Page 1 of Even Beneath the Stars

Chapter One

Maggie

PAST (Summer before Senior Year)

"Does anyone know how to get finger paint out of hair? Asking for a kid who decided blue was definitely her color…everywhere."

I look up from my spot at the picnic table to see Liam approaching, his messy hair tousled by the ocean breeze, and a look of mild panic in his eyes. There’s a streak of blue on his cheek and a smear down his board shorts, presumably from trying to wrangle the four-year-old paint-covered demon.

"Ocean," Laney and I answer in unison.

Liam grins, narrowly dodging a camper on a tricycle who nearly takes him out. "Crap, yeah. Kind of a no-brainer."

We don’t correct him—because it is a no-brainer. Especially for the swim and surf instructor. Laney and I are just run-of-the-mill counselors. The bottom feeders of the Welsford Country Club's Lil' Shoreline Explorers summer program. Liam is only filling in today for a sick counselor, leaving Jeremy—his helper, great at entertaining but awful at problem-solving—to fend for himself. A match made in mayhem.

"Welp. Guess I'm off for an impromptu mid-morning dip." Liam mock-salutes us and jogs toward the clubhouse.

"Five bucks says he’s back in three minutes because now everyone’s got blue hair," Laney says.

I laugh. "No bet."

I turn back to watch our campers zoom around on plasma cars against the backdrop of the endless ocean, weaving through an intricate chalk road network they spent half an hour designing. And now it’s like a tiny, lawless version ofFast and Furious: Tricycle Drift.

It's one of those suffocating summer afternoons where the heat presses down, stifling and thick to the point that even the laws of physics seem to be sweating it out. These kids don’t tap out, though. An hour of swimming, three games of tag, lunch, crafts—and they’re still going. Anyone who says preschoolers aren’t hardcore has never spent time with a four-year-old during a heatwave.

There's a slight breeze, at least. Enough to carry the smell of salt, sunscreen, and the faintest whiff of trust-fund entitlement. Also, the sickly sweetness of tipped-over juice boxes abandoned on picnic tables and Adirondack chairs.

Shoot. I was supposed to get the kids to put those in the refundable bins after lunch.

"So, do you know anyone in Sandy Haven?" Laney asks, leaning back on her elbows along the weathered table surface. "Or are you doing this thing cold turkey?"

"Cold turkey." I grab two empty juice boxes, tossing them into the fanciest recycling bin I’ve ever seen. "I was planning to attach myself to you like a leech until Christmas," I joke. "Or until I make more friends. Whichever comes first."

Laney chuckles. "Cling away. I love leeches… They're kinda cute, right?"

"I think they feed off human blood."

She laughs again, her dark curls bouncing around her face. "Okay, yeah. You're gonna need to make more friends, stat."

My mom and I moved to Sandy Haven just over a week ago from Allerston Lake, a blah town about half an hour from here. It isn't an awful place. I was happy there and had lots of great friends, who I still plan to see as much as I can. But it’s nothing like Sandy Haven.

Our biggest waterfront attraction was a murky lake fringed by scraggly trees and beer-can-littered beaches. Here? It’s like someone cranked the color saturation slider up to eleven. Overflowing hanging baskets, vintage wooden signs, and pastel-painted cedar shingled buildings lit in twinkling string lights in theevenings—think ‘coastal chic meets Pinterest board of a person who owns too many scented candles.'

And I hit the summer job jackpot. Cool coworkers, ocean views, a weekend beach bonfire invite already lined up.Not too shabby.

I jump up. "Slow down, Harry!"

He’s barreling toward Finn, but to no one’s surprise, Finn lights up. "Hey! How ‘bout we race!"

This is about to go downhill fast.Laney and I exchange a look, then push to our feet to prep for the next activity.

Then her fingers dig into my arm. "Oh my God," she hisses. "Don’t look now—but Xavier Rockwell is heading this way."

I can't help it. I look.

A guy who could easily headline a Jenny Han adaptation strides toward the clubhouse, casually scrolling on his phone. Tall, sun-kissed, effortlessly cool. His brown hair catches the light, jawline sharp enough to cut glass. If teenage heartbreak had a poster boy, this dude would be on every lamppost in America.

"I’m gonna need more context," I murmur.

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