Текст книги "What I Thought Was True"

Автор книги: Huntley Fitzpatrick

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“And having towels all ready in the boathouse?”

His tone is getting rougher now. “Beach towels. I thought we might go for a swim, after the kayak. Then have something to eat. On the beach. I didn’t plan the storm, Gwen. Didn’t look at the weather. And they’re towels, not a sleeping bag and a jumbo box of condoms.” His voice, which has risen, actually cracks. “That’s not what this is about.”

“Not at all?” I ask. Great. Now I sound disappointed.

The storm seems to be moving away, so no lightning to display his face. “Gwen. I’d be lying if I said that. And I’m not going to lie to you. Ever. But if I don’t, are you going to kill me, freeze me out again? Or get up, walk out, leave us back where we were all spring? What’s it take with you?”

“With me? I’m not the one who flips hot and cold constantly!”

“You’re not, huh?” Cass says, getting to his feet. “From where I’m standing, that’s exactly what you do. I never know which Gwen I’m going to get. The one who acts like I’m something she stepped in or the one who—”

“Unzips your pants?” I ask.

He smacks his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Right. Because I couldn’t possibly want anything more than to get some.”

I stand. “It’s just a setup, Cass,” I say. “Like in March. A means to an end. That’s what I am, what—what this is.”

Fast reflexes. Before I know what’s happening, Cass bends over, grabs the bag, and throws it against the wall. Splintering crash, bottles breaking, soda foaming. I take a step back. He jams his hands into the pockets of his suit, turns away from me. “Fine, Gwen. Gotcha. And you’ve got me figured out. Clue me in on this, then. Why do I bother with you? Why not just ram my head against a brick wall? It would be easier and less painful. Why are you so freaking—burned, that, that nothing I do counts! I’m not fucking Alex Robinson. I’m not that asshole senior with the psycho girlfriend Vivien told me about. I’m not . . . I’m not Spence. Can you get that? Like, ever? How come it’s so clear to you when some made-up fictional characters are massively stupid and you can’t see it at all when it’s you and me?”

“Because you never tell me the truth! It’s all charm, and la-la-la, and I’m Cass, I’ll boil your lobsters, and I’ll charm your pants off, but it’s not what’s true.”

He takes a long, deep breath, pushing the heel of his hand against his forehead, as though taking his own temperature. “You seriously need to get past those lobsters,” he says, finally.

The storm is passing, darkness outside graying lighter, so I can see him slide his hand slowly down, cover his eyes, see the small shake of his head. He stands like that for a long time. When he drops his hand and opens his eyes, he keeps his head down.

“Gwen. I don’t lie. I’m not a liar. I’m not a—a user or whatever you think. I’m me. And I thought you finally cared who that was. I thought that was what this summer was starting to be about.” He raises his head.

“I don’t know what this summer is about,” I admit.

“Well, I do,” he says, the slightest edge of bitterness in his voice. Then he turns fully to me, looks directly at me.

No, not bitterness. Hurt.

And I can practically see every weapon, any defenses he’s had up, the distant look, the rich-boy poise, the shielding charm, slip from him, hear them all clatter to the floor.

He hangs his hands at his sides, lifts his eyes to mine again, and lets me read everything in his.

Hurt.

Honesty.

Hope.

The realization is quick, sharp, and shattering like that bag striking the wall.

I’m not the only one who can get hurt here.

Who was hurt here.

I can’t fathom his face in the dark. But right now, in this moment, I don’t need lightning to see.

He was right. I should come with a YouTube instructional video. Or a complete boxed set. How the hell can I expect him to figure me out when I don’t even get myself? And worse, I’m a total hypocrite—hurt and angry that he’d think about having sex with me, when I’ve gone there so many times in my own mind. I still don’t understand what happened after the Bronco that night. Or even in it. No. But maybe . . . maybe there is an explanation, other than the one I’ve been so sure was the only truth.

Because nothing about Cass is, or ever has been, “no big deal.”

It’s very still. The rain has passed far into the distance, the high winds quieted down. Nothing to drown out my thoughts or the words I might say. Have to say.

“Guess we should go,” Cass says, his voice remote again, as if he has decided this is just impossible.

I bend down, retrieve the rumpled bag full of broken glass, oozing root beer from a jagged tear in the soggy bottom. Wrap it up in a beach towel. Pick up the picnic pieces, cheese, bread, strawberries. Gather it all together. The cleaning woman’s daughter.

But not only that.

“Cass.” I swallow. “I—I can get past the lobsters.”

“That’s a start,” he says, his voice cool.

“C-can I walk you home?” I ask. “So you don’t have to turn the key in the lock?”

A long silence. “Is that the only reason?” he asks finally.

I take a deep breath. Another deep breath.

“Maybe not,” I say at last, “the only one.”

* * *

In the low tide, the waves are lapping lazily far down the beach. The only lingering signs of the storm are dimples in the sand from the pelting rain, and huge piles of kelp and rocks and boat shells littering the beach.

“Heavy lifting to come for the yard boy,” I say, scrambling for casual.

Cass tips his head in acknowledgment.

I trip on something and nearly fall and he reaches out a hand to catch me, then lets it drop before he can touch me.

Slowly, infinitesimally, as though if I moved quickly I might scare him off, I reach out for his hand, tangle mine in it, fingers slipping between fingers, then hand locking on hand.

Silence while I try to find what to say.

But then:

“Thank you,” Cass says simply. The way he did that night in the Bronco.

Good manners. It occurs to me that this is kindness. Not simply a habit, not only charm.

Then, as if he knows what I’m thinking, is reinforcing it, he moves close enough to me that I can feel his heat, warm skin. He tightens his hand on mine. But still, the walk uphill is long and silent.

When we reach the top, I turn to face him

“If . . . if . . . it wasn’t about a jumbo pack of condoms. Or thinking I was easy. What was it, then?”

“We’re going to talk now? Finally.”

“Finally?” I breathe.

“Yes. We’re not having this discussion in the middle of the street, though. Come on.” He tows me toward the dark hulk looming against the stars, the Field House. I hurry up the worn wooden steps, follow him into the hideous, haggy, yellow-walled apartment. Which seems all too exposed and open without any buffer between us. No party with roomfuls of people. No open Seashell road with a dozen possible witnesses. No Fabio. No Spence. Nothing but air and us.

We sit down on the couch. He takes a deep breath. Then another. He’s nervous. He looks down at his hand. Clench, unclench.

“Just spit it out,” I say. Beautiful. I sure do have a lyrical way with words.

He takes another deep breath. “I think I need some water.”

“I think you’re stalling. Please, Cass.”

I wrap my hand around his forearm. He turns to face me. The sofa creaks. Definitely a relative of Myrtle’s. Great how the furniture in my life talks more easily than I do.

“Let me help you out. Spence told you I was easy . . . so . . . He did, didn’t he?”

“Truth? Yeah. That you had crumble lines.”

“What the hell are crumble lines?”

“This garbage of Spence’s. He likes to spout off all these theories about girls and how to get them.”

“Because he’s Mr. Notorious, I-Had-Five-Girls-in-My-Hot-Tub-at-Once.”

“Three, for the record. Plus, one of them was his cousin who was just in there because she was in track and had run a marathon and her muscles were sore. What he says is to look for crumble lines—places where girls feel bad about themselves or whatever. Then you get them at the right moment and they do stuff they might not ordinarily do.”

“That’s the sickest theory I’ve ever heard,” I say. So right too, I think, remembering that party and that side room. How it all had nothing to do with what I felt about Spence.

“Yup. And dead effective. How Spence plays his game. So, uh, he said you had a reputation.”

I wince. He holds up a hand, stopping whatever I was about to jabber.

“So what, Gwen? I have a reputation in my own family. Not to mention at Hodges. It happens.”

He shuts his eyes, pauses, then opens them and continues, his words coming out rough and hurried.

“I always told him to shut it when he brought you up with his crumble line crap. So yeah, he’d said that and yeah, I’d heard stuff. Locker room shit. But Gwen . . . I knew you. I mean, we knew each other. It was a long time ago, but . . . well. We did. I mean . . . That summer? We did know each other. We were always at the beach or on the boat or doing those crazy scavenger hunts. I didn’t talk to you because of anything Spence said. I didn’t, um, look at you and just see your body. I sure as hell didn’t sleep with you because Spence told me to. That had nothing to do with anything but you and me. I asked you to the party because I liked you.”

“Cass, why didn’t you just ask me out . . . before that?”

“Because I couldn’t read you anymore. I thought you’d say no. I’m no good at asking. And I hate doing stuff I’m no good at.”

I stare at him. “Those are really stupid reasons.”

“Because Spence told me to would be stupider,” Cass says. “I thought maybe some opportunity would come up. When you waded into the water in your heroic rescue attempt, I figured you had to like me. Too.”

He pauses, waiting for me to say something. Confirm something. But one thing is clear. Cass is much braver than me. I just look at him, silently urging him to continue.

“Like I said. I didn’t think you did dates. That’s what everyone said. When I asked. Because I did. Ask.” He sighs, rubs the back of his neck, looks away from me. “So I invented the whole party thing. Which I realized afterward was a stupid-ass way of handling it. But, at the time, it was what I could do. I wanted to be with you. Any way I could.”

“Cass—” I inch closer to him on the couch, edge my hand onto his knee. He covers it with his.

“Look, I want to get this out. So . . . so listen.”

“I’m listening. I came to the party. And we . . .” I trail off, pull at a tiny elastic string at the side of my bikini bottom.

“For the record? Since we’re telling the truth now? That was not all me. You . . . you can’t sit there and act like, like, I took advantage of you. Because . . . because I may not have known . . . but you were right there with me. I know you were. I felt it. And I remember everything. Everything.”

My skin prickles, awareness, total recall.

“I didn’t plan on hooking up with you that night! That’s the truth. You were the one who—” He stops dead.

“Pushed it, right?”

“No! No. That was both of us. But I didn’t plan it. Going that far. If I had—if I had, I would have had protection, which, you may remember, I didn’t. Which completely freaked me out afterward when you wouldn’t even talk to me and just looked at me like I was scum.”

“I’m on the Pill.”

“How the hell would I have known that? You could have mentioned it.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“We should have used a condom anyway. But I could hardly think, Gwen. One minute we were kissing and the next minute your shirt was off and that was it—no more thinking.”

“You’re helpless in the face of boobs?”

He studies my face for a moment, then, at the sight of my smile, breaks slowly into one of his own. Then sobers.

“Yours? Um, yeah. But that’s not the point. The point is, what happened didn’t have anything to do with what Spence said. Except that he screwed it all up for us. Well . . . he and the other guys. And me.”

“And me,” I whisper, almost hoping he doesn’t hear me. But when I look up, his face is suddenly very close to mine. So he must have.

“Are we clear?” he asks gently, his eyes unflinching on mine.

“Clear,” I say. Then look down.

And me.

I need to say it.

“Except . . . except for what I, um, did next.” Praise God for that bathing suit thread. I pull on it, tangle my finger in it, loop it around and around, concentrating completely until Cass again covers my hand with his own, calluses brushing my knuckles. Then he’s motionless. Expressionless. I’d rather not speak, or remember it at all, but—I have to say it. Tell him.

“Sleeping with Spence,” I say.

His eyes, so straightforward and honest a second ago, go distant again. He picks at his thumbnail, jaw tight. When he finally says something, his voice is so soft I have to lean forward to hear it.

“Yeah . . . you . . . uh . . . what was that about?”

“Aside from me just being idiotic?” I sigh. “I was . . .” Drunk. Scared. Hurt. Feeling out of place. Crumble lined. All true, but . . . “Trying to hurt you.”

He’s had his head bent over that fascinating nail, but now he looks me in the eye, his voice flat and hard as his eyes. “Mission accomplished.”

My stomach clenches.

I felt stupid about what happened with Alex. I ached about how things ended at Cass’s party. I was ashamed about Spence. But in this moment, it’s as though I have never truly experienced, or cared about, any of those emotions before, as though the volume has been cranked up on all of them to the Nth degree. I’ve been dumb with boys. Thoughtless, casual, stupid. But I was mean to Cass.

All this time I thought what stood between us was what he did to me. How I couldn’t and shouldn’t forgive it—him being that guy. When all along I was ignoring what I did back to him. How I didn’t want to admit that I’d been that girl.

I feel my nose tickle, tears prick the back of my throat. My voice is thick. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

It’s quiet all around us. So hushed. I can hear my own heart.

His head’s ducked. I can see the flicker of his pulse in the hollow of his throat, marking out the seconds of silence between us.

Then, slowly, he raises his head, takes his thumb, touches away my tears, smiling just a little, and I know this time it is a romantic gesture because my mascara is long gone.

“Me too,” he says.

I take a deep breath, as though I’m about to leap off a bridge. That’s exactly what this feels like—catching my breath, holding it, leaping, sinking down, trusting something will propel me back to the surface.

“So . . . I hurt you. You hurt me. Any chance we can get past that?”

Cass looks down for a moment, takes a breath. I hold mine. “Well . . .” he says slowly. “You’d have to promise . . .”

I nod.

Yes.

I do.

I promise.

“. . . that you really are past the lobsters.”

I smile. “Lobsters? What lobsters?”

Cass laughs.

I wait for him to lean forward, but instead he inclines back, raises an eyebrow at me.

My turn again.

After everything, still, it takes every single bit of courage I have to do what I do next. But I take it, use it, and tip forward to kiss first one dimple, then the other, then those smiling lips.

Chapter Twenty-nine

The sky’s gone clear, washed with stars that glitter like mica. The night feels clean and peaceful. Cass is walking me home. Of course. We’re both tired and yawning by now, quiet, but a whole different quiet than on the walk to the beach, or back to the Field House. Strange how silence can do so many different things.

We’re close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off his body, but not touching, not holding hands the way we had up the hill. I find myself waiting for that again, for him to take my hand. Something that simple. A bridge between us.

Instead, he tips his head to the deep bowl of the night, where the clouds have already scudded away. A tiny light glitters in the distance, flickers. Fireflies. Like stars around us.

“The first maps were of the sky,” I quote.

“That’s right,” he says. “You remember that?”

Yes.

“That you had your theories on why. You thought they’d have been too busy escaping the mastodons, or whatever, to look up and want to draw what they saw.”

“Maybe it reminded them there was more to life than mastodons?” Cass says.

I move a little closer, graze the back of my hand against him. But still, nothing.

More to life than what you are scared of. I reach out, this second time, no mixed messages, interlace my fingers with his.

I don’t know if Cass knows that pulling off my shirt was easier for me to do than this . . . or apologizing about Spence.

But I think he might, because his fingers tighten on mine. Now we’re crunching up my driveway. The lantern outside the door is tipped crazily to the side, one orangey bulb lit, flickering, the other burnt out. I can hear Nic’s voice in my head, “Gotta fix that.” And Dad getting on him for not having done it already.

Cass leans down, turning to me. I feel a buzzing in my ears. One ear, actually. He brushes his hand next to my cheek, into my hair, pulls.

“Ow!”

“Sorry.” He opens his hand, smiles. “Firefly. You caught one.”

The dark spot on his palm stays there a moment, then gleams and lifts into the sky. Then Cass pulls me slightly to my tiptoes, as though I’m much shorter than he is, as though I weigh nothing at all, and kisses me thoroughly. “G’night, Gwen. See you tomorrow.”

* * *

It’s Christmas.

Or it feels like it.

The instant my eyes snap open, I get that jolt of adrenaline, that tight thrill, the sense that this day can’t help but be magical.

Except that waking up on December twenty-fifth on Seashell generally means listening to the pipes bang as Mom showers, hearing Grandpa Ben explain once again to Emory why he has to wait until everyone else gets up to see what Santa brought, hearing Nic call out, “Gwen, I don’t have to wrap this thing for you, do I? I mean, you’ll unwrap it in two seconds anyway.”

But now, warm summer smells blow through my window. Beach roses. The loamy sharp scent of red cedar mulch. Cut grass drying in the sun. I can hear Grandpa singing Sinatra from the small backyard garden. Mom echoing from the kitchen. “Luck be a lady . . .”

I stretch luxuriously. It feels like everything is new, even though I’m in the same clothes I fell into bed wearing last night, and here’s Fabio, as usual hogging the mattress, legs outstretched, paws flopped, breathing bad dog-breath into my face. Still, it’s like all the atoms in everything have been shaken and rearranged.

If I keep on this way, I’ll be composing the kind of embarrassing poetry that appears in our school literary magazine.

But it’s the first time I’ve had a “morning after” that felt delicious, not nauseating—even though it wasn’t “after” anything but a lot of talking and some kissing.

Amazingly, Nic has left some hot water in the shower. I wash my hair, then spend a ridiculous amount of time rearranging it different ways, finally ending up with the same one as always. I yell at Mom because my dark green tank top is missing. She comes in, does that annoying Mom thing where she finds it in five seconds after I’ve been scrabbling through my drawers for ten minutes. Then she lays her hand on my forehead. “You all right, honey? You look feverish.”

“I’m fine, Mom. Do you think I should wear this green one? Or the burgundy one? Or just white?”

My nerves are jumping, like sparklers that light, ignite, flare, fizzle. She’s all serene. “I’m sure Mrs. Ellington won’t care, honey.”

I hold up one, then the next, then the next. “Which looks the best? Really, Mom—you need to tell me.”

An “aha” expression flits across her face. But she says simply, “The green brings out the emerald in your eyes.”

“My eyes are brown.”

“Tourmaline with gold and emerald,” Mom corrects, smiling at me.

I smile back, even though they really are just plain old brown.

I turn my back, pull on the green tank top. “You got through the storm okay?” she asks, beginning to refold the jumbled clothes in my drawer. “I didn’t hear you come in. Musta been out pretty late.”

“Um, yeah. We, uh . . . watched a movie. Made popcorn.” Kept our hands to ourselves.

“That Cassidy is a nice boy,” she offers mildly. “Such good manners. You don’t see that much in kids your age.”

This is one of the things about feeling this way. I want to grab on to every little bit of conversation about Cass and expand on it. “Yeah, he’s always been very polite. He’s so . . . so . . . Do you think I should wear the khaki shorts or the black skirt?”

“The black one is a little short, don’t you think? Mrs. E. isn’t as conservative as she could be, but you wouldn’t want to push it. I thought he’d be full of himself. Kids who look like that usually are. But he doesn’t seem that way at all.”

“He’s not,” I say briefly but dreamily. Embarrassing poetry, here I come.

I glance in the mirror over my dresser, put on lip gloss, remember Nic telling me guys hate it because it’s sticky, wipe it off. Mom comes up behind me, puts her arms around my waist and rests her chin on my shoulder, staring into the mirror.

Dad’s always saying how alike we look, and generally, I don’t get it. I see nitpicky things like the gray scattered in Mom’s hair, or the way my eyes tip up at the corners like Dad’s, the crinkles at the corners of her eyes, the fact that she has a dust of freckles and I have none, that my skin is darker olive than hers. But today, the resemblance hits me as it never has before. I’m not sure why this is until I realize: It’s the optimism in our smiles.

All good, but I don’t know what to do with myself in the land of sunshine and butterflies. By the time I’m clattering down the steps in heeled sandals I never wear, my nerves are buzzing.

What if things are different in the light of day? How do I handle this, anyway? Do I run up to him when I see him mowing? Or is he going to want to keep things professional around the island?

Does this come easily to most people? Because I have no idea what the hell I’m doing here.

I listen for the sound of the lawn mower but can’t hear anything. No handy arrow pointing to a yard to say “Cass is here.”

Over-thinking. I’ll just get to work. I pick up my pace, then nearly scream when a warm hand closes on my ankle.

“Sorry!” says Cass, sliding out from under the beach plum bush by the side of the Beinekes’ house. “I was weeding. You didn’t seem to see me.” He slides back, stands up and beams at me.

Suppress goofy smile. “Um. Hi. Cass.”

He brushes off his hands—still gloveless—and comes around to the gate, slipping through it. Today he’s in shorts and a black T-shirt. “You can do better than that.” He loops his arms around my waist and pulls me to him.

“Where are your gloves?”

“Better than that too.” He drops a kiss on my collarbone. “Good to see you, Cass. I dreamed about you, Cass. . . . Feel free to improvise.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be wearing those work gloves? When you’re working? Because otherwise your poor hands won’t . . .”

Gah. I sound like Mom, or the school nurse.

I’m no good at this.

Luckily, Cass is good enough for both of us. “I missed you, Gwen. It’s good to see you, Gwen. I dreamed about you, Gwen. Yeah, haven’t gotten around to the gloves. More important things to focus on. Want me to tell you what they are?”

“Can I have a do-over?” I ask.

He nods. “Absolutely. Thought we got clear on that.” He shifts his hands over my back. I want to tell him not to do that, it’s got to hurt, but I’m not going to be the nurse anymore.

I trace the scar in his left eyebrow. “How’d you get this?”

“My brother Jake threw a ski pole at me in Aspen when I was seven. In fairness, I was making kissing noises while he helped his girlfriend put her boots on. Back when he had girlfriends. You were saying?”

“I—I—” Give up. “I don’t have any words today.”

“Good enough.”

Lots of kissing after this. Apparently too much, as a pair of ’tween boys walking by whistle, though one of them mutters, “Give her the tonsillectomy in private, man.”

Laughing, Cass pulls back, his hands still locked around my waist. “I have a bad feeling the yard boy is going to be more useless than usual today.”

“As long as you steer clear of the hedge clippers, it’s okay, Jose. I can think of a few uses for you.” I graze the corner of his mouth with my lips, nudging it open.

“Killing spiders,” he mutters, kissing back wholeheartedly. “Opening jars.”

“And so on,” I whisper.

“Look,” he says, pulling back after a while, for the first time seeming awkward. “I can’t see you tonight. I have another . . . family thing.”

“Oh, yeah, I understand,” I say hurriedly. “No problem. I have to—”

He catches my hands and waits till I turn my face back so I’m looking at him.

“This got set up before you and I figured things out—a command performance kind of deal. I’d much rather be with you.”

“Your grandmother?”

“And a few trustees from Hodges,” he says. “Fun times.”

* * *

Dad slams the screen door behind him that night, brandishing a crumpled piece of paper, laundry bag over his shoulder. “What exactly is this?” He drops the bag, flicks his hand against the paper. Irritation crackles off him as palpably as the smell of fryer grease. It’s eleven o’clock at night, so Castle’s must have just closed. Not his usual laundry drop-off time.

“What’s it look like?” Mom asks, unperturbed, barely glancing up from her book. “It’s a flyer for my business.”

I click off the television, looking from one of them to the other.

“You clean houses. That’s not a business.”

“Well, it sure isn’t a hobby, Mike. I clean houses and I want to clean more because We Need the Money. Like you keep saying. So I’m advertising.” She plucks the paper from his hand, running her finger across it. “It came out good, didn’t it?”

Dad clears his throat. When he starts speaking again, his voice slows, softens. “Luce. You know Seashell. They see these posted around, get the idea you’re hard up for work, for cash, and next thing you know, the minute something disappears, some little gold bracelet from Great-Aunt Suzy, every finger will be pointing straight at you.”

“Don’t be silly.” Fabio hurls himself onto the couch, gasping for breath from the effort, climbing into Mom’s lap. She ruffles his ears and he snorts with pleasure, eyeing the melting ice cream in her bowl, ears perked. “My clients know me better than that. I’ve worked for most of the families on Seashell for more than twenty years.”

Dad collapses next to her on Myrtle, rests elbows on his thighs, bows his head into his hands. A streak of white skin gleams at the back of his neck above the sunburn he probably got last time he went out on the boat. “Doesn’t matter. When the chips are down, you’re not in the Rich Folks Club.”

“Mike, you’re such a pessimist. Have a little faith in human kindness.” To my complete amazement, she ruffles Dad’s hair, nudges him on the shoulder. I don’t think I can ever remember seeing them touch, much less exchange an affectionate gesture. It actually gives me a lump in my throat, especially when Dad looks up, his hazel eyes big and pleading, a little lost, so like Emory’s.

“You never get it, do you, Luce? You still think that the whole damn world is full of happy endings just waiting to come to you. Haven’t you noticed Prince Charming hasn’t showed up yet?”

Mom’s voice is dry. “Yes, honey. That I’ve noticed.”

Dad actually cracks a smile.

I’m almost afraid to breathe. My parents are having a minute of truce. An instant of genuine connection. For a moment (honestly, the first in my life) I can understand why they got married (besides the me-being-on-the-way thing).

There’s a loud knock on the door. “Betcha that’s him now,” Mom says, smiling at Dad.

But it’s Cass. He grins at me, then looks a little sheepish. “I know it’s late,” he starts.

“Almost midnight.” Dad comes up behind me. “And who the hell are you?”

Cass introduces himself.

“Aidan Somers’s son, right? Coach Somers your brother? Lobster roll, mayo on the side, double order of fries?”

Cass blinks, momentarily confused. “Uh . . . Yeah, that’s Jake.”

“Bit late for a swimming lesson.” Dad surveys Cass, who is wearing a blue blazer, a tie, neatly creased khakis. “And you’re not exactly dressed for one, kid.”

“Don’t be silly, Mike. He’s come for Gwen,” Mom says, sounding as though this is the most natural thing in the world.

“I wondered if she’d want to take a walk with me,” Cass explains. “I know it’s late,” he repeats in the face of Dad’s glare.

“I’d love to,” I say instantly, grabbing his hand. “Let’s go!”

“Wait just a second,” Dad says. “How old are you, Cassidy?”

“Seventeen.”

“I was seventeen once too,” my father begins unpromisingly. “And I took a ton of girls to the beach late at night—”

“That’s great, Dad. You can tell us all about it another time.” I pull Cass out the door as Mom says, “A ton? That’s a bit much, Mike. It was just me and that trashy Candy Herlihy.”

* * *

“Are we ever going to leave my house without me having to apologize for my family?”

“Not necessary. I’m the one who showed up late.” Cass yanks at his tie, loosening it, hauling it off, then shoves it in his jacket pocket, opens the door of the old BMW, which is parked in our driveway next to Dad’s truck and the Bronco, pulls off the jacket and tosses it in. Then starts unbuckling his belt.

“Uh, strip in our driveway,” I say, “and Dad’s definitely going to think this is a booty call.”

He laughs, tosses the belt in, followed by his shoes and socks, pulls his shirttails out, bumps the car door shut. “Just felt like I couldn’t breathe in all that. I was headed home, saw your lights on . . . just wanted to see you.”

He takes my hand again and we head down the road. I love nighttime on Seashell . . . all the silhouetted figures of the houses, the hush of the ocean. It feels like the only time the whole island belongs to me.

“How were the trustees?”

“Stuffy as hell. Like the atmosphere at the B and T.” He takes a deep breath. “Not like this.” Then he tugs me a little closer. “Or this.” Ducking his head, he rubs his nose in my hair. I brace my hands on his shoulders, lean closer, feel warm skin under his crisp cool shirt.

He steps back. “Okay, island girl. Give me a tour? The Insider’s Night Guide to Seashell?”

“We could just go to the Field House,” I say, then wince.

“Not about a jumbo box of condoms, remember? Come on. You’ve got to have some secret places no one knows about.”