What I Thought Was True (35 page)

The crash of thunder startles us apart, for a moment. Then he

pulls me back as the rain begins, droplets spattering against

the Field House roof. We get up off the couch, walk around

slamming windows shut. More rumbles of thunder, lightning.

Another stormy summer.

As I slam the front windows, the ones that look out toward

the ocean, I catch sight of what I brought, set down in the

bushes near the lawn mower before I climbed the steps. “Oh

shit,” I say, hurrying to the door.

Cass is behind me in an instant. “No running away.”

“I’m not.” I laugh. “Really. I’ll be right back. Stay here. No,

wait—go in the bathroom. Stay there until I tell you to come

out. Maybe . . . maybe take a shower. Or something. Just give

me five minutes.”

Cass studies me, then asks warily, “I need a shower? Do I—”

“No, no, it’s not about that. You smell delicious. I mean. Oh,

God.” I cover my eyes with a hand, lower it. “I mean—”

The dimples make an appearance. “Maybe just go in and

wait? You are planning to let me out, right?”

The rain is coming down harder. “Yes, yes. Get in there.”

And he does.

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Mom’s books, Grandpa’s movies—I know all about the

things that spell romance. Candles, roses, soft romantic music,

gentle golden light coming through a window. All of it so care-

fully staged.

I can’t do anything about the light through the window, or

the fact that I left what I brought outside in the rain. But this

is in fact, carefully staged. And yet still nerve-wracking. Even

though I’ve thought about it, planned it, know it’s right.

In Cass’s room, I embellish his bureau with candles, set them

on the nightstand, line them on the windowsill. Luckily, the

yard boy hasn’t been wielding his hedge clippers on the Field

House shrubbery; the canvas bag I hid beneath the bushes was

protected. Not much got wet in the downpour . . . except, of

course, the matches. Great. I hurry back inside to the kitchen,

adjust the sagging Dockside Delight bag I’d set on the counter.

Then I light one candle at a burner, use that to light the next,

then the next, and the next until the darkened room glows

gently. I’m suddenly glad it’s rainy out.

His bed’s unmade, covers tossed around. Sheets . . . of

course . . . pale pink.

I flip the comforter straight, fluff the pillowcases, then feel

a little weird and want to switch them back to the way they

were. I hover over the bed, unsure, when Cass calls out, “Can

I—?”

“Not yet!”

The dress isn’t even damp, thank God.

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“Okay, you can come out now.”

He opens the door, letting out a cloud of steam. He actu-

ally showered. And changed his clothes. His eyes flick to mine

and he drops the towel he’s rubbing through his hair to the

ground.

“Hey,” he says.

“Um,” I answer, as if that
is
an answer.

He looks me over, my hair, my black halter top dress, my

bare feet. I curl my toes, raise my chin, act like this is all easy for me.

But he knows, Cass knows me.

“Well,” he says. “Wow, Gwen.”

“I think we need to get this over with,” I blurt out.

He starts to laugh. “Just what every guy wants to hear. We all

want to be the Band-Aid you rip off fast.”

“You’re not. I want this. I mean . . . I . . . I . . . I brought

candles,” I say.

“And a Dockside Delight,” he adds. He walks over slowly,

sets his hands on either side of where I’m standing by the

kitchen counter. I lean back against it. He just looks. “You

planned this.”

“Yes. I did. I . . . did.”

He raises his hand, cups my face. Bends to tip my forehead

to mine. Says the words I know he’ll say. “Thank you.”

“It’s not about a jumbo box of condoms,” I say.

“Never was,” Cass says simply.

He slants his hand against my jaw, tips his mouth to mine.

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Set up on the wide square green between Low Road and Beach

Road, where Seashell weddings are always held, is a castle.

Well, the high-peaked tent
looks
like one, festive as something from my namesake’s Camelot, with blue and white

streamers—Stony Bay High colors—flapping in the wind from

the tops of the canvas turrets, twinkling white lights wrapped

in the rafters and looped around the poles, and blue and white

flowers everywhere.

The “Congratulations!” banner droops crooked on one side,

and Al Almeida is gesturing impatiently at someone to fix it.

Not me, though. Not tonight. Or Hoop or Pam or Nic or Viv.

Tonight we’re guests, no clamshell T-shirts or rented tuxes.

It’s an informal Stony Bay High tradition for seniors to

leave graduation and drive to the lake near town, and dive in

fully clothed. We all did it, Hoop, Nic, Spence, Viv, Cass, and

me, piling into the Porsche and the Bronco, Hoop’s truck,

Cass’s battered BMW, joining the lineup of our classmates

for the plunge, screaming as we each hurtled ourselves over

the water, and then driving across the causeway to Seashell

for our own celebration—jumping off the pier at Abenaki in

those same soggy clothes.

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Hoop yelped that the water was freezing. Cass, already far

toward the breakwater, called him a wimp. Spence paddled

lazily, far from the fierce strokes that, combined with Nic’s

backstroke and Cass’s flawless butterfly, made the SBH team

state champions for the first time ever.

And now we have a party—not a tradition but something

that will only happen once, celebrating all we are leaving

behind, public and private, in school and at home. Spence’s

dad wanted to throw a big one at the B&T, but in the end, only Seashell seemed right.

“How’d that happen?” I asked Viv when she told me.

“I used my superior managerial skills,” she said.

“You threatened to cry, didn’t you? Spence can’t handle

that.”

“No, I don’t do that. When it’s real love, no manipulation

necessary.”

“I still think you should get that job at Hallmark.”

She shakes her head, “It would interfere with my college

career.”

Stony Bay Vocational has culinary courses, and Viv plans

to take them this fall, picking up credits that, a year ago, she

thought weren’t important. If things go well, she can trans-

fer to Johnson & Wales in Rhode Island in the spring. Spence

will be at Harvard. Whether they can survive the distance is

a page they haven’t turned yet. They’ve already survived the

school year, survived awkward family occasions at the B&T,

where Viv was the girlfriend instead of the waitstaff, survived

comments of Spence’s like, “Wow. I’ve never been faithful

this long. Or at all.”

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My high heels, another female torture device, like eyelash

curlers and endless articles about how to “get a beach body,”

were killing me, so now I’m standing in the grass outside

the tent, heels kicked off, absently rubbing one foot. Through the folded back tent flap, I can see Mom doing the same. She’s

spent the last few weeks opening houses on Seashell, shaking

the sheets off the furniture, sweeping away the cobwebs.

Castle’s opened last week, Dad grumbling over the tour-

ist buses, everyone wanting their breakfast sandwiches made

a certain way. Frustrated that no one wants smoked bluefish

breakfast burritos. Now he’s here, in a plaid sport coat I have

never seen before, talking shop with Cass’s dad, jabbing his

finger toward the distant ocean, where a Herreshoff, one of

Dad’s dream boats, sails by, slow and majestic in the water as a

king on procession.

Nic tilts against a table, sipping a Coke, but not morose. He

got into the Coast Guard Academy, will go there in the fall. He

watches Viv for a minute, then his eyes drift out over the ocean

in the distance, out to his own horizon.

“You are not dancing, why?” Grandpa Ben demands, sud-

denly beside me with Emory in tow. He’s actually in a tux, with

Emory dressed in a scarily identical miniature, both of them

complete with jaunty black bow ties. Grandpa found them in

some classified listing in the
Stony Bay Bugle
a few weeks ago, and brought them both home as if they were that treasure he’s

been searching for with his metal detector. He insisted they

both try them on immediately. “Fred Astaire, pah,” he’d said.

“Look at us,
coehlo
. He should eat his heart out.”

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“Scratchy” was Em’s response. “Want swimsuit. Now.” All

winter, Grandpa—and sometimes Dad, freer once Castle’s

closed down—took him to swim at the Y in White Bay. Em

can dive now, clean and clear into the water, coming up with a

smile. And Hideout smells like chorine.

I edge out farther along the grass, looking back at the tent,

the swath of lawn, the gray-shingled mansions and the low

ranch houses. Seashell.

All the things that stay the same . . . and everything that’s

changed.

It was an uneasy truce for a while, all of us adjusting, our

shifting alliances. But, in its way, it’s all happened before, and it’ll all happen again. Summer turning to fall, crisp breezes

replacing warm salty ones. Corridors and classrooms and

indoor pools replacing sandy paths to the ocean, replacing

the boathouse, fried clams at Castle’s, the wide open sea. My

grandfather, a young man, flexing his muscles as he mows the

lawns, whipping up his special lobster sauce. My grandmother,

the daring young woman who drove too fast into town, the

distance between summer people and island people shorter

than the causeway, only as long as it takes to step across the

invisible line that only exists if you insist on it.

“Hey,” Cass says, coming up next to me, jacket already off,

sleeves already unbuttoned and rolled up. “I’ve been looking

all over for you.”

The B&T hired the jazz band (thank God not the barbershop

quartet) and they’re smoothly playing the lush old-fashioned

songs I know so well from Grandpa Ben, the mellow music

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drifting softly into the night, out over low tide.

Cass is a better dancer than I am—not hard—but we know

how, we know now, how to move together, so he dips and

twirls me to the music, dance steps I never knew before.

“You’re leading,” he breathes against my cheek.

And I am. “Sorry,” I whisper.

“S’okay,” he says. And it is.

By chance, and maybe a little bit by design, we’re going to

the same university, State College. He to study cartography, me,

thanks to a Daughters of Portuguese Fishermen scholarship

(granddaughter, really, but Grandpa Ben talked his way around

the logistics), to study English lit.

I love you
, I told him, that night at the Field House. Sort of fiercely, in this aggressive tone I immediately wished I could

take back—a challenge more than an admission.

But Cass gets it. He gets me.

“I know,” he said simply. And I knew he did. That that was

true.

The old-fashioned music fades away, starts into something

jangly and current. Cass pulls my hand and we head farther

out into the grass, to the top of Beach Road where we can see

everything—ocean, land, even a hint of the causeway far, far

off. And I can glimpse it all, trace the path we’ve come along,

like the lines on a map. Four kids lying on the sand, fireworks

as bright as shooting stars. Two friends on the dock, looking

out at the unknown. A little boy leaping for his life, an older

one doing the same. A firefly glowing in the night, caught by

a boy who shows it to a girl. This girl bending to that boy’s

kiss. An old woman who hasn’t forgotten what it was like to

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be a young one, leaning back on her glider, rocking her feet

against the floorboards, looks out over the water, the ocean

that changes and never changes. Horizons that seem like end-

ings but only bend farther into the sky, curving into something

new, beginning all over again.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Published Book Two is a whole different experience than book

one. Most of all, this time around I am incredibly aware of how

much talent, hard work, and good will go into making my

manuscript into the book you hold in your hands.

Thanks beyond the scope of words to:

Christina Hogrebe, my savvy, smart, and incredible agent,

who works tirelessly to ensure that no one puts Baby (in the

form of either my books or me) in a corner. And Meg Ruley,

Jane Berkey, Annelise Robey, Christina Prestia, Andrea Cirillo,

Danielle Sickles, and Liz Van Buren . . . all my friends at JRA.

To Jessica Garrison, whose story sense and editorial exper-

tise are matched by her dedication and kindness, and who

more than once worked over vacations and into the wee hours

of the night (2:30 a.m. editorial letters, honest) to make this

story as good as it could be.

To Vanessa Han and Jasmin Rubero, for making
WITWT

beautiful outside and inside. To Molly Sardella, my publicist,

who threw her heart into promoting
My Life Next Door
and

did the same for this book. To Jackie Engel, Doni Kay (and the

entire awesome Penguin sales team), Lily Malcom, and Claire

Evans, for their support and enthusiasm for this book. Donne

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Forrest and Draga Malesevic, who work hard to send my books

beyond borders. To Regina Castillo—fortunately my copyedi-

tor once again, who ensures my grammar, my story logic, and

that Cass’s shirt won’t change color—or cease to exist—mid-

scene. And huge thanks to Lauri Hornik for her faith in me and

my books. And Kristen Tozzo, who kept this baby on schedule.

Virtual bouquets and champagne toasts to everyone in

CTRWA, the best friends any writer could ever have, who pro-

vided everything from computer savvy to handholding to plot

suggestions at a moment’s notice. And most especially to the

plot monkeys: Karen Pinco, Shaunee Cole, Jennifer Iszkiewicz,

and Kristan Higgins, who radiate imagination and general awe-

someness, and who make me laugh until my stomach hurts on

a regular basis. You all kept me from the looming danger pro-

vided by a certain dwarf.

And yeah, about that Kristan Higgins. You, my friend, get

a double dose of thanks. I could not have gotten through this

one without your suggestions, your reads, your advice, your

borrowed bling, and your endless kindness: true friend, men-

tor, muse, fairy godsister, and just the person who, like her

books, always makes me laugh. And cry.

Also my beloved Gay Thomas, a friend for life, and Jessica

Anderson, both of whom read and counseled and calmed

when I’d completely lost all perspective on this book.

My family and friends. Father, the best of men, Georgia, the

best of stepmothers, my brother Ted and sister deLancey, all

my Thomas cousins, Patricia and Kramer, my Concord buddies

and friends far and near, who gave me sailing tips, and Colette,

Matthew, and Luke. Because because because.

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The eternally awesome Apocalypsies, the talented team

whose books, warmth, and wisdom rocked 2012 and kept me

as sane as possible. The best club of all.

MLND
,
WITWT
, and I owe the world to the bloggers, readers, booksellers, teachers, and librarians who so tirelessly read

and recommend for the sheer love of a good story. Thank you

for reading, for writing reviews and blogs and letters, and for

caring.

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HUNTLEY FITZPATRICK always wanted

to be a writer, but worked in academic publishing and as

an editor at Harlequin before settling down to what she’d

always wanted, a book of her own. Her debut novel,
My Life

Next Door,
was a RITA Award finalist, a YALSA Best Fiction for Young Adults title, and was picked as one of the best YA novels

of 2012 by Barnes & Noble and The Atlantic Wire. Huntley is

currently a full-time writer, wife, and mom to six children.

She lives in South Dartmouth, MA, a small coastal town much

like the one in
My Life Next Door
, just across the bridge from the one in
What I Thought Was True
. Visit Huntley online at www.huntleyfitzpatrick.com.

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