I bump his shoulder with my own. “You leave them both behind every time, Admiral.”
We ditch Hoop’s truck in his pine-needle-covered driveway and reach our house on foot just as Vivien pulls up in her mom’s Toyota Corolla. She beeps at us, waving Nic over. He leans through the window, kisses her nose, then her lips, hands slipping down to gather her closer. I look away, squeeze the dampness out of the fraying hem of my shorts.
Viv. The first serious Nic Cruz Goal I can remember.
We were eleven and twelve. I decoded the scribbly cursive in his i WiLL notebook, this goal journal he kept hidden under his mattress—not a safe spot when your cousin is hunting for Playboy s , wanting to bribe the hell out of you. But the i WiLL
notebook proved more useful than even porn sometimes.
Kiss Vivien.
I figured Hoop had dared him. Despite the wedding cere-mony when we were five, I didn’t think of them as a couple. It was thethreeofus. But there it was, spelled out in red pen right in the middle of his other goals : Be next Michael Phelps. Own Porsche. Climb Everest. Find out about Roswell. Make a million dollars. Buy Beineke house for Aunt Luce. Kiss Vivien.
For some reason, that one I didn’t tease him about.
Then a few months later the three of us were sitting on the pier at Abenaki, enjoying the post–Labor Day emptiness of the beach. Nic reached into his pockets, pulled out a bunch of flat rocks.
“Pick me a winner,” he’d said to Vivie. She’d cocked her head at him, a little crinkle between her eyebrows, then made 59
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a big show of finding the perfect skipper, handing it to him with a flourish.
“One kiss,” he’d said softly, “for every skip.”
The stone skated over the water five times, and my cousin claimed his reward from my best friend while I sat there still and silent as the pile of rocks, thinking, I guess Hoop didn’t dare him.
“Gwen’s trying to bag out on us, Vee.” Nic’s voice breaks into my thoughts.
Vivie shakes her head firmly. “Miss the first bonfire of the season?” she calls through the open window. “Not an option!”
She reaches over, holds up a supermarket bag, shakes it at me.
“I got the gear for s’mores!”
Nic has already climbed into the front passenger seat. He ducks forward, flipping it so I can climb in the back. “C’mon, cuz.”
I sigh and tell them to hold up while I change my soggy clothes.
When I get inside, Mom’s got the phone to her ear, frowning. She holds a finger to her lips, jerking her head at the couch. Grandpa’s fast asleep, head tipped back, mouth open. Emory is curled like a cashew nut, his head in his lap, snoring softly.
“Yes, I understand. Yuh-huh. Extensive cleaning. Yes. Top to bottom. Of course. By four o’clock tomorrow? Oh, well, that is a Saturday and—uh-huh. Okay.” Mom sighs, rustling the pages of the book on her lap. “Allrighty then.”
When I come back out in a baggy shirt and an even older pair of shorts, Mom’s off the phone and buried in her lat-est bodice buster. She carefully marks her spot with a finger.
“You’re going out?”
I shrug. “Beach with the guys. What was that? Someone already giving you hell?”
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Mom sighs again. “It’s those Robinsons.”
I’d already turned toward the door, but stop in my tracks.
“They’re back?”
“Renting the Tucker house again for the next two weeks.
Some wedding in town—cousins of theirs. Want the house to sparkle. By tomorrow.” She rubs her thumbs over her temples.
“Here for only a few weeks every few summers, and I swear, they’re more trouble than half the regulars put together.”
“Can you pull that off? By tomorrow?”
She shrugs. “No choice, really. I’ll manage.” Mom’s theme song. Her glance drops to her book once again and she smiles at me wickedly. “I’ll think about it later. I’m pretty sure this Navy Seal is about to find out that the terrorist he’s been sent to capture is his ex-wife—and she’s pregnant with his triplets . . .
and married to his brother.”
When I slide into the backseat of the car, there is the neces-sary interval of waiting while Nic and Vivien make out. I hum under my breath, trying to ignore the kissing noises and rustle of clothes. After a couple of minutes, I lean forward, tap each of their shoulders. “I’m right here,” I whisper.
Nic looks back, wiping Vivien’s shiny peach lip gloss off, winks at me. Vivien just smiles in the rearview mirror, eyes bright. Then she reads my face. “What’s wrong?”
“The Robinsons are coming back,” I say flatly, digging in my pocket for the mascara I grabbed from the bathroom.
She blows out a breath, ruffling the little strands of hair stealing out of her pigtails. “When?”
“Tomorrow.”
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