Sailor on the Edge

by Christopher Renna

Genres: YA Contemporary; YA Social Themes; YA Romance

Synopsis

Seventeen-year-old Sailor never imagined he'd spend his final year of high school on a remote farm in Bishop, Indiana. After losing his parents, he's been drifting—surviving his aunt and uncle's rigid household and trying not to take up too much space. But when they send him to live with his withdrawn grandfather, Sailor has no choice but to trade city life for watermelon fields, barn chores, and a town where he sacrifices being himself so he can fit in.

Sailor is determined to finish the school year, keep his head down, and move on. But Bishop has other plans. He forms an unexpected bond with Calvin, a neurodivergent neighbor whose quiet world of sketchbooks and insects draws Sailor in. Then there's Aspen—the reserved, frustratingly unreadable boy at school who won't talk to Sailor . . . until he does.

As the summer stretches on, love, heartbreak, and loss push Sailor to the edge of who he thought he was—and who he might become. Because sometimes the life you're running from is exactly where you're meant to be.

Perfect for fans of Benjamin Alire Sáenz, Adam Silvera, and Robbie Couch, Sailor on the Edge is a heartfelt young adult novel about first love, queer identity, and the quiet power of choosing your own path.

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Release date: December 16, 2025

Print pages: 312

Sample

1 My aunt and uncle broke the news over breakfast: I was being shipped off to live with my grandfather in Indiana. It certainly wasn't surprising news to a burden like me. For one, since the death of my parents, it had been hinted at on several occasions that taking me in was a financial strain on their family. Subtle hints disguised as remarks made in passing rather than outright complaints, of course. Saying it to my face would've been rude, and if there was one thing they valued, it was appearing well-mannered and polite. Secondly, my open-minded, take-no-shit attitude didn't mesh well with my laidback relatives. Meaning, they couldn't control and influence me as easily as their two agreeable children. Plus, I was gay. A fact rarely acknowledged, other than the occasional vulgar comment hurled my way by my cousin, Eugene. If it was ever mentioned during conversation, it was referred to as my "lifestyle choice." The words gay or homosexual, were only uttered in a near-whisper as if they'd dared speak the name of a super villain who should remain nameless. Now, I'll be the first to admit that I probably wasn't the ideal addition to their little family. I'd just lost both my parents in a car accident when a drunk driver slammed into their car from the opposite lane. Meaning, head-on collision. Killed instantly. My parents were stolen from me, so yeah, I was grieving and miserable for a while. And honestly, I wasn't too excited about living with them either. With no extra bedroom in their house, I was given the unfinished basement. Damp. Musty. Dimly lit. Concrete floor. Exposed wooden beams overhead. But I had my own space, so it wasn't complete torture. But my aunt and uncle were not accustomed to a teenager correcting facts or commenting on opinions. For seventeen and a half years, my parents raised me to speak up, ask questions, and think for myself. There was no way I was going to follow my aunt and uncle's tacit rule that children should be indoctrinated by their parents. Plus, they weren't my parents, so I have no clue why they ever believed I'd become a carbon copy of my cousins: well-trained shadows who repeated the beliefs they'd inherited and never stepped outside the lines their parents had drawn in permanent ink. So . . . no, the news about Indiana didn't shock me. But the timing did. Spring break was nearly over—only the final weekend before returning to school—but I'd be on a bus bound for a small town in Indiana the next afternoon. Two months of my junior year remained, but I was clearly too much of a pain in the ass to put up with for even that long. Finally, goodbye Hellertown, Pennsylvania. Sixty-seven days in the Hewitt household had been a pain in the ass for me too. 

Aunt Marlee and Uncle Richard had paid for my ticket. Now that was the real surprise. I'd paid for everything I needed with my own money while living with them. Excluding food. I had money in my bank account, thanks to my parents when they'd died. For a while, I believed my aunt and uncle were eager to claim some of the upcoming life insurance payout and money from the sale of our house, but I guess I was mistaken. Good on them. "A lot of nice memories growing up on that farm," my aunt said, a trace of a smile bending the thin line of her lips. "You'll make some too." "You haven't been back there in, like, five years," I said. Her lips snapped back to wire-thin in an instant. "Mm-hm." It was difficult to believe that Aunt Marlee and my mother were sisters. Night and day. Apple and oranges. Free and trapped. "Manners," Uncle Richard muttered as he chewed his toast softly like he feared the crunch of dry bread. I looked across the table at my cousins. Fourteen and twelve. Both thoroughly engrossed in their cereal, pretending like they didn't hear one word of the conversation. Eugene glanced up at me just long enough to sneer, then lowered his head like he'd rather stare at milk than make eye contact with his parents. Next to him, Shelly's shoulders quivered as she strangled a laugh before it escaped her lips. If there's one thing Shelly was perpetually entertained by, it was her father's constant reminder that I needed to be mindful of good manners.

I straightened, poured myself a glass of orange juice, then buttered my toast. "Well, I'm looking forward to it, actually. I'm sure my bedroom will have windows above ground level. And I might get myself a hot farm boy for a boyfriend. Never dated a farm boy before." Uncle Richard didn't even blink. He stirred creamer into his coffee and said, calm as ever, "Sailor, please leave the table." I plucked the toast off my plate and stood. "You're right. I should start packing. What time is my bus?" "It leaves the station at one o'clock. Eighteen hours to Terre Haute." Walking toward the basement door, I said, "All right, everybody. I got a trip to get ready for. See you later." Hell no, I wasn't looking forward to moving to the small town of Bishop, Indiana. I hadn't seen my grandfather since my parents' funerals. Before that, he visited us in Philadelphia for a week when I was fourteen. In the span of a year and a half, I'd seen him twice. Back when my grandmother was alive, we saw them once or twice a year. Enough for the visits to blur together. Now I was nearly eighteen years old, and I wasn't sure how well we'd get along since I wasn't a kid anymore. There might be a whole world of difference between us now. Most of my memories of him involved toys, horseback rides, and sticky ice cream cones. Today, I was more interested in books, boys, and frozen yogurt in a cup.

Of course, I could have called my grandfather. Just as easily, Grandpa Douglas could have called me, but I wasn't surprised that he hadn't. He'd always been a stern, stoic man. Mom had repeated countless stories about growing up with her strict, emotionally distant father. And after losing his daughter a year after losing his wife, maybe grief had made him even more withdrawn. How could anyone not blame me for being on edge? I was seventeen, an orphan, and had just survived sixty-seven suffocating days with the rigid, conservative Hewitts. Now I was headed to live with a man who might not have asked for this arrangement so much as accepted it out of obligation. If losing my parents had taught me anything, it was this: always expect the unexpected. Turns out, my life had become surprisingly easy to uproot. There wasn't much to pack. A dresser full of clothes, two books I wanted to read while on the bus, and a photo album of my parents and me. The rest I boxed up, labeled, and taped shut, ready to be shipped to my grandfather's house a few miles outside of Bishop. After my parents died, and Marlee and Richard had offered to take me in, I was grateful for a home but sad to leave the friends I'd grown up with. I told myself I'd make new friends in Hellertown. That didn't quite happen, though. Sure, I befriended a few kids at school, but nothing stuck. No real connections. Not like what I had in Philadelphia. Two months wasn't long enough to build bonds—or even rivalries. I kept my head down and drifted through the days. And honestly, I didn't expect Bishop to be any different. But . . . I'd be in Bishop much longer than Hellertown, so there was time to prove me wrong. My last full day in the Hewitt house was as thrilling as ever. Meals were the usual joyless affair. Marlee and Richard stuck to the same scripted exchange with my cousins and me. Real conversations didn't happen here. We spent the day knocking out a list of chores. No one brought up the fact that I was leaving. Then, after dinner, they parked themselves in front of the television to watch some sappy movie while I escaped to the basement. I finished reading The House in the Cerulean Sea and tried not to envy the characters too much for their found family and quiet magic. When I closed the book, I stared at the ceiling and let myself flirt with hope—just a little—that Bishop, Indiana might not be so terrible. Maybe if I expected the worst, then the unexpected would be the total opposite. *   *   * I woke up feeling not much of anything, really. No sadness, no relief. Just a kind of numb acceptance that I was leaving Marlee and Richard's house for good. I didn't expect a goodbye party or a tearful farewell. I moved through the morning on autopilot, stuffing the last of my things into my backpack and double-checking that my boxes were sealed for shipping.

I'd never been on a long-distance bus ride before, and now I was about to sit through nearly a full day of it, heading to a man who'd looked like he was barely holding it together the last time I'd seen him. Somewhere between tying my shoes and brushing my teeth, the quiet but persistent nerves kicked in. I didn't know what the next chapter of my life would look like, and that uncertainty made me wish I could just go off and start a new life on my own. Still, I figured whatever was waiting for me in Bishop couldn't be much worse than what I was leaving behind. The ride to the bus station was quiet. After parking, my aunt, uncle, and cousins walked me inside. Eugene and Shelly offered half-hearted smiles, which was fine by me. A group hug would've felt staged, like we were putting on a show for the strangers around us. And I wasn't about to give the Hewitts the satisfaction of an emotional farewell. Uncle Richard cupped my shoulder. "I'm glad we were able to help you out. Now you're off to bigger, better things—" "Bigger and better in Bishop?" I asked, arching an eyebrow. "Sure. You'll soon see that this is the best thing for you." Marlee pulled me into a hug, then looked me square in the eyes. "Take it from me. You need structure if you're going to survive this world." I needed structure? What the hell did that even mean? My parents raised me to be polite, though. "Thanks for all you've done."

She embraced me again. "Have a safe trip. When your grandfather picks you up, give him a great big hug for me." It did not escape me that she was the closest thing to hugging my mother again. A glint in her eyes. A hint in her smile. Every once in a while, the tone of her voice. These things reminded me that I loved Marlee despite her husband's influence on her, his rigid worldview, and how out of place I'd felt in their house. And I tightened my arms around her. I'd expected faded and stained seats and sticky floors. But I was happy to be wrong when I boarded the bus and then made my way toward the back. Reclining leather seats. Free Wi-Fi and my own outlet to charge my phone. Plus, no one sat next to me, and I hoped it stayed that way during the length of my trip. I had What Beauty There Is by Cory Anderson and Blacktop Wasteland by S.A. Cosby to keep me company. I didn't need a kind stranger striking up an obscenely long conversation or accidentally elbowing me three hundred and eighty-nine times while the bus ushered me to Indiana. I didn't look out the window. Not even a quick peek. I seriously doubted Marlee, Richard, Eugene, and Shelly were waiting to watch the bus reverse out of its slot and head toward the main road. But if they were, I didn't want to see them, to see their faces and shoulders relax with relief as I embarked on a trip that would put seven hundred miles between us.

Once the driver closed the door, I thanked God the seat beside me had remained vacant. Small blessings with big value. I set What Beauty There Is onto the seat, then a bottled water and a package of dried apple rings. I settled more comfortably and typed a message to my friends in our group chat: On my way to Indiana. RM had enough of me. Going to live with my grandfather. After my parents died, my four best friends and I moved in different directions. Me, to my aunt and uncle's house. Them, to the next assignment, appointment, date, workout, family dinner, etc. I couldn't blame them or be mad. No matter what happened in life—no matter how bad—life insisted on moving forward. It's the same for everyone. From day one, we collect days by moving on from the last, collecting them all like souvenirs until the very last day that can't be carried with us. Finally, the bus reversed away from the concrete walkway, releasing a hiss that sounded like a dismissive, breathy sneer: Goodbye Hellertown, Pennsylvania. I wanted to be mad that my life had veered way off course, but the anger didn't come. Apparently, this was the road meant for me. And apparently, I'd accepted it without even knowing that I had. Even with a good book to keep me occupied, my mind still wandered. I'd brought the novels with me to avoid my cluster of thoughts while the bus carried me closer to Indiana. Without reading, there wasn't much to do on an eighteen-hour road trip but stare out the window as the scenery blurred by, zone out with my phone and the free Wi-Fi, or let sleep steal the minutes and hours spent on the bus. But a book . . . a word or a sentence sparked a thought and that sparked another, and those sparks ignited a fire, then I was trapped in my own head with no immediate way out. I had no idea what my life had become. Before my parents died, each day had its predestined purpose. I blindly followed life's twists and turns without giving them much thought. Now I felt like a tourist who couldn't make sense of the map in my hands. In my reclining leather seat, the bus was taking me too far away from the life I'd known and leading me right to a life I was too scared to navigate. Of course, I wouldn't tell anyone that. Losing my parents had already exposed my vulnerability. I wasn't about to keep peeling back the layers so people could peer into the deepest parts of me that were still bleeding. I'd finished reading What Beauty There Is by the time the bus parked at a rest area. It was a chance for us to stretch our legs, buy dinner, and gather overpriced junk food and beverages for the remainder of our trip. On the way to the men's restroom, I passed a young couple. They appeared to be about twenty years old, and I envied the freedom they had to return to their car and drive home or wherever they wanted. The girl walked alongside him, as if she couldn't resist the gravitational pull that kept her in his orbit. Even though I'd dated a couple of guys, I'd never experienced that with someone. It made me wonder what it would feel like to be wanted and needed like that. To be someone's gravitational center, the person someone couldn't help but orbit. Back on the bus, I responded to the group chat. Friends asking questions and wishing me well. But I didn't want to be drawn into a conversation, so I simply typed: I'll let you know what I think of Indiana. When the bus pulled out of the rest area, the first shades of night were stripping the sun's colors from the sky. After setting my overpriced chips and Gatorade onto the seat beside me, I gazed out the window at the sunset low on the horizon. And I stared for a while because the sunset didn't cost anything but admiration. *   *   * My neck ached, and my cheek was numb from pressing against the window at some point during the night. It was early, but sunlight had already chased away the darkness of night. Violet and plum and lavender and magenta fighting for the same shade of purple where beauty existed. In that moment, I contemplated who in Bishop might speak the same color as me. Then, another rest area. Overpriced breakfast sandwiches and coffee.

The bus was nearly empty now. Only an hour until we arrived in Terre Haute. Enough time for me to finish reading Blacktop Wasteland, and when I closed the book, I'd turn the first page to the next chapter of my life. ...