What I Thought Was True (27 page)

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.”

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In the low tide, the waves are lapping lazily far down the beach.

The only lingering sign 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 a 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

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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 room-

fuls 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 them-

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selves 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 scav-

enger 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.”

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“
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 some-

thing. 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 every-

one 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

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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

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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 for-

ward 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 experi-

enced, 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.

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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, hold-

ing 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.

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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 glit-

ters 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 mas-

todons?” Cass says.

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I move a little closer, graze the back 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, flick-

ering, 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 mag-

ical.

Except that waking up on December twenty-fifth on Seashell

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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 win-

dow. Beach roses. The loamy sharp scent of red cedar mulch.

Cut grass drying in the sun. I can hear Grandpa singing Sina-

tra 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 embar-

rassing 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” any-

thing 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.”

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“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, smil-

ing 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

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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 mir-

ror.

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 mow-

ing? 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 any-

thing. 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

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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? Or at least the leather ones because . . .”

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

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was seven. In fairness, I was making kissing noises while he

helped his girlfriend put her boots on. Back when he had girl-

friends. 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 com-

mand performance kind of deal. I’d much rather be with you.”

“Your grandmother?”

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

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Dad slams the screen door behind him that night, brandish-

ing 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 glanc-

ing 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 say-

ing. 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

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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