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Chapter One

Dalton at Fifteen

Icouldn’t wait to get home and tell my parents. I hopped on my bike and zipped down Beach View Avenue. Our house was just a few miles from the boardwalk; it would be a quick ride home.

I should have timed myself, I thought as I pedaled my way inland. I’d biked the route a million times, but I’d have to be on time moving forward!

“I’ll clock it next time,” I huffed out loud, looking around to make sure no one saw me talking to myself. It was winter at the beach, so there was no one else on the road. I pedaled a bit faster, turning the corner to the next block.

It was one of those rare, unseasonably warm winter days we were sometimes blessed with in our New Jersey beach town. So I’d worn shorts even though Mom had argued that it was still December, despite the sunshine, and that it would be windier by the beach, which was usually true whether teenaged me wanted to admit it or not. She’d suggested that I really should throw pants on.

I had agreed with her when she said to wear a shirt with a collar instead of a T-shirt, and to at least wear a coat, but I held strong where the pants were concerned. It wasn’t that cold out, and what was the point of living at the beach if you couldn’t wear shorts whenever you wanted?

My hair had grown out since the fall, the ends still sun bleached though the rest of it was back to a dull brown, and it was flowing in the breeze as I headed home. I thought I could feel hair fluttering on my calves as well.

Huh, that’s new. We’d learned in sex ed class a few years earlier that hair would start growing places. I had turned fifteen, so it was certainly time for some hair growth to pop up places other than on my head. Frankly, I felt it was way past time. I was sick of being known as a late bloomer, the last of my group of friends whose voice was cracking or who needed deodorant.

My best friend, Austin, had sprouted the summer after those classes, and I’d spent years having to look up at his tall ass. My family and I traveled over Thanksgiving every year for my dad’s job, which meant I’d recently gone a whole week without seeing Austin. When we got back to school the Monday after, I’d noticed that we were basically, finally, the same height. I may have heaved a sigh of relief right in his face. He may have called me a weirdo.

During middle school, Austin and I had teased each other after those awkward health classes, back when it was all still funny and embarrassing and not worrisome for me.

“We have learned the way,” I would say.

“Now we are men,” Austin would respond, both of us mimicking deep voices we did not yet have. We were really still just a couple of silly preadolescents, so the next thing we’d do was to start to crack up and punch each other in the arm.

“Now I am a man,” I said, talking to myself again as I peddled my bike faster, trying to get used to the strange sensation of hair fluttering on my legs.

It was proving to be a pretty big day where my manhood was concerned.

I wondered if I’d need to start shaving during swim season. I knew some of the older guys did, and they insisted it eliminated resistance in the water. I tried to focus on what my own calves and chest might look like when I was old enough to shave them and not what those older, more well-defined guys looked like in, and out of, the pool.

“Now I am a man,” I said again and tried to laugh by myself like I would have with Austin.

I turned onto our road, and from down the street, I could see an old, beat-up, dusty sedan in our driveway.

Our little beach town usually hops from Memorial Day to Labor Day, but in the winter, Breakwater Beach reverts to being the smallest of small towns, a place where everyone knows everyone else and everyone is all up in everyone else’s business. So it was odd that I had no idea whose car was gracing my parents’ driveway, and the mystery deepened when I pulled in next to it and noticed the Wisconsin license plate.

It read “America’s Dairyland.”

The car was still warm, making pinging noises that my parents’ cars never made. The windshield was cracked; a sweaty ball cap with the name of a religious school adorned the dashboard, and a flannel shirt hung over the driver’s seat.

“You’ve taken a wrong turn, farmer boy,” I muttered as I keyed in the door code and entered our garage. There had been two cars parked in it when I’d left earlier for the beach. One was missing upon my return. I tucked my bike in before heading into the mud room adjacent to the garage. Though I was excited to share my news, voices in the house made me pause. I heard mom’s voice first, fluttery and excited.

“What are you boys doing here? I thought you were going to New Orleans before you came home for Christmas?”

“Yeah, well, we were, but I hyped up the beach so much that Turner wanted to come here instead and check it out before he heads home for the holiday. We were thinking we’d save the New Orleans trip for after graduation,” my brother, Brett, responded.

“Well, I am so thrilled that you boys are here. This is such a wonderful surprise! Does your dad know, Brett? We really weren’t expecting you until next week. He ran into the office for a few hours. I’m going to text him right now and let him know.”

Another, much softer voice joined the conversation. “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Garner.”

“Are you kidding? I’m so thrilled! We didn’t think we’d be seeing this one for another whole week! And we always love having Brett’s friends around. It gives us a reason to reminisce about our old college days.”

“Mom!”

“This is so great! I’m gonna go grab my phone and let your dad know. Dinner at the Three B’s tonight?” Yeah? Seven thirty?” Mom shouted as she moved away.

“Sounds good, Mom.”