At the end of summer, sixteen years ago, we promised we’d keep in touch. And I did.

She didn’t.

I spent a year reaching out to her in every way imaginable, desperately clinging to the future we’d planned while we walked hand-in-hand on the beach. When July rolled around again, I waited eagerly, for her family’s return.

They never came.

She never came.

I blamed her. I blamed myself. I blamed my big, involved family who are basically royalty on this island our ancestors found. After a while, I forgave her and moved on.

Of course I did.

Carrying a torch for sixteen years would be ridiculous.

So the fact that she’s come back to the island, apparently to stay? Doesn’t matter to me at all.

Maybe I’ve been asking God why, but I figure He’s got some kind of plan.

I can probably learn to accept her as a member of our little town, but that’s where it has to end.

My heart’s still too shattered to risk breaking it again.