Текст книги "What I Thought Was True"

Автор книги: Huntley Fitzpatrick

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“You didn’t shut the door all the way.” Spence was leaning against the wall by the door. He gestured at the French doors behind me. “The birds need the temperature carefully regulated. Very important to my mother. But then, she’s in Marbella right now, and what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. So, Gwen Castle, what are you looking for, in here all by yourself? Got to be a reason you came to this party.”

His eyes were the weirdest yellow-green color, slightly tilted up at the corners. Cat eyes. They’d always seemed to skip over me before, but now they were fixed steadily on my face. When I said nothing in response—since I had no real answer—he raised a thumb slowly to his lips and chewed on his nail, completely without self-consciousness, despite the fact that, now that I was looking, I noticed that all his other nails were bitten to the quick. Then he nodded like he’d come to a decision.

“You need another strawberry daiquiri.” Slipping his arm around my waist, his fingers resting lightly on my hip, he towed me out the door.

“I really don’t need—”

“Come on, Gwen Castle. You haven’t had enough. Not yet. Besides, you’ve always struck me as a girl who gets an awful lot of ‘not enough.’ That won’t happen tonight.”

We took a different route to the bar than I’d taken before, down a long hallway with red-and-gold flocked wallpaper, hung with dark oil paintings of sea captains who looked as though they were sneering, and uptight round-faced women, presumably their wives.

“Your ancestors?” I asked Spence, searching their faces for his familiar smirk.

“Bought at estate sales. It’s all for show, Castle, right? All about the look of the thing.”

A side door opened and an elderly man emerged, wearing a paisley dressing gown like someone in one of Grandpa Ben’s movies. His thinning hair was ruffled up around his pink ears and he was rubbing one eye like Emory when he’s tired.

“What’s all this noise?” he asked Spence.

“Party, Dads. Remember?”

This was Spence’s dad? He was like eighty—had to be his grandfather.

The man frowned. “I agreed to this?” he asked vaguely.

“You bought the booze,” Spence responded.

The man nodded wearily and disappeared back through the door he’d come out of. He didn’t shut it completely, and Spence reached out and gave it a shove with the flat of his hand until there was an audible click.

Then he cut his eyes at me, as though waiting for me to say something.

“Your father doesn’t mind you partying?”

“Dads? Nah. He doesn’t care. Though, strictly speaking, it was just his credit card that bought the goods, not the man himself.” He shrugged, gave a little laugh. “What? Don’t look at me like that, Castle.”

I had no idea how I was looking at him, although I suspect it was with pity. Our house could practically fit in his foyer, but it never felt sad and empty like that, despite the distant party sounds. “I—”

“I’m sure you have crazy relatives locked in your attic too. What family isn’t dysfunctional, right? Come on, let’s get you what you need.”

He poured me another daiquiri and one for himself, then led me back down the hallway. And I followed. That’s the thing, I trailed right after him into this big study, where he waved me to a big puffy couch, all swirly embroidered flowers on a white linen background, then sank into an equally puffy chair across from it, studying me over the rim of his glass. “You really are pretty as hell, Castle. Much hotter when you don’t wear the baggy clothes. Don’t stress about what happened with Sundance. How could he help himself? Besides, it’s just sex. No big deal.”

That’s exactly what it hadn’t felt like. Not just sex. Not no big deal. Not at all. Not to me.

But this was the last thing I was going to let Spence know. I gulped my drink, shook my head, laughed in what I hoped was a carefree and dismissive way. “I’ve already forgotten the whole thing. Water under the dam.” Was that right? Bridge? Dam? I should put this drink down now.

He whistled. “Don’t tell Cassidy that. Not in those words, anyway. We guys are touchy. Good to know there are no hard feelings, though.”

“I’m not planning on any heart-to-hearts with Cass Somers.”

“C’mon, Gwen. He’s a good guy. Don’t be mad at him.” He examined my face more closely, then whistled again, longer and lower. “O-ho. You’re not mad. You’re hurt. Damn, I’m sorry.” He sounded as though he meant it, and to my horror, tears sprang to my eyes.

“Oh man. I didn’t think . . . You always seemed so . . . Don’t do this, okay?” Spence set his drink on the coffee table, swept my glass out of my hands, one smooth motion. Then did the most unexpected thing. He leaned forward to kiss the tears away, lifting my hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ears, whispering against my cheek. “Sobbing girls are my weakness. They slay me, every time. Shh. Secret. Word gets out and every girl at school will know how to get to me.”

“No more five chicks in the hot tub, then,” I said shakily.

“Six,” he murmured, still smoothing back my hair. There was a smudge of black on his lower lip from my mascara. “But who’s counting? You have dreamboat eyes, you know that?”

“Did you use that lame line on all six?”

“Nah. Didn’t bother. None of them were looking for a deep and meaningful relationship. Neither, of course, am I. And tonight, I’m betting you aren’t either. Right?”

He was right. I wasn’t. Not that night. Viv and Nic and the hotel—Cass—flashed into my head and then zoomed out as Spence bent toward me, moving forward to my lips this time.

* * *

On the drive home from the bridge, Nic keeps glancing over at me, shoulder muscles tense.

“Look,” he says finally. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I just . . . I mean, you’re pretty, you’re cool, and you’ve never really dated, and . . .” He drums his thumbs on the steering wheel, his mouth open like he hopes the right words will just magically fly into it. Finally: “Did that ass Alex break your heart?”

“Please. Alex got nowhere near my heart. I thought he did back then, but it was nothing. He just hurt my feelings, the putz.”

“Then did Channing . . . ?” He trails off, clearly finding the thought completely impossible.

Hunching back in my seat, I kick my feet up on the glove compartment

“C’mon, Gwen. Talk. Tell me.”

I shake my head. “No, thanks.”

Nic reaches over and tries to pull my head to his shoulder but I’m stiff, edging him away. “I’m good,” I say. “Let’s just drive.”

Chapter Fifteen

But “just driving” is almost worse than trying to explain that party to my baffled cousin, because it reminds me of the worst, most painful part of that night. Which I don’t want to think about. But I can’t stop.

* * *

When I woke up, I had no idea where I was—only that everything about it felt bad. I was wedged in an uncomfortable position against a wall, my dress twisted up behind my shoulder blades. My mouth was sticky-sweet and my head heavy and fogged. Someone next to me was snoring.

I lay there categorizing the feelings. 1) I was not at home. 2) I didn’t like where I was. 3) I was not alone. Then the soft snoring sound next to me and the long foot looped around mine, the distinctive smell of expensive, musky aftershave and the sickly sweet taste of strawberry pulled it together.

I was at Spence Channing’s party. In a bed with Spence Channing. And yeah, I’d chosen all this.

Unhooking his ankle from my own, I inched slowly—slllooooowly—down to the bottom of the bed and then blinked at the dim floor, the ladder stretching up, the shelf of mattress above me.

This was a bunk bed.

Spence muttered and groped for my waist for a second, but then rolled onto his stomach and snored louder.

I was in a bunk bed with a boy who drank strawberry daiquiris. For some reason, probably because I was still a little buzzed, that seemed like one of the most surreal parts. I was in a bunk bed where the sheets were decorated with nautical flags. With a boy who at some point in the night had gotten up and put on paisley pajama bottoms. While across town, my best friends were in a hotel room that probably smelled like roses . . .

Don’t think about that.

I needed to get out of this room.

After bumping my head on the hard corner of a bureau, I finally reached the door, groped for the handle, and let myself out, blinking, into the hallway. The light was dim, but still hurt my eyes. There was a guy—Chris Markos?—slumped against the wall in a half-sitting, half-lying position. Out cold.

Judging from the people scattered on couches and chairs and the floor—all crashed—this was one of those parties that would be described as “epic.” There was Matt Salnitas on the couch with Kym Woo—who I knew was dating his brother. Maybe there were enough dramas going on that no one would notice mine. Unlike the last party I’d gone to. Don’t think about that. Just find Hoop and get out of here. I peered out the window to the corner of the driveway where he’d parked his truck and my heart sank. No truck.

“C’moooon, man . . . just drive me,” said a voice from the kitchen. “It’s not even outta your way.”

“Jimbo. We’ve been through this.” The voice in response sounded tired. “I’ve got your back. And your car keys—till morning.”

Walking into the fluorescently lit kitchen, I instantly whipped my hand in front of my eyes. Seated at stools at the counter were Jimmy Pieretti and Cass. Jimmy had a big bowl of unshelled peanuts in front of him and he was waving one at Cass for emphasis.

“I need to do something, Sundance. I need to impress this girl.”

“Trust me. Serenading her from her yard at three in the morning is not what you’re looking for. Hi, Gwen.”

In the brightness of the room—and the muddiness of my head—Cass was looking like the poster boy for WASPiness. White T-shirt, faded khakis, tousled blond hair. All he needed was a golden retriever at his knee and a grandfather handing him an heirloom watch to complete the picture.

Jimmy, by contrast, looked like I felt—a bit grubby and rough around the edges. “Gwen! Hi, Gwen! Let’s ask Gwen about this! She can solve my romantic issues.”

Cass’s eyes met mine for a second. Though his were neutral, I could translate the thought there loud and clear: Yeah, ’cause Gwen here is so wise with hers.

But how could he possibly know? He was outside when Spence led me down the hallway to his bedroom, from the poufy parlor sofa to the bunk bed.

But he did. I could see it in his eyes, the tension of his knuckles clenched white around the countertop.

“Alexis Kincaid, Gwen—man, it’s like she doesn’t even see me. I need to get her attention. Because we are soul mates, Gwen Castle, and this is a thing she should get. So I’m thinking I sing to her. Outside her window. A ballad or something. ’Cause girls get off on that, right? That and the thing where you run through the airport to stop them before they get on the plane, but neither of us are going anywhere, so that won’t work. So. Singing. What do you think, Gwen?”

“I think I’m not driving you to Alexis’s house so her dad can call the police on you again.” Cass slid off his stool and poured two glasses of water, clinking ice into them. “Take these.” He shot them across the marble countertop, one glass landing perfectly centered in front of me, the next Jimmy.

My brain was thick with wool and the sharp beginning coils of self-disgust. I did not want my pieces picked up by Cass.

I slid into a stool next to Jimmy, put my face in my hands.

“Come on, Gwen. Tell Sundance here to drive me to Alexis’s. This party’s over for me. Actually, it never began because my dream girl never showed. Please, Gwen.”

I pulled my hands away from my cheeks, found blotchy smudges of mascara on the tips of my fingers. Instead of pleading for Jimmy, I said, “Can you take me home, Cass?”

His lips compressed and he flicked his gaze up to the ceiling, as if he could see Spence’s room from here. But all he said was: “Sure. We can save Jim here from himself on the way.”

Boys never need any time to get going. It’s Mom who has to hunt for her purse and then make sure she has her car keys and her freezer pack stocked with diet soda. It’s Vivie who has to run back for one last swipe of lip gloss, redo her hair, mirror check. Cass just pulled car keys out of his pocket, jingling them in his palm, grabbed his parka, Jimmy took a slug of water, and we were good to go.

* * *

I trailed after them to Cass’s car, which turned out to be a red BMW. Ancient, though—that boxy square shape of old cars—and the paint had lost its sheen and faded to Campbell’s tomato soup orange-red. Jimmy, groaning, forced himself into the backseat, even though I argued with him.

“No. No. Gwen Castle. I’m a gentleman. Please tell Alexis Kincaid the next time you see her. C’mon Cass, just one little drive by? What’s the harm in that?”

“It’s called stalking.” The back of Cass’s hand brushed by my bare calf as he shifted the car into reverse. And, God help me, I felt a tingle. A freaking shiver even though I was even now in the process of the walk—or drive—of shame. My second in the last month. After two separate guys. What in the name of God was wrong with me?

“It’s called love,” Jimmy argued.

“No way, Jimbo. He’s like a dog with a bone with this when he’s had a few,” Cass said to me, under his breath. “Totally normal under most circumstances.”

Cass’s profile faced forward, not the slightest bit bent in my direction, straight nose, strong chin, his hair silver-frosted by the moonlight and flashing bright in the reflection of the headlights. I curled my legs under myself, shifted uncomfortably on the seat, stared at the strip of duct tape on his coat, wondered why he didn’t just buy a new coat. Mom, Nic, Dad, Grandpa, me . . . we had to push things beyond their life spans, rejigger them to get as much wear as possible. But not the Hill guys. They could just use and toss, replace. Right? We got to Main Street, circled the roundabout, headed down the most historic part of town, past all the houses, orderly and tucked in upright little rows and clean-looking. All those houses that looked like they were full of careful tidy people who always made good choices. That coil of shame sharpened, tunneled a little deeper into my chest.

Cass pulled into a circular driveway and Jimmy started to climb out, mumbling, “I’m already regretting everything I did and most of what I said tonight. Do you maybe have amnesia sometimes, Gwen? Could you have amnesia about this? If I ask nicely?”

“I will if you will, Jim,” I said. In the light of the open door I saw Cass flash me a quick glance, frowning, but Jimmy didn’t look back, wedging himself out of the car.

The door crashed behind him and suddenly the air in the car seemed to evaporate, suffocated out the window. Gone. Cass felt too close, the whole space too crowded, like I couldn’t move my arm without nudging against his, or shift my leg without it sweeping past his, or have a thought without it being about him. But his profile was remote and distant, eyes on the road, hands set on the steering wheel, responsibly at ten and two. Then he pulled one off, fisted it, let it go. Clench. Unclench.

Silence settled around us like a hot wet blanket. But what was I supposed to say?

“Full moon on the water. Make a wish,” I muttered finally, just to say something. Mom always said that, pointing out the pretty. Suddenly I so much wanted my mom to put her arms around me and fix everything, the way she could when I was five.

“What?”

“Full moon on the water. Make a wish.”

He shook his head slightly, shrugged, jaw tight. I swallowed, pulled the hem of my dress down farther over my thighs. Then we were crunching up on the crushed clamshells of my driveway. The Castle Estate, I thought grimly.

He shifted into park, took a deep breath as if he was going to speak . . . I waited.

“Welcome home,” he said finally.

Silence. I wiped one of my eyes, rubbed my finger dry on my dress, leaving a black smudge against the scarlet fabric.

Cass reached over, flipped open the glove compartment, handed me a stack of rough brown napkins from Dunkin’ Donuts. Home away from home for the swim team with their early meets. Of course he would keep them neatly piled in the glove compartment, not shoved in haphazard, the way Nic or I would do in the Bronco. He put his hands back on the wheel, rubbed his thumbs back and forth on it, staring at them as if they were moving independently. “Are you okay? Did anything . . . bad happen to you?”

Nothing I didn’t bring on myself, I thought. Then I realized he was asking if I was . . . forced or something. I shook my head. “There was none of that. Nothing but my usual gift for doing stupid things with the wrong people.” I wiped my eyes, shoved a brown napkin into my coat pocket.

Cass winced. “Point taken. If you’re going to do stupid things, Spence is a great choice. You had to know that.”

“He’s your friend.”

“Well, yeah. Because I don’t have to date him.”

“This was not exactly a date.”

“Yeah, what was this? Another little kick in the heart?”

“What do you care about my heart, Cass?”

He opened his mouth, shut it again. Folded his arms and stared stonily out the window. Rigid. Faintly judgmental. Which brought a pull of anger out of my coil of shame. What right did he have, anyway?

“Big deal, anyway, Cass. It was just sex.” I snapped my fingers. “You’re certainly familiar with that concept. Thanks for bringing me home.” I searched around for the car handle and pushed it open, but before I knew it, Cass was standing outside it, reaching out his hand for me.

“What are you doing?”

He looked at me as though I was either crazy or not very bright. “Walking you to the door.”

“You don’t have to do that. I’m . . . really not the kind of girl who gets walked to the door.”

“Jesus Christ, Gwen!” he said, then shook his head and pulled on my hand. “Just let me get you safely in.”

“I can make it from here.”

“I’m walking you to the door,” he told me, leading me up the worn wooden steps. “Not taking the chance that you’re going to go throw yourself off the pier or something. Because, forgive me for noticing, you seem a little impulsive tonight.”

“That’s one word for it.”

“Gwen . . . I . . . Would you . . . I mean . . .” He stopped on our doormat, beside Nic’s sneakers and one discarded rubber fishing boot of Grandpa Ben’s, apparently running out of words. “I’d like to . . .” He shut his eyes, as if in pain.

I waited, but after a second he just said, “Never mind. The hell with it.”

And turned, crunching back across the clamshells to the car.

* * *

Did I use Spence? Did he use me? I don’t know. In the end, did it even matter? We’d just been bodies. Arms, legs, faces, breath. Just sex. No big deal.

Still.

Explaining that night was never going to be easy. Not then, to Cass. Not tonight, to Nic. Not ever, to myself.

Chapter Sixteen

Cass is apparently fighting with a bush when I pass him the next day on my way home. He’s got hedge clippers and is whacking away, making a big dent in the side of one of Mrs. Cole’s arborvitaes. It’s completely lopsided now. As I watch, he stops, takes a few steps back, then starts making a dent on the other side. The bush, which used to resemble an O, now looks like the number 8. After a few more unfortunate trims it looks like a B.

I can’t help it. I stop, cup my hands around my mouth, and call, “You should quit while you’re ahead—it’s only getting worse.”

He turns off the hedge clippers, “What?”

I repeat myself, louder, because Phelps, Mrs. Cole’s terrier, is yapping away inside the house, scritching his claws frantically on the screen door. Cass sighs. “I know. I keep thinking I’ll fix it and . . . I don’t want this woman to come out and have a heart attack. She seems a little high-strung. Screamed when I knocked on the door to ask where the outdoor plug was.”

I study him. He seems to have shaken off our weirdness from yesterday, and the whole Henry Ellington . . . thing.

He takes a few steps back again, tilting his head, scrubbing his hand over the hair at the back of his neck. “D’you think she’d notice if I dug this up and replaced it with another bush? That may be my only hope.”

“Got a spare arborvitae up your sleeve?” At least today he actually has sleeves, as in a shirt, thank God. I open the gate and walk in. “Maybe if you just trimmed down that top part and made the other side a little flatter?”

He revs up the hedge clippers, begins trimming on the wrong side. I wave my hands in a stop motion. Cass flips the off button again. “What now?”

“Not that side! You’re making it worse again. Just hand it to me.”

“No way. This is my job.”

“Yes, and boiling the lobsters was my job. You had no problem barging in there.”

“Christ almighty. Can we move on from the lobsters, Gwen? You honestly have this much of an issue with accepting help?”

“I’m pretty sure the issue at the moment is you not being able to accept help. Just give me the clippers.”

“Fine,” Cass says. “Enjoy.” He hands the clippers to me, pulling his hands back quickly and shoving them in his pockets. Then he studies my face. “Actually, you do seem to be enjoying yourself. Too much. You are planning to use those on the hedge, right? Not on me?”

“Hmmm. That hadn’t occurred to me.” I turn the hedge clippers on and look him over speculatively. He bends down, wrenches the plug out of the wall.

“Hey! I was trying to help.”

“I didn’t like the look on your face. It made me worry for the existence of my future children. I haven’t forgotten that butter knife that was the only thing standing between you and Alex Robinson singing soprano.”

“I just never thought I’d see you be inept at anything. Haven’t you done this before?”

“Hey, I’m not inept. I’m just not . . . ept yet. And since you’re so curious, no, mowing our lawn is my only landscaping experience.”

“Did Marco and Tony know this when they hired you? Why did they hire you?”

“I don’t know. My dad talked to them first, and when I came in they just asked if I minded hard work and being outdoors most of the day. I figured I’d be mowing. Period. Maybe some weeding. I didn’t think I’d be planting and trimming and tying bushes to fences and I sure as hell didn’t think I’d be raking the beach.”

I’ve plugged in the hedge clippers again and now I turn them on and start in on the top of the hedge. “You can always quit,” I shout over the whir.

“I don’t quit. Ever,” he shouts back. “I think you’re making it worse.”

I lop off a few more branches, then run the clippers down, making the bumpy side as flat as the other. Then I stand back.

It definitely looks better. I move over to the matching arborvitae on the other side of the steps and start working on that to make it look the same.

“Now you’re just showing off,” Cass calls. “I can do the rest.”

“No way, Jose. Clearly you can’t be trusted.”

This sentence drops between us like a brick shattering on the pavement.

Again I get a flash of his white-knight rescue from Spence’s party. Granted, a cranky white knight, but still . . .

Jaw tight, Cass walks over to the Seashell truck, pulls a plastic bin out of the back, and starts scooping the severed branches into it. I buzz the sides of the other tree flat.

“There you are, garota bonita!” Grandpa Ben calls. He’s trudging along up the road with his mesh bag full of squirming blue crabs, holding Emory’s hand and dragging the unenthusiastic Fabio by his leash. Em is in his bathing suit, clutching a sandy-looking Hideout and looking sleepy. “I bring you your brother. Lucia is working tonight and I have the bingo.”

“Superman! Hello, Superman! It Superman,” Emory tells Grandpa, his face lighting up.

“Hey there, Superboy,” Cass says easily. My brother runs over and immediately throws his arms around Cass’s leg. And kisses him. On the knee. Cass seems to freeze for an instant, then pats Em’s bony little back.

“Hey buddy. Hello, Mr. Cruz.”

“Superman,” Emory repeats. Clearly, for him, all that needs saying. He gives Cass his shiniest smile and plunks down in the grass, nuzzling Hideout against his neck.

“I will not lie, querida. He’s been cranky. Está com pouco de bug today. We got ice cream, but no. No help.” Grandpa Ben pulls his watch out of his pants pocket. It’s not a pocket watch, but he keeps it there, out of habit, afraid, from his fishing days, that it would snag on something. “I need to go now. I get there late, Paco stacks the deck.”

“Where’s Nic?” I’ve babysat for the last four nights that Mom has worked late. So, Nic’s turn.

“The swimming,” Grandpa Ben says. “Be good for your sister, coelho.”

Emory ignores him, focused on Cass coiling up the extension cord.

“Which beach?” Cass calls. “I’m pretty much done here.”

“Sandy Claw.”

“Huh.” Cass finishes wrapping and loops the cord between his shoulder and his elbow, which shows off his biceps nicely. I think he’s even fitter than before—already. Bring on the Yard Boy Workout. “Maybe I’ll get on down there and give him a run for his money. What do you think, Gwen? Want to come check out my form?”

He flashes the dimples at me.

Oh dear Lord.

I wrinkle my nose, toss my hair back. “I couldn’t care less about your form.”

“Right,” Cass says. “I can tell.”

I examine his face sharply, but his tone is completely innocent.

Maybe it’s the total contrast between the terse, tense Cass on that March night, when I had no way to read him, no compass at all, and the sunny, smiling one now. Maybe I’m just lightheaded from the heat . . . But I give him the tiniest of smiles. And get a full-on grin in return.

* * *

I tell myself it’s okay to feed Em fast when we get home, use those nasty frozen dinners Mom relies on, Emory doesn’t mind, and Grandpa and I despise, dumping crinkled French fries out on a baking pan, letting Em consider ketchup a vegetable. I assure my conscience I’m not hurrying through the shower, or Emory through his bath, for any reason at all.

If there were an Olympics for kidding yourself, I’d take home the gold.

Then Em doesn’t want to go to the beach. He’s sleepy, wants to be lazy, cuddle. He settles himself on Myrtle, Fabio collapsed and drooling heavily on his thigh. He points at the screen. “Clicker.”

“Fresh air,” I say firmly.

“Clicker. Pooh Bear. Dora.”

“Jingle shells. Boat shells. Hermit crabs,” I counter.

Emory’s lower lip juts out. “Seen today already,” he says.

“Superman?” I coax, finally.