What I Thought Was True (12 page)

add, “like the rest of the maintenance crew. Then he wouldn’t

need waiting on.”

“Jose dumped his water bottle on his head about two hours

ago—it’s ninety-five today, no sea breeze, in case you hadn’t

noticed, Maria.”

Mrs. E. has settled herself on the glider where Henry had

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been only a few minutes ago, regarding us, head cocked, the

smile broader now. Her eyes are bright with interest. My nerves

are still buzzing. At Henry—even though he’s just looking out

for his mother. At Mrs. E., watching us like characters in a soap

opera. At Cass, with his pink shirt and his attitude. At some ran-

dom guy who zooms by on a Jet Ski, its buzz-saw sound cut-

ting through the lap of the water. While I’m at it, at Nic, who

ate the last of the Cap’n Crunch last night, which resulted in

an early morning Emory meltdown, which could be soothed

only by Dora the Explorer, definitely the most irritating car-

toon character on the planet.

“All men need to be waited on,” Mrs. Ellington cuts into my

thoughts. “Helpless creatures, the lot of them.”

“Nah, we have our uses,” Cass says. All the heat evaporates

from his voice when he speaks with her. “Killing spiders,

opening stuck jar lids—”

Caught between wanting to punch him and just laughing, I

roll my eyes to heaven. I hate the way he flips the charm on—

that he knows, damn well, just how effective it is.

“—starting unnecessary wars, that sort of thing.”

She gives her deep belly laugh. “Warming our bed at night.

I do miss that. The captain was like a blast furnace.”

Cass’s eyes widen a little, but he says only, “I can get the iced

tea myself. If that’s okay with you, ma’am.”

“Certainly not—Gwen, please get him some tea, and some

for the two of us, of course.”

I stomp into the kitchen and throw ice cubes into glasses

as if tossing grenades. Which reminds me of Dad rattling pans

at Castle’s when he’s pissed off. A thought that makes me even

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more angry because I seem to be headed steadily down that

highway of rage with no exit ramps.

“She said I should come help you slice the lemons.”

Cass is standing in the doorway, one elbow braced against

the jamb. Considering how ticked he was only a few minutes

ago, he looks entirely too calm and sure of himself.

“Oh? That another useful man-skill? Opening jars, slaying

lobsters, slicing lemons. Well, thank God for the Y chromo-

some then, because we helpless womenfolk would surely per-

ish without you.”

The corner of Cass’s mouth quirks up. “Technically, yeah,

you would. That’s connected to the whole bed-warming thing,

I believe.”

The last thing I want in my thoughts or my memories or

my mind in any way at this moment is any association what-

soever with Cass’s bed. Of course, that means it’s right there,

like a photograph. His bed, broad, dark wood dolphins carved

into the four corners—those old-fashioned dolphins that look

less like Flipper and more like gargoyles, riding smiling on the

waves that curve to make up the top and the sides of the bed.

The heat of anger seems to be slipping into another feeling

altogether. I’m flushing and trying to will that away. I look

out the window over the kitchen sink, up at the faint water

stain that looks like a beagle above the refrigerator, anywhere

but at him. The deep blue eyes that are locked on my face.

His faint smell of warm dirt and grass and salt and his sticky

T-shirt.

“Why pink?”

“Huh?” He blinks.

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“Your shirt. Why is it pink? Is that some ‘I’m comfortable

with my masculinity’ announcement? Because it’s the sort of

thing that could get an island kid beat up.”

“No statement. Unless my statement is that washing a red

towel with your white shirts and your boxers and bleach is a

dumbass move.” Cass’s eyes drop to my lips, and then take their

own tour of Anywhere Else in the Room—down at the floor,

out the side window as Marco speeds by, clanking garbage cans

in the back of the truck, at the laminated sheet of hurricane

prep instructions stuck to the side of the refrigerator.

Then back to my lips.

Now I’m just looking back at him, and the air in the kitchen

is still and close. Ninety-five and no breeze. And the humidity has to be high today, because I can feel a trickle of sweat edge down

between my shoulder blades down the line of my spine and I

wonder if a hurricane might actually be coming, because the air

has that kind of flat charged feel and
what am I, a meteorologist?

My fingers twitch to reach over and brush the dirt and a

lone blade of grass off his forehead. I can practically feel the

heat and the dampness of his skin. I can’t read his face or his

eyes, but I’m searching them. Cass takes a deep breath, wipes

his upper lip with the back of his hand, his gaze steady on me.

“I’m positively parched!” Mrs. Ellington calls. “If I don’t

have my tea soon, you shall return to find nothing but my des-

iccated bones lying out here.”

“
That
would certainly piss off Henry Ellington.” I hurry

over to the fridge, pulling out a lemon and practically lob it at

Cass, who catches it without even looking at it, still studying

me. Unreadable but intent.

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I’m lying on my bed, staring at the slow beat of the ceiling fan,

which makes loud whooshing and clattering sounds but never

seems to do anything for the temperature. Mom and I call it

“placebo fan.”

My thoughts flick around.

Do I really want this job? Between Henry and the bathing

suit and
The Sultan
?

Don’t think about that. You need this job.

And Cass. That look.

I roll over, trying to find a cool spot in my narrow bed.

Spence. Alex.
Swim team tradition.

Mom counting out the money and Grandpa being a little

more stooped and Emory . . .

Whatever’s going on between Dad and Nic.

Viv and Nic.

I’m itchy and jangly, so tired of watching the numbers on

the clock shift that, no matter how late it is, I can’t just lie there anymore.

“Hungry, Gwen?” Mom asks when I head out to the living room.

She’s curled up on Myrtle, reading a book whose cover features

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an unnaturally buff man wearing a kilt, an eager expression, and

nothing else. “I can heat something up,” she offers.

“Just insomnia,” I say. “Carry on.”

“It
is
getting to the good part. Lachlan McGregor and his sworn enemy, the McTavish, have just realized Lachlan’s stable

boy is a
her
who’s been binding her breasts . . .” Mom’s already picked up the book again, vanishing into it as I watch.

“And now they’re aaaaall in therapy,” I say. Fabio rouses him-

self from his dead dog imitation by the wood stove, staggers

over to the couch, and attempts to fling himself onto Mom’s

stomach. He falls down, looks around with an “I meant to do

that” face and then slinks under the couch.

To my surprise, Nic, who I thought was off with Vivien and

the plovers, is lying down on the porch, staring at the sky. He’s

got one arm folded behind his head, the way he always used

to when we would lie out at night, little kids, Fourth of July,

watching the fireworks from town bursting over Seashell. Then

I notice the cigarette glowing between the folded fingers of his

other hand.

I snatch it away—“What the hell, Nic?”—and throw it onto

the gravel, where it glows bright as a firefly for a few seconds.

Viv’s real dad died of lung cancer at thirty-six.

He sighs. “C’mon! You know I don’t smoke. I just bummed

one off Hoop because he said cigarettes help him focus.”

“Hoop’s an idiot. You know this.” I sit down next to him,

wrapping my arms around my legs.

He stands abruptly. “Let’s go jumping. I had a beer and I’m

tired as hell and I don’t want to think. You look pretty wired

too. Bridge or pier?”

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A little rush snakes through my blood.

Replaced by a quick guilt.

“Where’s Viv?” I ask. Nic and I hide from her how often

we do stuff like this. It mystifies her.
“What, life isn’t scary and
dangerous enough?”
she says. And to be honest, I wonder what it is in us that needs the rush. But I don’t court the danger, like Vivie thinks. I just hook up with it from time to time.

“She’s making a truckload of cupcakes for some baby

shower. Strawberry on strawberry. Waaaay too pink for me.”

He shudders. “Get your suit, cuz.”

“Uncle Mike stay for breakfast?” Nic asks as we drive to the

bridge in Mom’s Bronco. “Or did he just come by to drop off

his laundry for his ex-wife to do, and make his only nephew

feel like shit.”

“Nic . . .” I sigh.

He shakes his head. “Why’s he got to get on my ass so much?”

I massage my forehead with the palm of my hand, that

itchy tense feeling multiplying. Nic reaches out, pulls my head

toward his chest with the crook of an elbow, ruffling my hair

with his knuckles. “Forget it. Not your problem. I told you I

didn’t want to talk about anything heavy and there I go. Let’s

just jump.”

But a few minutes later:

“I heard from my mom today,” he says as we clamber up

the wide wooden rails, worn and silvery with age. We’ve

done this so often, we know which loose ones to skip over,

which strong ones to rely on, planting hand over leg on the

copper-nail-studded boards.

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“Anything new?”

I know there won’t be. My aunt Gulia is caught in an end-

less loop of bad boyfriends and bad jobs and bad choices. Her

whole life is like my last March.

He shrugs, takes a deep breath, gives a yell, and flings him-

self out into the air above the rushing water. I wait for his head to bob back up.

“You’re stalling!” Nic calls up. “Going soft?”

It is a rush, that moment when you’re suspended in the air,

and then rocket deep into the cold water. When I splash back

to the surface, the adrenaline is tingling through me, more of a

cool thrill than the water. I’m laughing as I come to the surface, and so’s Nic.

“Aunt Gulia and Dad being a grouch in one day. No wonder

you’re tense.”

“Hey, at least she didn’t ask for money this time. Grouch?

I’d say Uncle Mike was more of a dick. But then, so was I.” He

shoots me a wicked grin. “At least Vee knows how to take care

of that.”

I put my hands over my ears. “La-la-la!”

“It’s funny how you’re such a prude about that when you—”

Nic stops, his voice cutting off like Cass’s mower earlier today.

The water suddenly seems colder. “When I what?”

“Gwen . . .” he starts, then trails off, ducking his head under

the water as if trying to clear it. When he resurfaces, I’m ready.

“Just say it, Nic.”

“Spence Channing? For real? What were you thinking? I

thought he was just . . . blowing smoke. Like that rumor about

him doing five girls in a hot tub. I mean, come on, who does

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that? Entitled prick. But I never thought—” He shakes wet hair

off his forehead. “That Alex guy, okay, typical douche giving

you a snow job. But
Channing
?”

“Don’t get all self-righteous on me, Nico.”

“Gwen . . . I didn’t mean it like that. You know I don’t judge.”

“You had a little slip there.”

He sighs. “I know. It’s just . . . Let’s get out.”

We swim for shore, climb back up to the Bronco, pull tow-

els out of the trunk. Then Nic turns to me, pinching his thumb

and index finger together. “We’re this close to screwing up

and getting stuck, Gwen. You know? I worry about it with me.

That I’ll be pissed off and not thinking and do something that

ruins everything. I don’t want to worry about it with you too.

You’re . . . you’re too smart for that. But one little slip, and there you are . . . stuck in this place with some baby or some

STD or some crummy reputation. I don’t want—”

“I already have the crummy reputation, Nic.”
And you’re

the one looking at engagement rings at age eighteen and not telling me.
But the accusation tangles into a lump in my throat. I can’t ask. Not after he’s had to deal with both his mom and

my dad today.

“Not really. ’Cause I never heard a thing until Hoop was

going on about it. He thought I already knew.”

“Yeah, I pretty much thought everyone knew.” My voice

catches on
everyone
.

Nic looks at me. I look away.

“Well, not me,” he says. “Probably not a lot of people. And

it’s not like I’m going to pass it on. I just don’t really get where your head was. I told you not to go to that party.”

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“I’m the swim team mascot, remember? I
like
to party.”

He swears under his breath, hunches his shoulders, twitches

them like he’s shaking something off. Nic shutting down.

I dive out into the water, shut my eyes, swim away from

him, off to Seal Rock. It’s firm and familiar under my hands.

Still faintly warm from the sun. I climb up, rest my cheek on

my folded knees, and look out, far out, to the edge of the ocean.

Nic’s right. I should never have gone to Spence’s party.

When your host is famous for hot tub orgies, you sort of

know what to expect. But I wasn’t going to
hide
after what happened with Cass. I wasn’t going to let those Hill guys,

those swim team guys, think I was good enough to record

their times in the pool, good enough for a one-night stand,

but not good enough to socialize with. Nic and Viv were at

the White House Inn. The only hotel on Seashell—which Nic

had to have saved for ages to afford. I’d spent the afternoon

lingerie shopping at Victoria’s Secret with Viv, after helping

Nic call in an order for the flowers and the gift basket to be

left in their suite. I teetered along the cobblestone path in

my unaccustomed heels next to Hoop, who was cracking his

knuckles as though expecting a wrestling match at the door.

As we paused on the walkway, Emma Christianson brushed

by us—tall, blond, angular, high-cheekboned, the image of

money and poise, and I lost my nerve.

“Are we actually invited? We’re not walking into some scene

where they’ll beat us up or anything, are we?”

Hoop rolled his eyes. “Daaaaamn, Gwenners. You know

how these parties are. Spence invited hell near everybody from

school—he’s gotta save face since Somers threw that big one

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earlier. They’re so crazy competitive. Dumbasses. Come on, I’m

going to get me a beer and some serious action. Don’t worry,

you look fiiiiiine.”

I’d borrowed a dress from Viv, who is considerably smaller

than me—everywhere. So it was super-tight. And red. And

low-cut.

I was used to parties with only a keg, or just six-packs

bobbling around in melting ice in a dingy tub. This one had

an entire bar—black-and-white and mirrored in a dizzying

way—set up with four blenders churning out margaritas and

some sort of pink drink. Spence, in a black T-shirt with a purple

lei draped over it, was dumping the last of a bottle of rum into

one of the blenders. He watched as we walked in and flashed

me his perfect smile, the one that rarely reached his eyes—but

it did now. “Whoa-ho, it’s the princess of Castle’s. Whaddya

know. Didn’t think you’d show for this one, Gwen.”

Pouring a tall glass of the pink stuff, he reached over, wedged

one of those little umbrellas in it, pressed it into my hand.

“I was just going to go for a Coke. Not much of a drinker,”

I said.

“Yeah, she’s a freakin’ lightweight,” Hoop confirmed. Then

he gave me a friendly pat—on my butt—and slid away, shoul-

ders bobbing to the music.

“Yet here you are.” Spence’s eyebrows lifted.

What I’d told Spence was true. Still, I immediately took a

nervous slug of whatever the drink was, nearly choking on a

chunk of ice. Spence just sat there while I coughed, sputtered,

and eventually got control of myself. I put my glass down and

hiked the top of my dress up. He smiled more broadly and gave

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me a practiced once-over, as though tracing the path of the

blush I could feel rising.

They must offer a secret course for these guys on Hayden

Hill: Putting Girls Off Balance 101. Well, to hell with it. I turned on my heel and headed toward the door I’d seen Hoop vanish

through. Time for me to stick with my own kind.

Hoop had collapsed bonelessly on the couch and was ani-

matedly recounting to some girl I didn’t know the story of a

marlin he’d once landed off the coast of the island. I recog-

nized the story. It was Nic’s marlin.

I drifted from room to room, trying to look as though I

knew the house and exactly where I was headed in it. There

was a hallway with a series of marble busts, a huge oval mirror,

some tall shiny black standing vases with waxy white lilies.

Then a room set up to look like it was outdoors, even though it

wasn’t, which contained several cockatoos in cages that reeked

as though the newspaper hadn’t been changed in a while. One

of the cockatoos hopped up and down as I entered, screeching,

“Live bait! Live bait!” I twisted the gold-plated handle of the

French doors and headed out onto the terrace. Even Spence’s

birds disconcerted me.

It was a huge terrace, like a whole outdoor version of the

house. I could dimly make out a figure at the curved end, look-

ing out over all of Stony Bay. I knew who it was just by the way

he was leaning on his elbows, by the glint of the hair on his

down-tucked head. I wanted so badly to walk up behind him

that my right foot nearly tingled, and I was suddenly afraid

it would take control, dragging me into a place I knew better

than to go. How on earth could I still feel that way?
Nice work,
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