What I Thought Was True (28 page)

seeing them touch, much less exchange an affectionate ges-

ture. 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 min-

ute 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?”

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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 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 unpromis-

ingly. “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

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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 Insid-

er’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.”

In the Green Woods, through the tunnel of trees, the forest

full of night sounds, by the witch hat stone. There’s the low cry

of an owl, loud over the distant rush of the water. Cass stops,

hand on my arm.

“What?”

“Peaceful,” he says. He shuts his eyes, drinking it in. “Bar-

bershop quartet night at the B and T.”

Almeida’s has done functions at the Stony Bay Bath and Ten-

nis Club. I know he’s not kidding.

He stands there for a moment longer, then I whisper, “Come

on, it’s better by the water.”

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“It always is, Gwen.”

The moon silvers the creek, the bridge above it, gleams on

the rocks. The breeze moves over the marsh, sweet with sea

grass, the old-wet-wood smell of the pilings. Cass sits down,

leans back on his elbows, and looks at the sky, deep indigo and

cloudless. I hesitate, breathing in the cool night air. After a few minutes, I walk a few feet away, unbutton, kick my shorts aside

and wade into the rushing water, dipping underneath, surfac-

ing to let the current, stronger and faster near the surface than

below, seize me.

Then what’s catching me are Cass’s hands at my waist, his legs

brushing mine, chin dipping into the curve of my shoulder.

Because the creek flows from the salt marshes into the ocean,

the water’s warm, half salty, half sweet. I taste it on his lips.

Like before, things move fast with us. Cass has quick reflexes,

and I have curious, wandering, wondering hands. He pulled

me out of the water, as certain of his destination—a circle of

soft grass between the bushes at the top of the bank—as if he’d

visited here before and kept the map in his head.
This is where
we will go.
I lean back on one elbow, tipping my head to the side, as Cass’s lips skate slowly up from my shoulder to my ear,

so lightly, his lips are soft as a breath, but still enough to blow almost every thought away.

“My traitorous body.”

That’s one of those phrases that pops up all the time in

Mom’s and Mrs. E.’s books. A handy excuse for the heroines,

like, “Gosh, I knew I should stop and be ‘good,’ but
my traitorous body . . .
”

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I’ve felt like that before. Or like I was one place and my

mind off in the distance somewhere. Observing. Or trying

hard not to.

But not now.

My body doesn’t feel as though it’s betraying me, separate.

I’m not drowning out thoughts and focusing on sensations. I

trace the long line of Cass’s jaw, dip a finger in a dimple, feel it groove deeper as he smiles. When I slide my hand up his side,

brushing a drier path on the wet skin, the bump and groove

of rib to rib, I feel him shiver, then the shake of him laughing

a little.

“Ticklish?”

“Happy.” He cups the back of my neck with one hand,

nudges at the top of my neckline, edges it lower. But well

before it tips into something more than making out, we both

pull back, me bracing my hands on his chest, him moving

back, breathing hard.

“Sorry. I—only meant to—” That flush edges from the tips

of his ears over the rest of his face.

“I know. But let’s stop here.”

He pulls the straps of my tank top back into position, head

ducked, gives a quick nod.

“Not, um, forever. But tonight . . .” I falter. “Because I

want—”

Cass cocks his head at me.

I want.
The beginning of that sentence feels as though it will lead me into tall grass where I might get stranded. I try again.

“I don’t want—”

“A jumbo box of condoms,” Cass says.

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“I’m not taking that off the table. I mean, not forever. Because

I— Jesus. This is awkward. Feel free to chime in anytime.”

“You get pissed off when I rescue you, Gwen.”

“I get more pissed off when you’re all calm when I’m—”

“Calm?” He sets his hands on my shoulders and gives me the

smallest of shakes. “Hardly. ’Cause, no, I don’t want to stop now.

I mean”—glancing down at where our bodies are still against

each other’s—“clearly. But you’re right to.
We’re
right to.”

“Right?” I’m not sure what he means.

“A do-over, do better, a redo. If this”—he twitches his fin-

ger back and forth between us—“goes, um, there, again—”

“When,” I blurt. “When it goes there. Since we’re telling the

truth here.”

He squeezes my shoulders, gives me a quick, hard kiss. “When.

We’re doing it in a place and at a time we both choose. Not in the car or on a couch in some other random hurried way.”

“Not in a boat, not with a goat,” I say, unable to help myself.

He did sound like one of Emory’s Dr. Seuss books.

“No and no,” Cass says, laughing. “We’re doing it in a bed.

No goats.”

“You WASPs are so conventional.” I give his chest a shove.

“The first time,” he amends. “After that, all bets are off.
And
we’re doing it when we have more than just the one condom

I’ve had in my wallet since I turned sixteen.”

Not for the first time, I wonder why he didn’t use that thing,

or any other one, ages ago—what exactly he’s been waiting for
.

Leaning against the railing of our porch, I only wait for Cass’s

silhouette to be swallowed up by the night before hurrying

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down the steps again, in need of the rush, the peace, of jump-

ing off the pier, swimming alone.

Swimming with Cass in the creek, bumping up against each

other in the water, skin to skin, slip-sliding so close, then him

ducking away, dodging me, was hardly calming.

God, isn’t it supposed to be the guys who can’t think

straight? Whose bodies are screaming at their brains to just

shut up because everything feels so
good
? Or is that another rumor someone started? Without thinking who it was going

to hurt. Or just confuse.

The moon’s full, leaving Abenaki bright as day, but without

the clutter. Except that there’s a lone car in the sandy beach

parking lot, parked far over in the corner, nearly concealed by

sea grass. But no silhouettes on the pier or the boat float.

I’m heading out on the pier when I hear it, slightly louder

than the waves—this little groan, echoing in the dark. I freeze,

look back over the beach, my skin prickling. See nothing but

the usual tangles of seaweed and rock piles.

Must have imagined it.

But then comes the quiet rumble of a male voice, the higher

pitch of a girl’s. Him questioning, higher pitched at the end,

her laughing, throaty. I find myself smiling. Some couple tak-

ing advantage of the atmosphere, the moonlight, the privacy,

just as Cass and I did. I scan the beach, finally spotting a couple far away, beyond the bathhouse, all tangled up in each other

on a towel.

The girl says something; there’s a short burst of soft laugh-

ter. They’re too far away to hear any distinct words and—

I squint to try to identify them for only a second before

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realizing how creepy that is and edge back toward the pier.

Then a cloud shifts away from the moon, and the parked car

is illuminated in a flash of silver.

Why on earth would Spence Channing be fooling around

on a Seashell beach at midnight, when that house of his is like

a damn hotel?

It occurs to me in this second that since he knew the exact

body count in the hot tub, Cass was clearly at that party. What

was he doing while his best friend was having “just sex”? Serv-

ing drinks?

How can two people be so different and still best friends?

Another—possibly awkward—question for another—less

awkward—time. But not now. Now I take a running leap off

the pier, soar, and sink into the cold, cleansing water.

I see the ash glow of a cigarette glimmering through the dark.

My cousin’s sitting on our porch steps, just an outline against

the light from the kitchen door.

I walk up, snatch the cigarette from his unresisting fin-

gers, toss it to flicker out among the clamshells. “I thought the

smoking was a one-time thing, Nico.”

“Yeah. Those one-time things.” Nic straightens, cracking his

knuckles behind his neck, and slams the screen door—snap

top half, rattle bottom half—behind him as he goes inside.

His voice drifts through the door. “They have a way of coming

back around, right, cuz?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He reaches for the bowl of popcorn that’s resting beside

Myrtle, only to find that Fabio is nosing out the last of it. Our

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dog looks up at him, licking butter off his chops, and then, at

the expression on Nic’s face, slinks under the couch, forget-

ting, as usual, to hide his tail.

“It means what’s up with Somers? And you. Aunt Luce

seemed to think something was going on.”

“Nic. What’s wrong with you? It’s not like you tell me every-

thing. Like when were you gonna—”