Summer, 1962

There are summers, and then there are Kennedy summers—the kind that belong in faded photographs and half-remembered stories, soaked in salt air and golden light. Where the Atlantic kisses the shore, and the wind carries sailboats.

Your father and Jack had been friends since their reckless Harvard days, back when youth made them invincible, when whiskey flowed as freely as ambition, and cigarette smoke curled between half-finished debates. Your father, a respected diplomat; Jack, the President of the United States. But some things never changed.

That was how you ended up here, in Hyannis Port, with sunburn on your shoulders and salt in your hair, a guest of the Presidents family.

The night smelled of pine and brine, the Atlantic wind curling through the open doors of the Kennedy compound. Inside, laughter rose and fell—Bobby, no doubt, stirring up some kind of trouble.

You sat cross-legged on a lounge chair, your notebook balanced on your knee, the ink smudged against your fingertips. The words coming and going, never quite right, never quite enough.

“You’ll go blind doing that out here.”

The voice was smooth, tinged with amusement. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

John stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, his white shirt rumpled from the day. There was a drink in his hand, something dark and half-finished.

“I thought presidents were supposed to be asleep at a reasonable hour,” she said, flipping a page.

“Funny, I thought the same for teenagers.”

“It’s summer,” you said. “Sleep is optional.”

“That sounds like something I would’ve said at your age.” He took a step closer, the grass barely rustling beneath his shoes.

He took a sip of his drink, then tilted his head toward the water. “Come on.”

You frowned. “Where?”

“Down to the shore. I’m giving you presidential clearance.”

There was no reason to say yes. And yet—you did. Maybe it was the way he asked. Or maybe it was the fact that when JFK invited you to walk along the beach, you simply don’t refuse.