The Real Deal

The way he asks sends a shiver down my spine. Like it’s an invitation for me to find out. He says it like he’s confident but not cocky. Like he has a mystery for me to unravel.

“It’s not really that I think they’re right,” I say, taking my time as I answer him, keeping my eyes locked to his. My voice sounds smoky to my own ears. “It’s more that I hope they are.”

I leave it at that. Because I love his reaction. The soft subtle groan. The darkening of his eyes. And, yes, because maybe I’m a pervert, too, I can’t help but note the thickening in his jeans.

“Then let’s let them think we’re doing something they shouldn’t disturb.” He turns around, sets his hands on the window, and pushes it all the way open. He hoists his leg over the windowpane, scoots out, and stands on the slanted roof outside our room. Anxiety flies through me, but then I tell myself this is fun, this is daring. I climb out the window and onto the roof. I close the window most of the way. Theo sets his finger on his lips. We do our best to pad as noiselessly as we can, but the roof creaks and groans a few times. I say a silent prayer that the Scrabble-heads won’t hear.

At the edge of the inn stands a tall oak tree, with a thick branch dangling over the roof. Theo bends and test its strength with his hand, shaking it.

“Seems solid enough.” He raises his arms, holding on to the branch above it, then steps across on the solid one, like a tightrope walker.

I hold my breath. The stairs seem a hell of a lot wiser now. But as I regard his wicked smile, the stairs seem like a hell of a lot less fun.

With a few steps, he moves across.

It’s my turn. I follow him, keenly aware than I’m twenty or more feet above the ground and climbing a tree to escape with a guy. This is what happens when you’re twenty-eight and come home. You can do things you would’ve done at seventeen, but you’re doing them for completely different reasons.

We reach the trunk, and like jungle gym monkeys, we climb down, branch to branch, until we reach the lowest one, about ten feet from the grass.

Theo sits on it, then hangs, then drops down. He lifts his arms as if to catch me.

But I’ve got this.

I sit, swivel, and jump. My knees buckle, but my feet absorb the landing. I grin with glee. We did it. We made our great escape. We look at each other with utter delight. For a moment, neither one of us moves, we just hold the other’s gaze. I feel like we’re coconspirators, partners in arms. Like this is something we could do. Take off on adventures together, big and small.

Like this is who we are together.

He holds out a hand.

I take it.





Chapter Twenty-nine

Theo

We don’t go on the sidewalk or the main road.

“I know all the paths in the woods,” she whispers, and hell if there’s anything sexier right now than following this gorgeous girl to the trees, then a path that runs behind the homes. We cut across a hard dirt trail. With each step to wherever she’s taking me, my heart beats faster. Fifteen minutes later, she forks left, and I follow her down the hill.

At the bottom is a blue glassy lake. It’s quiet and placid, and moonlight streams across the water.

“My backyard.”

I rub my finger against my ear. “I’m sorry, but did you say that was your backyard?”

“Something like that,” she says with a sly smile. She raises her arm and points. Several hundred feet away is a home. Big and stately and white, it presides over the land and the lake.

“That’s where I grew up, right on the water.”

I whistle my appreciation. “Damn, that’s gorgeous.”

“Isn’t it?” she says with a happy sigh. She tugs the shoulder of my shirt. “Let’s go.”

She leads me through her yard, if you can call it a yard. It’s more like acres and acres of soft grass and fireflies, of summer air and crickets. We weave through tall trees, and I squint because the farthest one looks like it holds a tree house up high. “Is that what I think it is?” I ask, pointing.

She nods. “Perks of being the youngest of three to a dad who’s good at building. I batted my eyes, asked him for a tree house, and he built it for me for my sixth birthday. It even has a sign that says ‘April’s Tree House’ on it.”

I laugh. “Bet that didn’t keep your brother and sister out of it.”

“Not in the least. But I loved that sign.”

We reach a small dock. A boat bobs on each side. She steps onto the wooden dock, and I’m right behind her. After untying one of the boats, she says in a singsong tone, “Want to go out on the lake?”

“Hell yeah.”

“This is the smallest model. It doesn’t have an engine.”

I flex a biceps. “I’ve got these engines.”

She hands me the oars.

That’s how I find myself doing something I’ve never done before. Rowing a boat. Correction: rowing a handcrafted, fifty-two-thousand-dollar boat under the moonlight, across the water, into the middle of a lake in the summer.

This is not my life.

This is not the bar in Brooklyn.

This is not the businesswoman collecting the debt.

This isn’t soggy nachos.

This is how the other half lives.

They hop into their parents’ boats and glide across the water, and the funny thing is I don’t resent her for all she has. I’m not angry with her. The privilege she was born into doesn’t feel like a dividing line between us.

Maybe that’s crazy.

Or maybe that’s because of her.

When we reach the middle of the lake, April dips her hand into the pocket of her shorts, wiggles her eyebrows, and removes a flask. I laugh loudly, and the sound echoes across the water.

“You are my kind of woman,” I say as I pull the oars into the boat and set them down.

“Do you like tequila?”

“Does a panda like bamboo?”

She smiles, and her nose crinkles. She opens the flask and takes the first drink. She winces, then wipes her hand across her mouth. “It’s strong. Beware, panda.”

I knock back a gulp. It burns, but it’s a good burn. April stares at the water. “My dad taught me how to sail. How to row a boat. How to fish,” she says, raising her face to the night sky. It’s rich with stars. They twinkle brightly across the midnight blue blanket. She sets her hands behind her on the bench she’s seated on. “I know this lake so well. I grew up on this lake. My friends and I used to sneak out here at night.”

“Did you all bring a flask?”

“Sometimes, yeah.”

“You’ve been a troublemaker for a long time,” I tease.

“Sometimes I was. We thought we were so clandestine.”

“Do you think your parents knew that you sneaked out here?”

“Not at first, but the one night my friends and I jumped off the boat and into the water and splashed around might have been the tip-off.”

“Were your parents pissed?”

She shakes her head. “We were all sober that time, so no one was too mad.”

“Is this your way of telling me they’ll come looking for us?”

“That ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign is foolproof,” she says with a wink. We’re quiet for a minute as we glide across the water. “Tell me about your parents, Theo.”

I tense. A knee-jerk reaction. I’m ready to erect walls, but I remind myself that April deserves as much honesty as I can give her. She’s been open with me, up front and direct. “They were both teachers. They loved grammar. My mom was a word person, and she loved to correct our grammar, too.”

I watch April’s face as I talk. Her expression is soft, welcoming. She waits for me to say more.

“She had a T-shirt that said ‘Good Grammar Is Sexy.’ It was embarrassing to us because when she wore it, everyone commented. We’d go to the library, and the librarian would say something. We’d go to the hardware store, and the cashier would comment. Women would always say how much they loved it.”

“Long live good grammar, evidently. Was your dad like that, too?”

“Not so much. He was quieter, more introspective. A thoughtful guy. He liked to write. I think he was working on the—” I sketch air quotes. “—‘Great American Novel’ before he died.”

“Do you know what it was about?”