Second Star by Alyssa B. Sheinmel

camouflage green. And there are dozens of traditional surfboards, ranging from about six to nine feet.
    He breaks his gaze with me long enough to glance behind him at his collection. “Those,” he says, shrugging. “Haven’t used most of those in a long time.”
    He bends down, picking up the hose and turning it back on, turning back to his truck. He uses the hose to point. “You can take the stairs down to the beach if you follow that road.”
    I look over my shoulder in the direction he’s pointing. You’d never know there was a road if someone didn’t point it out.
    “Not much of a road,” I say.
    He shrugs. “Yeah. Nowadays no one much drives in that direction, so the reeds kind of took over. You’ll make it though,” he says, gesturing to my SUV.
    “Right,” I say, opening my car door. Before I pull away, I roll my window down.
    “Thanks,” I shout to him.
    “What for?”
    “For pointing me in the right direction.”
    He shrugs and smiles easily. “You’ll have to let me know whether it turns out to be the right direction or not.”

11
    The road leads to Pete’s driveway. Technically, it leads to the stairs, but the stairs up the cliffs snake up behind Pete’s house, so I find myself parking just outside his driveway. I could have pulled all the way into the garage; the door is wide open and the room is empty, the complete opposite of the house I just left behind.
    I consider knocking on Pete’s door. Maybe he can help me. I shake my head, get out of my car, and head for the stairs, climbing down to the beach, bringing my notebook with the photo from my brothers’ room with me.
    Once on the beach I can see that there’s no denying it: the photo is an exact match. Standing on the beach, in front of the wooden stairs, I hold up the photo. I compare the stairs in the picture to the stairs I’ve just descended. They’re identical. My brothers were here.
    “Whatcha looking at?” says a voice I already recognize. I spin around and see Pete, soaking wet, emerging from the ocean, his board balanced on top of his head. He grins at me; he seems actually excited to see me. I guess Belle didn’t tell him that I stopped by the other night, that I know all about them.
    I slip the picture back into the pages of my notebook. “Nothing important,” I say carefully.
    “Want to head out?” Pete asks, gesturing toward the water. “The waves are amazing today.”
    I look out at the ocean. The waves do look amazing; perfect , just like my brothers said. My heart starts to pound, adrenaline swirls around my belly. I do want to head out there. Badly. But I can’t. Not now. Not with Pete. Not after he lied to me. And not when I finally know where to start the search for John and Michael.
    “I didn’t come back here to see you, Pete.”
    Pete’s grin vanishes.
    “I know you lied to me,” I add.
    Shock creeps up his face like a rash. It’s strange to see him looking so rattled, this boy who seems so constantly at ease.
    “Wendy, I can explain.”
    “Explain what? Belle already told me.”
    “Belle told you?” He sounds genuinely panicked.
    “Why did you kiss me the other night when you have a girlfriend?”
    Pete’s face falls. He hesitates for a split second before he says, “I didn’t—”
    “Don’t try to deny it.”
    “I’m not.”
    “You’re a liar , Pete.” I spit the word out like it tastes sour.
    “I didn’t lie.”
    “Seriously?” Can he really still be trying to deny it?
    “I mean—I’m sorry. I can explain about Belle.” He steps closer to me, shadows darkening the planes of his face in the late afternoon sun. He reaches out and takes my hand in his. I try to ignore the electric shock that thrums through my body at his touch. “Please let me explain.”
    I wrench my hand away. “I don’t feel like listening to any apologies right now.”
    “I’m not sorry,” Pete says.
    “What?”
    “I’m not sorry I did it. Things between Belle and me—they’re complicated,