll bring some supplies out."

"I don't want to make a scene," she said. "It's always a scene with me. Please."

"I can't let your hand stay like that." I pulled her closer. "Fuck, this is a second degree burn, Everly Anne."

"Maybe a Farfalla doesn't flinch at pain," she replied. "Maybe she takes it in stride so she can live free for one day."

"Even a brave Farfalla couldn't stand the agony of second degree burns." I climbed out of the pool and retrieved a medical kit from inside. My Pop was looking outside from the kitchen window when I crossed through the room to exit.

"What happened?" He asked, looking straight through the window, talking straight through his glass.

"She burned her hand helping me with the grill . . . even though she didn't even touch the grill."

He didn't say anything except, "You should be mindful of Everly."

I stared at him. "How did you know Everly is who I meant? I never said her name."

He took a final sip before he looked at me. "I didn't think anyone else was in the room when she was in your presence."

I looked away. "You clearly haven't had enough to drink, old man."

"You need to be mindful," he repeated, turning back to the window.

Everly Anne was sitting on the same lounge chairs we sat on to eat our lunch when I returned. Her bathing suit cover, sandals, and shorts, all back on. She sat on my towel. Silently I took her burned hand into mine, and although I wasn't trying to cheat, I could not help but to observe. She never cried as I cleaned her hand. She didn't flinch or tug her hand away when I applied ointment. She didn't even groan.

"I think my Topolina has another gift I know nothing about."

"It's not a gift," she said quietly. "It's a curse."

I bandaged her hand and offered her Ibuprofen. She laughed and stood.

"Show me your house," she said. "And forget my attention-seeking hand."

Some . . . Thing There had been girls in my room before, but never curiosity.

Everly Anne roamed my shelves of books, the texture of the drift-wood colored walls, and sea-shell stories from years past. She wanted to know why I liked hanging my clothes instead of folding them. She wanted to know the history of my dreams as a boy-a boy who was gifted the view of a million sea-cradled stars to dream under during the summers away from school. She wanted to know about my mother Julep and the color of her hair and eyes. Do you look like your mother? Does your black hair come from someone else? I know it's not from Andrew.

And our house had pictures-we had hundreds of pictures-I was on display in every room, but there was no truth. There was no Julep Trovatto. There was no marriage that led to my creation. There were only chipped off bits of a life. A birthday party. A graduation. A moment on the beach with a first caught fish. These were captured times, not treasured memories.

I couldn't satisfy her curiosity in this house because it held no attic filled with stories, harbored no secrets. Everything of my childhood days spent in Montauk on Fourth of July weekends and summer school breaks was locked inside boxes and tucked into a dark space no one wanted to acknowledge.

We walked the beach. I collected sea-shells in my pocket for her. She roamed salty stores with open fronts and bought herself a large hat to fend off the sun. I bought her a miniature lighthouse of Light Point to remember our day. We shared an ice cream. We watched a couple of kids play in the ocean. I watched the sun sink down down almost down. Two days and this would end. I'd go back to class where she'd sit across from me and be Everly Anne the case study and I'd be Callum Trovatto trying to earn a passing grade. There'd be no Topolina. No Farfalla. Salted air replaced by sterile.

I offered her my arm as we walked back. Her feet moved as slowly as mine, and I knew she was right about me, because in that moment, I hoped. But her hold was too tight. She was clinging and not for the reasons I desired. I put my arms around her and gathered her hand in mine. Her body pressed to my side was a blanket of heat. I pulled away and palmed her cheeks. She was flushed, but dry.

"You're burning up. Take off some of this stuff." I pulled away her bathing suit wrap and hat, then walked her to the edge of the ocean and washed her arms and neck in the cool salt water, but it wasn't enough. I pulled her waist deep and let her hair dunk. This time I did hold onto her hips, gathered her close to me as I tried to cool her down. She was fire without the fury. I cradled her to my chest and stared down into her eyes.

"I'm not doing a very good job of taking care of you."

Barely, she whispered, "You don't know what you're up against."