What I Thought Was True (29 page)

“You can’t be married,” he cuts in.

—
tell me about the ring.

Wait. What? Are we talking about the same thing? “God, Cass

hasn’t proposed,” I joke, not wanting to spook him. “We’re

just—” I don’t know what we’re “just”. Or if “just”even works

anymore.

“I didn’t mean Somers. I meant me. CGA.”

He leans back on Myrtle. I slide down next to him, bare

back against the nubbly fabric, nudging his legs off to make

room.

Nic rubs his bicep with a flat hand, jaw tight. He suddenly

looks so much older than eighteen. “Hoop and I drove up there

this morning. Had my tour. Gwen . . . I want it even more now.

But I . . . what I didn’t get before . . . You can’t have any ‘serious personal responsibilities.’ That’s what they said.”

I squint at him, like bringing Nic into focus will bring

everything else in too. “Who doesn’t have serious personal

responsibilities? I mean, hello. What, you have to be an orphan

and a social misfit?”

“You can’t have people you need to support.” Nic scrubs his

hands up and down his face. “Kinda problematic.”

I pause for a second, then say, “Yeah, and it only becomes a

325

BOM2_9780803739093_WhatIThougtWasTrue_TX.indd 325

9/4/13 8:02 AM

bigger problem if you’re ring shopping at eighteen, cuz.”

Nic turns to me. “Wait—you know about that? We agreed

not to tell anybody.”

“Viv didn’t fess up? Yeah, I know about it. You can’t keep a

secret for ten minutes on Seashell. Someone saw you two at

the mall.”

Nic sighs. “Vee’s hated this whole academy thing from the

start. You know that, right?”

Viv’s worked hard to hide from Nic every hint of worry over

his chosen career. Of course he guessed anyway, but . . . I trace

my finger along the corner of Myrtle’s frayed bottom cushion.

Say nothing.

“She wants me to stay and . . . settle down. Here. On Sea-

shell. Forever.”

His voice cracks on the
forever
.

“You don’t want that?”

My cousin looks at me, brown eyes blazing. “I’m eighteen.

I don’t know what the hell I want. Vivien—she’s my anchor. I

love her. Always have. But . . . how can I tell how I’ll feel in four years? In eight, after I serve? I don’t. I’m not even supposed to.”

As if it’s my own life flashing before my eyes—because so

much of it is—I see a thousand moments of Nic and Viv. Him

balancing her on his shoulders for water fights at Sandy Claw.

Her teasing him about his terrible tent-pitching skills when

we set up camp in the backyard, then laughing hysterically as

it collapsed around them in a billow of rip-stop nylon. Him

borrowing this hideous maroon tux with a ruffled shirt from

Dom D’Ofrio and showing up in it to take Viv to prom, then,

after her horrified reaction, pulling a classic black one out of

326

BOM2_9780803739093_WhatIThougtWasTrue_TX.indd 326

9/4/13 8:02 AM

the trunk of the car, along with her corsage. The three of us

lying on the dock looking up at the moon, waxing and wan-

ing, glimmering across the water, their hands always linked

over our heads, even when I was the one in the middle. He

choreographed his and Vivien’s first night together, like a mas-

ter director, checking into the hotel early so he could scatter

rose petals on the bed. When he finally lowered himself beside

her, he whispered, “I want this to be perfect for you.” He was

incredibly embarrassed when he found out Vivie had repeated

that to me, but how could she not?

“But . . . but you’ve always known. I mean, you two have

been together forever. It’s what you’ve always wanted. It was in

the I WiLL notebook.”

“I knew you read that thing,” Nic mutters. “Yeah, I mean . . .

of course. Yeah, always. But I don’t . . . want only that.”

There’s this weird tingling in my hand, and I realize I’ve

been borrowing Cass’s gesture again, my fist tight, my nails

biting into the skin of my palm. Unclench. I take a deep breath,

the way you do when you’re about to say something important

and game changing. Then realize I’ve got nothing. No big, wise

revelation to turn this moment around, back into familiar ter-

ritory where I know the stakes. Nic rubs his fingers across his

eyes. He looks exhausted, hollowed out, like after a tough meet

where SBH has lost, badly.

“So!” I say, at last, too enthusiastic, like I’m promoting a

product, suggesting a cool way to spend a free Saturday. “Why

get engaged now anyway, Nico? Why not just tell her it’s CGA

policy? Not your choice. Just life.”

“I said exactly that. Tonight. You should have seen her face.

327

BOM2_9780803739093_WhatIThougtWasTrue_TX.indd 327

9/4/13 8:02 AM

She got that panicky look, all blank faced and in-charge but

blinking like she’s about to cry, trying to act like it’s all good.”

I nod. I know that look from when Al hisses at her after a

function, ticks off on his fingers what she got wrong.

Nic continues, words tumbling out as though they’ve been

shut behind a dam that’s broken now, water spilling every-

where, soaking everything. “Like she always does when we talk

about what me getting into the academy means—the time I’m

going to need to put in. Which is why I started with the ring

in the first place. See, Viv . . . she knows exactly what she wants.

Al and her mom are planning to retire in a few years. We can

move into their house. They can take the RV, go cross-country.

Her mom’s been researching it forever, they, like, already have

this folder full of maps and stuff, the whole thing planned out.

Their life, our life . . . We can run Almeida’s. Vee’s not even into going to college. I thought it would be good to make a

promise to her. So she wouldn’t be scared. So she’d know I was

always coming back to her. Like this . . . life raft. But now I am.

Totally scared, I mean. Marco and Tony were working with us

on Thursday, and they were laughing . . .
laughing
. . . about how Marco wanted to be in the Air Force, and Tony had this

dream to be a pro wrestler and ha-ha-ha, we coulda been con-

tenders. Like it was funny as hell that instead they were scrap-

ing barnacles off people’s yachts and repainting their freaking

bathrooms instead of doing what they’d planned.”

I twist the hair at the nape of my neck, set it free, twirl it

again, debating what to say, where even to start. “Well, Nico.

Obviously I know nothing about successful relationships—”

He gives a brief bark of laughter.

328

BOM2_9780803739093_WhatIThougtWasTrue_TX.indd 328

9/4/13 8:02 AM

“But . . . I’m pretty sure both people have to really want it

for a marriage to have half a chance.”

“I love Vee,” he repeats. “I can’t imagine loving anyone

else . . .” He trails off, ducks his head, pulling up his knees,

resting his forehead on them. He takes a deep, shaky breath,

mutters something I can barely hear.

“Nic?”

“But,” he says, and swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing hard.

I rub the back of his neck. “But?”

“But before that guy from the Coast Guard came to talk at

school, I never knew I wanted that . . . so . . . there may be

other things out there just like that that I can’t see yet.” He says the last part fast, the words all jumbled together, sliding his

hand through his hair, slipping his palm back down to cover

his face again, like he doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to see

the truth. What’s out there.

I don’t either. And for a bit, the silence stretches on. Because

I don’t want this to be real, what’s happening here. Our now

that makes all our thens so distant and so past.

But.

Vivien loves Nic with her whole, unfiltered, warm heart.

But he is my cousin.

So I draw in a breath too, square my shoulders, set my hand

on one of his. Tell him the truth he needs to hear, instead of the one I want to believe in. “Not ‘may be other things,’ Nico. Are.”

He looks over at me, and to my shock, there are tears in his

eyes. “I know. But I already feel like I’m cheating on her by

wanting anything she doesn’t.”

I put my arm around his shoulder as he brushes his eyes

329

BOM2_9780803739093_WhatIThougtWasTrue_TX.indd 329

9/4/13 8:02 AM

with the heel of his hand. For a second, he rests his head

against me, tips it onto my shoulder, burrowing in for com-

fort just like Emory does. He smells like sweat and salt and

sand, like family, like Seashell. The night is still, still, except for the familiar summer sounds, the shhh of the tide, the bzzz-whhr of the crickets, a dog barking a warning into the night,

far, far away. Fabio, who has been snoring under the couch,

snuffles, passes gas, and falls silent. Nic and I can clearly hear Emory’s and Grandpa Ben’s sleep noises. Grandpa Ben: “Snuffle

snuffle snuffle . . . silence . . . snort.” And Emory, who really

does sound more like the snoring cliché: “RRRR . . . shhh . . .

rrrr . . . shhh.”

“What about Em?” Nic asks, swinging his long legs over

mine, kicking his foot. “Where’s he supposed to fit into the

whole personal obligation thing?”

Yeah. Em. Dad telling me that if Nic left, I’d be the one pick-

ing up the slack with my brother. And when I go to college . . .

what then? I rub my chest, pushing away the tightness there.

Because . . . can I even go to college now? Does that mean

Em’s my responsibility forever?

Well, of course he’s my responsibility forever. Nic and I’ve

talked about that, how we’ll probably end up dividing care for

him for the rest of our lives, but both of us thought it would be

later on, much later on. And it probably will be—Mom’s only

thirty-six. But . . .

I love my brother more than I can find words to tell. But like

my cousin, I want off-island. At least for a while. If I wind up,

somehow, staying . . . I want it to be my choice.

“Cuz.” Nic touches my cheek. “S’okay. For God’s sake, don’t

330

BOM2_9780803739093_WhatIThougtWasTrue_TX.indd 330

9/4/13 8:02 AM

be the second girl I’ve made cry in three hours. I’ll figure it

out.” He taps one of his temples, smiles at me. “I always do.

And uh, speaking of figuring things out, anything you want to

tell me about Somers?”

A much better place for my thoughts to go. I touch my lips,

unthinking.

Nic gives me a slow once-over. “Oookay. Got it. No details. I

only need to know one thing. He treat you right?”

“He’s been a perfect gentleman.”

“I’ll bet,” he mutters. His shoulders twitch as though he’s

shaking off any image of me and Cass together.

“I mean, he—we—”

“Big picture only, for God’s sake. You happy, Gwen?”

“I am.”

“That’s all I need. I’m out.” He slides off Myrtle, heading

for the outdoor shower, then turns back. “If that changes, you

know I’ll kill him, right, cuz?”

331

BOM2_9780803739093_WhatIThougtWasTrue_TX.indd 331

9/4/13 8:02 AM

“Okay, buddy. The big one. You ready?”

I’m
not.

Em has his toes curled over the edge of the raft, poised to

jump. He’s not wearing his life jacket, just has one of those

overly bright, puffy foam swimming noodles looped under his

armpits. His reflection looms over the water. Like me and Nic

last night, swaying over the unknown.

But this is not me or Nic. This is Em.

Cass and I have already debated the wisdom of this three

times during the walk down to the beach. Two more as we

swam out to the raft, Emory’s slight arms looped around Cass’s

neck, me pulling up the rear with the noodle and all my wor-

ries. We walked down the hill, debating, towing the wagon,

Emory calm and collected, narrating the landmarks of the jour-

ney for Hideout, Fabio proudly aboard, head raised, like a dig-

nitary at a motorcade.

Even when we hit the beach, I’m still arguing that Em’s

not ready yet to make that big leap, not without something

that’ll definitely, completely keep him above water—prefera-

bly something Coast Guard–approved. Cass saying he’ll have

something to hold him up, but it’ll be in Em’s own hands,

332

BOM2_9780803739093_WhatIThougtWasTrue_TX.indd 332

9/4/13 8:02 AM

his control, that that’s important psychologically, repeating, “I

know this stuff. Trust me, Gwen.”

“I’m not sure Em gets
psychologically,
Cass. He doesn’t think like that. “

Saying my brother’s limitations out loud feels like betraying him.

We’ve always been careful not to, as if that story wasn’t ours to

discuss either, what he can’t do, what he may never be able to do.

“Ready. Sssset,” Em says, his brow crinkled in concentration,

poised on the edge of the float. I grab the end of the noodle.

Clearly not the solution. Cass gives me a raised eyebrow, peels

my fingers gently from the yellow foam.

I look down at the water. So flat and green and clear I can

see the ripples of the sand far below, crabs scuttling around, eel grass. I sigh. And stand back. Emory takes a deep breath, flips

his hair back exactly the way Cass does, studies the water with

Cass’s focused frown. He’s been studying more than just Cass’s

swim moves.

“Low tide. No surf,” Cass says, close to my ear. “If you trust

the water, it holds you up. We’re both here. This’ll be fine.”

He counts down as Emory takes a deep breath, squints, con-

centrating hard on the water. “It’s a bird. It’s a plane. It’s . . .”

My little brother has the noodle clamped tightly under his

arms, ends sticking out on either side like wings, his eyes seri-

ous, focused on the horizon. He turns and flashes me a grin, a

broader one at Cass, then shouts, “It . . . I . . . Superman!” He

launches himself, rockets into the world with a squeal.

And he is fine. Bobbing up a second later, shaking the water

out of his hair.

333

BOM2_9780803739093_WhatIThougtWasTrue_TX.indd 333

9/4/13 8:02 AM

Giggling. He throws his arms out in a Victory V, which sends

him sinking below the surface again. Then pops back up, still

laughing, and starts heading for us.

I make a move toward the edge of the float, Cass catches my

elbow. “He can do it himself.”

He can. Em kicks in that overly splashy way little kids have,

spiraling his arms back to the wooden ladder, anchoring it

with his feet, clambering up. He splats the noodle onto the

float, unself-conscious, confident. “I Superman,” he repeats,

the
S
sound coming out perfect, beaming, showing every one of his teeth.

Em jumped off and swam back to the raft at age eight— just

like Nic, Viv, Cass, and me. The only milestone he’s hit exactly

on time.

Cass relaxes now, tension I didn’t even read before suddenly

gone, tan legs hooked over the pier, dangling toward the water,

slanting back on his elbows. Emory does the same, kicking his

feet,
splish, splash,
smiling from ear to ear.

I take in a long deep breath, as though I’m about to jump

into the water myself. But instead, I look at my brother, lying

flat on the float now, little-boy straight, arms against his sides, still grinning. I look at Cass, eyes tipped closed, drinking in the sunlight. It glimmers off his hair and the drops of water on his

shoulders. From here, if you look far to your right, you can

make out the shadow of Whale Rock, the long grass that leads

up to the Ellingtons’, the curve of Seashell around the bend of

the island to where you can’t see anymore.

Where you look. When you leap.

More to life than mastodons.

334

BOM2_9780803739093_WhatIThougtWasTrue_TX.indd 334

9/4/13 8:02 AM