“He went out and met her at Tallyho,” I managed, my voice breaking.

He made a disgusted noise. “Punk,” he said again.

Now I was really crying, which would have been embarrassing had it been just about anyone else. But this was Morris, who had seen me bawl plenty, the first time being when we were eight and I fell out of the tree that bridged our two yards, breaking my wrist. He was the one who had sat with me in the back of my mom’s car as she sped to the hospital in Cape Frost, his face stoic as I sobbed from the pain. Morris was not the type to offer a hug or even hold your hand. But there was something in his quiet indignation at the universe then—and Luke, now—that was just the kind of comfort I needed.

I was still blubbering, but trying to stop, as I saw the bridge up ahead. “I’m such a mess,” I said. “We’re almost off the island and I didn’t even ask you where you were going.”

He shrugged. “No place. Wherever you are.”

I felt that lump in my throat again, swelling, and turned back to traffic to try to regain my composure. Meanwhile, Morris settled into his seat with his signature slouch, neither knowing nor caring where I was taking him. Like destinations, in general, were vastly overrated. And maybe they were. As long as you were moving, you were always going somewhere.

*   *   *

“Well,” Theo said, “I suppose that would depend on your specific definition of ‘not working.’”

I looked at him, then back at the toaster oven sitting on the kitchen island between us. “You’re saying there’s more than one?”

“Definition?” he said, clarifying. I nodded. “Well, sure. On the one hand, it could mean, you know, that it’s broken.”

“Right,” I said.

“But taken in a wider sense,” he continued, “it could translate to the lack of a specific skill, i.e., an inability or outright refusal to perform required tasks.”

“It’s a toaster oven,” I said. “Not the proletariat.”

He laughed. “Wow. Impressive vocab you have there.”

“What, just because I’m from here I can’t use big words?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Um, no. That’s just kind of an SAT word choice, not one you throw around in breakfast conversation.”

Okay, so maybe I was a little bit on edge. “Sorry,” I said. “Rough morning.”

“It’s okay.” He rubbed a hand over his face, glancing at the stairs that led to the upper floors where, I assumed, Ivy was still sleeping. On his wrist was one of the bracelets he’d bought from Gert’s, the slim, green one with the scallop shell. “Look, I know you think this whole toaster thing is ridiculous—”

“Because it is.”

“But the bottom line is that Ivy likes things done in a certain way. If her breakfast, or anything else, isn’t right, then it’s my job to correct the problem.”

“How can toast not be right?”

“As I’ve explained,” he said, giving me a tired look, “there is no specific control for doneness on this thing. Your only choices are light, medium, and dark.”

“You want more variation,” I said. Then, before he could reply, I added, “I think that’s the word that got me into college.”

He smiled. “What I want is an adjustable dial. Light is too light, medium is too medium, and dark is too dark. Right now, we have black and white only, and we need gray.”

“Gray toast?”

“Fine,” he said, shaking his head. “Go ahead, mock. But I think you actually do know what I mean.”

Hearing this, I had a flash of Luke earlier, saying the same thing, but about what our relationship was lacking. Apparently, it was obvious to everyone else what I did or did not know. Too bad I still felt so clueless.

“So what I’m hearing,” I said, pushing this out of my head, “is that this machine is not broken, but still needs to be replaced.”

“Pretty much.” He sighed. Then, more confidently: “Yes.”

As I looked back at the toaster oven, I could feel him studying me, the same way he’d been doing since I’d first turned up at his door fifteen minutes earlier. After I dropped Morris off at a nearby gas station—“Talk later,” he’d told me, as always—I’d done my best to regain my composure, putting on lipstick and taking deep breaths. Unfortunately, I was cursed with the blotch-prone kind of skin that always made it obvious if I’d been crying. Theo hadn’t asked me anything about this directly, though. Never had I been so happy to talk about breakfast foods.

“Look,” I said, “normally, our policy is this: if an appliance is in working order but not up to the standards of the client, it’s up to them to provide their own alternative.”

Theo bit his lip, looking stressed. “Okay.”

“However,” I continued, slightly distracted by how this single word spread a sudden hopefulness over his features, “the owners of this particular property have been apprised of the situation and are willing to remedy it.”

“So we get a new toaster oven? With an adjustable doneness setting?”

I glanced down at my phone, re-reading the text my mother had sent me only moments earlier. Since VIP, owners OK’d. Get what they want. Since I’d last checked it, another one had appeared beneath it. You need me, call. Love you.

I felt tears prick my eyes again—God, what was wrong with me?—and shoved my phone back into my pocket. “Looks like it,” I said to Theo.