My Sister Texted That 47 People Were Coming to My Beach House for Four Days and Told Me to Stock the Fridge

then up at me.

“Are they mad?” she whispered.

I put my arm around her shoulders. “They made a bad choice,” I said. “Being mad doesn’t make them right.”

On the monitor, Paige yanked off her sunglasses. Mark strode over. Then my mother. More people gathering behind them, necks craning toward the house beyond the dunes like they believed stubbornness was continue reading …