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That should scare me.

Opening up to anyone usually gives me the heebie-jeebies.

But sitting here with G, laughing until my coffee goes cold, I realize something.

I think I just made a friend.

* * *

A few hours later, G offers to show me one of her favorite places in Hartwell before we have to be at The Breakwater tonight.

I’m keeping Sunday free to prepare for my first day at the school, but apparently spending Saturday morning sitting at home is unacceptable when I’m new to town.

According to G, anyway.

She insists we take my Kombi, referring to her as “the most gorgeous car in the world” before asking if I would consider leaving her the van in my will.

“I’ve known you for less than twenty-four hours,” I point out as we walk toward it.

“And look how close we already are,” G replies, resting an affectionate hand against the side of the van.

“She’s older than both of us. Be gentle.”

“I would never disrespect an elder.”

I narrow my eyes at her before climbing into the driver’s seat.

G directs me south, away from the center of town and along a narrow road surrounded by autumn trees. Their branches stretch over us, creating a tunnel of deep reds, burnt oranges and flickers of gold.

She sings loudly and terribly along with every song on the radio, even when she doesn’t know the words.

Especially when she doesn’t know the words.

After ten minutes, she points toward a small turn-off almost hidden between the trees.

“There. Turn right.”

“Are you taking me somewhere to murder me?”

“Yes,” she answers immediately. “But the view is incredible, so it balances out.”

“Good to know.”

The road climbs gradually before opening into a small gravel parking area. A weathered wooden sign reads Hartwell Southern Lookout, with a narrow path leading through the trees.

G jumps out before I’ve even turned off the engine.

“Come on,” she urges, waving me forward. “You need to see this.”

I follow her along the path, dried leaves crunching beneath my boots. The wind grows stronger as we walk, carrying the crisp smell of salt and damp earth with it.

Then the trees open.

I stop.

“Holy shit.”

The lookout sits high above the southern waterway, bordered by a worn wooden railing and a single bench facing the view. Below us, the river winds between the two sides of Hartwell before spilling into the ocean. Boats move slowly across the water, small enough from up here that they almost look like toys.