What I Thought Was True (13 page)

9/4/13 8:02 AM

Sundance.
This swirl of hurt and shame and loss and confusion tightened in my stomach. I bumped back into the terrace-y

room, to be greeted by the same creepy cockatoo shrieking,

“There’s gold in them thar hills!” I swallowed down the last of

my drink, now warm and full of strawberry seeds.

“You didn’t shut the door all the way.” Spence was leaning

against the wall by the door. He gestured at the French doors

behind me. “The birds need the temperature carefully regu-

lated. Very important to my mother. But then, she’s in Mar-

bella right now, and what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. So,

Gwen Castle, what are you looking for, in here all by yourself?

Got to be a reason you came to this party.”

His eyes were the weirdest yellow-green color, slightly tilted

up at the corners. Cat eyes. They’d always seemed to skip over

me before, but now they were fixed steadily on my face. When

I said nothing in response—since I had no real answer—he

raised a thumb slowly to his lips and chewed on his nail, com-

pletely without self-consciousness, despite the fact that, now

that I was looking, I noticed that all his other nails were bitten to the quick. Then he nodded like he’d come to a decision.

“You need another strawberry daiquiri.” Slipping his arm

around my waist, his fingers resting lightly on my hip, he

towed me out the door.

“I really don’t
need
—”

“Come on, Gwen Castle. You haven’t had enough. Not yet.

Besides, you’ve always struck me as a girl who gets an awful lot

of ‘not enough.’ That won’t happen tonight.”

We took a different route to the bar than I’d taken before,

down a long hallway with red-and-gold flocked wallpaper,

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hung with dark oil paintings of sea captains who looked as

though they were sneering, and uptight round-faced women,

presumably their wives.

“Your ancestors?” I ask Spence, searching their faces for his

familiar smirk.

“Bought at estate sales. It’s all for show, Castle, right? All

about the look of the thing.”

A side door opened and an elderly man emerged, wearing

a paisley dressing gown like someone in one of Grandpa Ben’s

movies. His thinning hair was ruffled up around his pink ears

and he was rubbing one eye like Emory when he’s tired.

“What’s all this noise?” he asked Spence.

“Party, Dads. Remember?”

This was Spence’s dad? He was like eighty—
had
to be his

grandfather.

The man frowned. “I agreed to this?” he asked vaguely.

“You bought the booze,” Spence responded.

The man nodded wearily and disappeared back through

the door he’d come out of. He didn’t shut it completely, and

Spence reached out and gave it a shove with the flat of his hand

until there was an audible click.

Then he cut his eyes at me, as though waiting for me to say

something.

“Your father doesn’t mind you partying?”

“Dads? Nah. He doesn’t care. Though, strictly speaking, it

was just his credit card that bought the goods, not the man

himself.” He shrugged, gave a little laugh. “What? Don’t look

at me like that, Castle.”

I had no idea how I was looking at him, although I suspect

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it was with pity. Our house could practically fit in his foyer, but it never felt sad and empty like that, despite the distant party

sounds. “I—”

“I’m sure you have crazy relatives locked in your attic too.

What family isn’t dysfunctional, right? Come on, let’s get you

what you need.”

He poured me another daiquiri and one for himself, then

led me back down the hallway. And I followed. That’s the thing,

I trailed right after him into this big study, where he waved

me to a big puffy couch, all swirly embroidered flowers on a

white linen background, then sank into an equally puffy chair

across from it, studying me over the rim of his glass. “You

really are pretty as hell, Castle. Much hotter when you don’t

wear the baggy clothes. Don’t stress about what happened with

Sundance. How could he help himself? Besides, it’s just sex. No

big deal.”

That’s exactly what it hadn’t felt like. Not
just
sex. Not no big deal. Not at all. Not to me.

But this was the last thing I was going to let Spence know.

I gulped my drink, shook my head, laughed in what I hoped

was a carefree and dismissive way. “I’ve already forgotten the

whole thing. Water under the dam.” Was that right? Bridge?

Dam? I should put this drink down now.

He whistled. “Don’t tell Cassidy that. Not in those words,

anyway. We guys are touchy. Good to know there are no hard

feelings, though.”

“I’m not planning on any heart-to-hearts with Cass Somers.”

“C’mon, Gwen. He’s a good guy. Don’t be mad at him.”

He examined my face more closely, then whistled again, lon-

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ger and lower. “O-ho. You’re not mad. You’re hurt. Damn, I’m

sorry.” He sounded as though he meant it, and to my horror,

tears sprang to my eyes.

“Oh man. I didn’t think . . . You always seemed so . . . Don’t

do this, okay?” Spence set his drink on the coffee table, swept

my glass out of my hands, one smooth motion. Then did the

most unexpected thing. He leaned forward to kiss the tears

away, lifting my hair away from my face, tucking it behind

my ears, whispering against my cheek. “Sobbing girls are my

weakness. They slay me, every time. Shh. Secret. Word gets out

and every girl at school will know how to get to me.”

“No more five chicks in the hot tub, then,” I said shakily.

“Six,” he murmured, still smoothing back my hair. There

was a smudge of black on his lower lip from my mascara. “But

who’s counting? You have dreamboat eyes, you know that?”

“Did you use that lame line on all six?”

“Nah. Didn’t bother. None of them were looking for a deep

and meaningful relationship. Neither, of course, am I. And

tonight, I’m betting you aren’t either. Right?”

He was right. I wasn’t. Not that night. Viv and Nic and the

hotel—Cass—flashed into my head and then zoomed out as

Spence bent toward me, moving forward to my lips this time.

On the drive home from the bridge, Nic keeps glancing over at

me, shoulder muscles tense.

“Look,” he says finally. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I

just . . . I mean, you’re pretty, you’re cool, and you’ve never

really dated, and . . .” He drums his thumbs on the steering

wheel, his mouth open like he hopes the right words will

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just magically fly into it. Finally: “Did that ass Alex break your heart?”

“Please. Alex got nowhere near my heart. I thought he did

back then, but it was nothing. He just hurt my feelings, the

putz.”

“Then did Channing . . . ?” He trails off, clearly finding the

thought completely impossible.

Hunching back in my seat, I kick my feet up on the glove

compartment

“C’mon, Gwen. Talk. Tell me.”

I shake my head. “No, thanks.”

Nic reaches over and tries to pull my head to his shoulder

but I’m stiff, edging him away. “I’m good,” I say. “Let’s just

drive.”

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But “just driving” is almost worse than trying to explain that

party to my baffled cousin, because it reminds me of the worst,

most painful part of that night. Which I don’t want to think

about. But I can’t stop.

When I woke up, I had no idea where I was—only that every-

thing about it felt bad. I was wedged in an uncomfortable posi-

tion against a wall, my dress twisted up behind my shoulder

blades. My mouth was sticky-sweet and my head heavy and

fogged. Someone next to me was snoring.

I lay there categorizing the feelings. 1) I was not at home.

2) I didn’t like where I was. 3) I was not alone. Then the soft

snoring sound next to me and the long foot looped around

mine, the distinctive smell of expensive, musky aftershave and

the sickly sweet taste of strawberry pulled it together.

I was at Spence Channing’s party. In a bed with Spence

Channing. And yeah, I’d chosen all this.

Unhooking his ankle from my own, I inched slowly—sll-

looooowly—down to the bottom of the bed and then blinked

at the dim floor, the ladder stretching up, the shelf of mattress

above me.

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This was a bunk bed.

Spence muttered and groped for my waist for a second, but

then rolled onto his stomach and snored louder.

I was in a bunk bed with a boy who drank strawberry dai-

quiris. For some reason, probably because I was still a little

buzzed, that seemed like one of the most surreal parts. I was

in a bunk bed where the sheets were decorated with nautical

flags. With a boy who at some point in the night had gotten

up and put on paisley pajama bottoms. While across town, my

best friends were in a hotel room that probably smelled like

roses . . .

Don’t think about that
.

I needed to get out of this room.

After bumping my head on the hard corner of a bureau, I

finally reached the door, groped for the handle, and let myself

out, blinking, into the hallway. The light was dim, but still hurt my eyes. There was a guy—Chris Markos?—slumped against

the wall in a half-sitting, half-lying position. Out cold.

Judging from the people scattered on couches and chairs

and the floor—all crashed—this was one of those parties that

would be described as “epic.” There was Matt Salnitas on the

couch with Kym Woo—who I knew was dating his brother.

Maybe there were enough dramas going on that no one would

notice mine. Unlike the last party I’d gone to.
Don’t think about
that. Just find Hoop and get out of here.
I peered out the window to the corner of the driveway where he’d parked his truck and

my heart sank. No truck.

“C’moooon, man . . . just drive me,” said a voice from the

kitchen. “It’s not even outta your way.”

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“Jimbo. We’ve been through this.” The voice in response

sounded tired. “I’ve got your back.
And
your car keys—till morning.”

Walking into the fluorescently lit kitchen, I instantly

whipped my hand in front of my eyes. Seated at stools at the

counter were Jimmy Pieretti and Cass. Jimmy had a big bowl

of unshelled peanuts in front of him and he was waving one at

Cass for emphasis.

“I need to do something, Sundance. I need to impress this

girl.”

“Trust me. Serenading her from her yard at three in the

morning is not what you’re looking for. Hi, Gwen.”

In the brightness of the room—and the muddiness of my

head—Cass was looking like the poster boy for WASPiness.

White T-shirt, faded khakis, tousled blond hair. All he needed

was a golden retriever at his knee and a grandfather handing

him an heirloom watch to complete the picture.

Jimmy, by contrast, looked like I felt—a bit grubby and

rough around the edges. “Gwen! Hi, Gwen! Let’s ask Gwen

about this! She can solve my romantic issues.”

Cass’s eyes met mine for a second. Though his were neutral,

I could translate the thought there loud and clear:
Yeah, ’cause
Gwen here is so wise with hers.

But how could he possibly know? He was outside when

Spence led me down the hallway to his bedroom, from the

poufy parlor sofa to the bunk bed.

But he did. I could see it in his eyes, the tension of his

knuckles clenched white around the countertop.

“Alexis Kincaid, Gwen—man, it’s like she doesn’t even see

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me. I need to get her attention. Because we are soul mates,

Gwen Castle, and this is a thing she should
get
. So I’m thinking I sing to her. Outside her window. A ballad or something.

’Cause girls get off on that, right? That and the thing where

you run through the airport to stop them before they get on

the plane, but neither of us are going anywhere, so that won’t

work. So. Singing. What do you think, Gwen?”

“
I
think I’m not driving you to Alexis’s house so her dad can call the police on you again.” Cass slid off his stool and poured

two glasses of water, clinking ice into them. “Take these.” He

shot them across the marble countertop, one glass landing per-

fectly centered in front of me, the next Jimmy.

My brain was thick with wool and the sharp beginning coils

of self-disgust. I did not want my pieces picked up by Cass.

I slid into a stool next to Jimmy, put my face in my hands.

“Come on, Gwen. Tell Sundance here to drive me to Alexis’s.

This party’s over for me. Actually, it never began because my

dream girl never showed. Please, Gwen.”

I pulled my hands away from my cheeks, found blotchy

smudges of mascara on the tips of my fingers. Instead of plead-

ing for Jimmy, I said, “Can you take me home, Cass?”

His lips compressed and he flicked his gaze up to the ceil-

ing, as if he could see Spence’s room from here. But all he said

was: “Sure. We can save Jim here from himself on the way.”

Boys never need any time to get going. It’s Mom who has to

hunt for her purse and then make sure she has her car keys and

her freezer pack stocked with diet soda. It’s Vivie who has to

run back for one last swipe of lip gloss, redo her hair, mirror

check. Cass just pulled car keys out of his pocket, jingling them

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in his palm, grabbed his parka, Jimmy took a slug of water, and

we were good to go.

I trailed after them to Cass’s car, which turned out to be a

red BMW. Ancient, though—that boxy square shape of old

cars—and the paint had lost its sheen and faded to Campbell’s

tomato soup orange-red. Jimmy, groaning, forced himself into

the backseat, even though I argued with him.

“No. No. Gwen Castle. I’m a gentleman. Please tell Alexis

Kincaid the next time you see her. C’mon Cass, just one little

drive by? What’s the harm in that?”

“It’s called stalking.” The back of Cass’s hand brushed by my

bare calf as he shifted the car into reverse. And, God help me,

I felt a tingle. A freaking shiver even though I was even now

in the process of the walk—or drive—of shame. My second in

the last month. After two separate guys. What in the name of

God was wrong with me?

“It’s called love,” Jimmy argued.

“No way, Jimbo. He’s like a dog with a bone with this when

he’s had a few,” Cass said to me, under his breath. “Totally nor-

mal under most circumstances.”

Cass’s profile faced forward, not the slightest bit bent in my

direction, straight nose, strong chin, his hair silver-frosted by

the moonlight and flashing bright in the reflection of the head-

lights. I curled my legs under myself, shifted uncomfortably on

the seat, stared at the strip of duct tape on his coat, wondered

why he didn’t just buy a new coat. Mom, Nic, Dad, Grandpa,

me . . . we had to push things beyond their life spans, rejigger

them to get as much wear as possible. But not the Hill guys.

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They could just use and toss, replace. Right? We got to Main

Street, circled the roundabout, headed down the most historic

part of town, past all the houses, orderly and tucked in upright

little rows and clean-looking. All those houses that looked like

they were full of careful tidy people who always made good

choices. That coil of shame sharpened, tunneled a little deeper

into my chest.

Cass pulled into a circular driveway and Jimmy climbed out,

mumbling, “I’m already regretting everything I did and most

of what I said tonight. Do you maybe have amnesia sometimes,

Gwen? Could you have amnesia about this? If I ask nicely?”

“I will if you will, Jim,” I said. In the light of the open door

I saw Cass flash me a quick glance, frowning, but Jimmy didn’t

look back, wedging himself out of the car.

The door crashed behind him and suddenly the air in the car

seemed to evaporate, suffocated out the window. Gone. Cass felt

too close, the whole space too crowded, like I couldn’t move

my arm without nudging against his, or shift my leg without

it sweeping past his, or have a thought without it being about

him. But his profile was remote and distant, eyes on the road,

hands set on the steering wheel, responsibly at ten and two.

Then he pulled one off, fisted it, let it go. Clench. Unclench.

Silence settled around us like a hot wet blanket. But what

was I supposed to say?

“Full moon on the water. Make a wish,” I muttered finally, just

to say something. Mom always said that, pointing out the pretty.

Suddenly I so much wanted my mom to put her arms around me

and fix everything, the way she could when I was five.

“What?”

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“Full moon on the water. Make a wish.”

He shook his head slightly, shrugged, jaw tight. I swallowed,

pulled the hem of my dress down farther over my thighs. Then

we were crunching up on the crushed clamshells of my drive-

way.
The Castle Estate,
I thought grimly.

He shifted into park, took a deep breath as if he was going

to speak . . . I waited.

“Welcome home,” he said finally.

Silence. I wiped one of my eyes, rubbed my finger dry on

my dress, leaving a black smudge against the scarlet fabric.

Cass reached over, flipped open the glove compartment,

handed me a stack of rough brown napkins from Dunkin’

Donuts. Home away from home for the swim team with their

early meets. Of course he would keep them neatly piled in the

glove compartment, not shoved in haphazard, the way Nic or I

would do in the Bronco. He put his hands back on the wheel,

rubbed his thumbs back and forth on it, staring at them as

if they were moving independently. “Are you okay? Did any-

thing . . . bad happen to you?”

Nothing I didn’t bring on myself,
I thought. Then I realized he was asking if I was . . . forced or something. I shook my head.

“There was none of that. Nothing but my usual gift for doing

stupid things with the wrong people.” I wiped my eyes, shoved

a brown napkin into my coat pocket.

Cass winced. “Point taken. If you’re going to do stupid

things, Spence is a great choice. You had to know that.”

“He’s
your
friend.”

“Well, yeah. Because I don’t have to date him.”

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“This was not exactly a date.”

“Yeah, what was this? Another little kick in the heart?”

“What do you care about my heart, Cass?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it again. Folded his arms

and stared stonily out the window. Rigid. Faintly judgmental.

Which brought a pull of anger out of my coil of shame. What

right did he have, anyway?

“Big deal, anyway, Cass. It was just sex.” I snapped my fin-

gers. “You’re certainly familiar with that concept. Thanks for

bringing me home.” I searched around for the car handle and

pushed it open, but before I knew it, Cass was standing outside

it, reaching out his hand for me.

“What are you doing?”

He looked at me as though I was either crazy or not very

bright. “Walking you to the door.”

“You don’t have to do that. I’m . . . really not the kind of girl

who gets walked to the door.”

“Jesus Christ, Gwen!” he said, then shook his head and

pulled on my hand. “Just let me get you safely in.”

“I can make it from here.”

“I’m walking you to the door,” he told me, leading me up

the worn wooden steps. “Not taking the chance that you’re

going to go throw yourself off the pier or something. Because,

forgive me for noticing, you seem a little impulsive tonight.”

“That’s one word for it.”

“Gwen . . . I . . . Would you . . . I mean . . .” He stopped on

our doormat, beside Nic’s sneakers and one discarded rub-