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dance.”
    â€œHey!” Mike interjects. “I don’t do the chicken dance.” He pauses to sip his beer. “I rock the chicken dance.”
    â€œSee?” Grayson says. “C’mon. You have to stay. We’re having fun.”
    There’s a bizarre anxiety in his voice. I know he probably doesn’t intend for me to hear it, but I do. For some reason he seems desperate to act like this is just another summer. And maybe for him it is.
    But it’s not for me.
    I feel a ripple of frustration move through me.
    Doesn’t he get it? My father is dead. I’m never goingto have just another normal summer ever again. Why does Grayson think he can just bring up all of these past memories—things that we used to do—and it will make everything okay?
    Reminiscing about the good stuff in the past won’t erase the bad. It will only make it hurt worse.
    I know the guy is trying, but it’s just too much.
    â€œHey, Macarena!” I hear someone yell, exceptionally loud over all the other voices. I look up to see my mother among the line dancers, one hand raised in the air, the other wrapped tightly around a plastic wineglass. She does the requisite end-of-verse hop to change directions, and chardonnay sloshes over the rim, spilling all down the front of her dress. She laughs like this is the funniest thing ever.
    If I wasn’t ready to leave a minute ago, I certainly am now.
    I wrap a hand around Grayson’s forearm and give it a squeeze. “Sorry, man. I gotta go.”
    I turn to leave just as my mother spots me. Her face brightens. “Ian! Where have you been? I haven’t seen you all week! You have to come dance with us!”
    I give her a meager wave and take off toward the beach. My mom keeps calling and calling, her voice getting angrier with each step I take. I cringe with each repetition of my name.
    Ian. Ian. IAN.
    By the time I’m halfway to the Cartwrights’ house, it sounds less like a name and more like a dying bird.
    I feel a stab of guilt as I plod down the beach, sand slipping between my feet and my sandals. I probably shouldn’t have just left her there. Especially in the state she’s in. But I can’t bring myself to go back. Plus, I’m sure my grandparents are there. They can help her get home.
    That’s two disastrous parties in one week. Two nights I’ve left my drunk mother to make a fool of herself in front of the entire island. Two times I’ve retreated down this very beach to the soundtrack of fading music and rising waves.
    Will every night here be exactly the same?
    I don’t know why I let Grayson and Mike talk me into this. If I’m going to live the same day over and over again, I’d rather do it locked in a dark room.
    By the time I get to the house, I’m already planning to raid Grayson’s bedroom in search of the key that will free my captured guitar from the closet, but I freeze in my tracks when I hear voices. Loud, hostile voices. Coming from the window I climbed through just a week ago.
    Whitney’s room.
    â€œStop!” Whitney cries out.
    â€œC’mon,” a male voice says. “I know you’ve done it with half this island.”
    â€œI have not!”
    â€œThat’s not what people are saying. But don’t worry about it. I like girls who know what they want.”
    â€œI don’t want this,” Whitney snaps.
    â€œSure you do.”
    I hear a struggle and a few grunts, and then Whitney yells, “Get off me, you douche bag!”
    And that’s all it takes for me to complete this déjà vu night by diving right back through Whitney Cartwright’s bedroom window.

CHAPTER 10
    GRAYSON

    S o, how’s work?” I ask Mike after Ian leaves.
    He shrugs. “Same grass, different day.”
    I nod, taking a sip of my beer, looking out at all the people gathered around the beach club pool. “Remember that time we put laundry