What I Thought Was True (26 page)

Another flash of lightning. A really loud rumble of thunder.

For a second, since he’s not moving, I wonder if I should act

terrified of storms just for an excuse to throw myself at him,

then I can’t believe what a lame thought that is.

He reaches out his thumb, very slowly, and brushes it under

one of my eyes. I close them both, and the thumb smoothes

under the other one. Both of us take a deep breath in, as though

we’re about to speak, but words fail me. It’s Cass who talks.

“Mascara . . . uh . . . here.” Another graze of his thumb.

I step back, rub impatiently under both eyes with the pink

towel. “Makeup. Ugh, I’m terrible with it. I mean, I can do it,

but just the basics. Forget the eyelash curler, which is like some sort of medieval torture device anyway and . . . Maybe I should

just give up completely on trying to be a girl.”

“That would be a shame. Here, you’re getting it all over. Let me.”

“I should at least have gotten . . . the . . . water . . . proof

kind.” Now he has set his fingers on either side of my face, tan-

gling in my wet hair, with the pads of his thumbs still pressing

over my cheekbones.

“Water would help . . . clean this up,” he says, his voice as

quiet as mine. He nods toward the boathouse door. “I could go

out and—”

Another crack of lightning, followed almost instantly by

thunder. The storm is nearly directly overhead.

“Get struck by lightning? Uh, no,” I say. I don’t know what

to do with my hands. I know what I
want
to do with them,

but . . .

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It’s so dim now in the gray light coming in through the

windows that I can feel more than I can see. I see the outline

of Cass’s head dip lower, then the faint rasp of stubble as his

cheek brushes against mine, the roughness of the calluses on

his hand as it slides over my hip.

Then he is absolutely still, motionless.

Very, very slowly, I lift my own hand, slide it up to rest on

top of his and squeeze. His breath catches, but he still doesn’t

move. There’s another flash of lightning.
One Mississippi. Two
Mississippi
. The way to count out a storm. Another beat of silence, then I turn my face to the side and catch his mouth

with mine. And I am finally, finally kissing Cass Somers again.

The hand I’m not touching slides down my back, gathering

me closer, and he leans back so he’s against the wall and I’m

flat against him. His mouth is warm and tastes like rainwater

and salty ocean both. I take my other hand and slip it into his

hair, wet and slick, twist my fingers around a curl. He edges

his legs apart, so I’m closer still. Then his fingers edge slowly

up my back to where my bikini ties behind my neck, tracing

the outline of the straps, nudging at the knot, slipping away

again, tracing the line around to my front, then the dip of the

bikini top, down, back up to the other side.

Slow. Tantalizing. I hear myself make this little sound of

impatience in the back of my throat.

He moves his lips away from mine for a second, takes a deep

breath, then hesitates.

Don’t think, Cass.

I rest one hand on his jaw, reach the other hand back, yank

at the bow at the back of my neck. I double-knotted it and it

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holds fast. I hear that impatient noise again, but this time it’s

him, not me. His hand covers mine, untangles, unknots.

Those long fingers moving so expertly, like on the lines of

the sailboat.

I move back for a second to let the top fall to my waist but,

plastered by water, it stays in place. Cass pulls me close again,

wraps his palms around my waist, instead of making the move

I expect. Want.

We’ve hardly paused for air and I’m completely breathless.

I pull back, gasping as though surfacing after diving to the

ocean floor.

We stare at each other, but it’s too dark to see each other’s

faces. One breath. Another. Then he makes a little sound, like

a hum, and lowers his forehead to my shoulder, circling his

thumb around the front of me, dipping it into my belly button.

At which point, my stomach rumbles.

“Is that thunder?” he asks as the lightning flashes to illumi-

nate his smile. “It sounded so close.”

I cover my eyes. Then burst out laughing.

“Don’t worry. We can take care of that.” His thumb nudges

teasingly into my stomach again. Then he steps back, moves

over to the corner. I hear something fall over and clatter on the

ground—an oar, probably, then the rustle of paper. But it’s too

dark to see what’s going on, and, wait, why did he move away?

We’re plastered against each another in a dark enclosed space,

damp skin against damp skin, and he . . . steps back? Isn’t he

supposed to be losing control? I yank at the ties of my bikini,

retie them.

Cass is pulling his towel from the pile of life jackets he tossed

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it on. Flapping it out to lay it flat on the saw-dusty slats of the wood floor, as though we’re on the beach. He picks something

up and sets it on the towel, just as lightning illuminates two

familiar white bags, both embellished with the black drawn

figure of a mermaid, extending a plate of stuffed quahogs. Cass

sits down cross-legged, then reaches up for my hand, lacing

his fingers through mine and pulling gently.

“C’mon. I’m hungry too.”

I drop down on my knees, sit back on my heels as he starts

hauling things out of one of the bags. A long loaf of French

bread, a big wedge of Brie cheese, strawberries, gourmet choc-

olate . . . I know the contents by heart. I’ve packed tons of these for delivery to day-trippers coming in off the boats.

“You brought a Dockside Delight?”

“It seemed like a better plan than the carton of raw eggs and

the Gatorade, which were the only things I had in my fridge.”

He breaks a piece of the bread off and hands me the rest.

But instead of the warm feeling that was chasing itself all

over me a few minutes ago, I’m suddenly chilled.

He had a picnic waiting. In the boathouse. Ahead of time.

“You planned this—” I say.

“Well, yeah, sure, partly—” Then, more warily, “That’s bad?

What did I do now?”

In flashes, like old photographs flicking from one moment

to the next, I see the party.

The Bronco.

The boys and their knowing laughter.

The guilt in Cass’s eyes.

Jim Oberman, freshman year, dragging me against the locker

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to make his girlfriend jealous. Alex, just wanting to score an

island girl. Spence. Just sex. Am I never going to be anything

more than somebody’s strategy, a destination marked off on a

road map and then passed through for someplace better?

“You planned this,” I repeat.

Cass sets down the bread, steeples his hands, and looks up at

the skylight as though praying for patience. “Partly. Like I said.

Not everything, because nothing ever goes quite the way you

mean it to. Not for me, anyway. I wanted to take you out on the

water. We both . . . relax there. By ourselves. So yeah, I planned that. I don’t have a kayak, so I had to borrow one, which also

involved premeditation.”

“And having towels all ready in the boathouse?”

His tone is getting rougher now. “
Beach towels
. I thought we might go for a swim, after the kayak. Then have something to

eat. On the beach. I didn’t plan the storm, Gwen. Didn’t look at

the weather. And they’re
towels,
not a sleeping bag and a jumbo box of condoms.” His voice, which has risen, actually cracks.

“That’s not what this is about.”

“Not at
all
?” I ask. Great. Now I sound disappointed.

The storm seems to be moving away, so no lightning to

display his face. “Gwen. I’d be lying if I said that. And I’m not

going to lie to you. Ever. But if I don’t, are you going to kill me, freeze me out again? Or get up, walk out, leave us back where

we were all spring? What’s it take with you?”

“With
me
? I’m not the one who flips hot and cold con-

stantly!”

“You’re not, huh?” Cass says, getting to his feet. “From

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where I’m standing, that’s exactly what you do. I never know

which Gwen I’m going to get. The one who acts like I’m some-

thing she stepped in or the one who—”

“Unzips your pants?” I ask.

He smacks his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Right.

Because I couldn’t possibly want anything more than to get

some.”

I stand. “It’s just a setup, Cass,” I say. “Like in March. A means to an end. That’s what I am, what—what this is.”

Fast reflexes. Before I know what’s happening, Cass bends

over, grabs the bag, and throws it against the wall. Splintering

crash, bottles breaking, soda foaming. I take a step back. He

jams his hands into the pockets of his suit, turns away from

me. “Fine, Gwen. Gotcha. And you’ve got me figured out. Clue

me in on this, then. Why do I bother with you? Why not just

ram my head against a brick wall? It would be easier and less

painful. Why are you so freaking—
burned,
that, that nothing I do counts! I’m not fucking Alex Robinson. I’m not that asshole

senior with the psycho girlfriend Vivien told me about. I’m

not . . . I’m not Spence. Can you get that? Like, ever? How come

it’s so clear to you when some made-up fictional characters are

massively stupid and you can’t see it at all when it’s you and

me?”

“Because you never tell me the truth! It’s all charm, and

la-la-la, and I’m Cass, I’ll boil your lobsters, and I’ll charm

your pants off, but it’s not what’s
true
.”

He takes a long, deep breath, pushing the heel of his hand

against his forehead, as though taking his own temperature.

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“You seriously need to get past those lobsters,” he says, finally.

The storm is passing, darkness outside graying lighter, so

I can see him slide his hand slowly down, cover his eyes, see

the small shake of his head. He stands like that for a long time.

When he drops his hand and opens his eyes, he keeps his head

down.

“Gwen. I don’t lie. I’m not a liar. I’m not a—a
user
or whatever you think. I’m me. And I thought you finally cared who

that was. I thought that was what this summer was starting to

be about.” He raises his head.

“I don’t know what this summer is about,” I admit.

“Well, I do,” he says, the slightest edge of bitterness in his

voice. Then he turns fully to me, looks directly at me.

No, not bitterness. Hurt.

And I can practically see every weapon, any defenses he’s

had up, the distant look, the rich-boy poise, the shielding

charm, slip from him, hear them all clatter to the floor.

He takes his hands out of his pockets, hangs them at his

sides, lifts his eyes to mine again and lets me read everything

in his.

Hurt.

Honesty.

Hope.

The realization is quick, sharp, and shattering like that bag

striking the wall.

I’m not the only one who can get hurt here.

Who
was
hurt here.

I can’t fathom his face in the dark. But right now, in this

moment, I don’t need lightning to see.

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He was right. I
should
come with a YouTube instructional

video. Or a complete boxed set. How the hell can I expect him

to figure me out when I don’t even get myself? And worse, I’m

a total hypocrite—hurt and angry that he’d think about having

sex with me, when I’ve gone there so many times in my own

mind. I still don’t understand what happened after the Bronco

that night. Or even in it. No. But maybe . . . maybe there
is
an explanation, other than the one I’ve been so sure was the only

truth.

Because nothing about Cass is, or ever has been, “no big

deal.”

It’s very still. The rain has passed far into the distance, the

high winds quieted down. Nothing to drown out my thoughts

or the words I might say. Have to say.

“Guess we should go,” Cass says, his voice remote again, as

if he has decided this is just impossible.

I bend down, retrieve the rumpled bag full of broken glass,

oozing root beer from a jagged tear in the soggy bottom. Wrap

it up in a beach towel. Pick up the picnic pieces, cheese, bread,

strawberries. Gather it all together. The cleaning woman’s

daughter.

But not only that.

“Cass.” I swallow. “I—I can get past the lobsters.”

“That’s a start,” he says, his voice cool.

“C-can I walk you home?” I ask. “So you don’t have to turn

the key in the lock?”