“Forever. Like two weeks.”
Shouldering the car off to the side of the road, Viv turns to me. “Look. I’m sorry. Nic and I just decided to keep it on deep down low. God knows if Al heard he’d freak the hell out. So would my mom. I’d be in . . . I don’t know . . . a convent in no time.”
“You didn’t trust me to keep the secret?” I ask more quietly.
Her expression changes, hardens somehow. “No. I know you can keep secrets. Seems to be your specialty, matter of fact.”
What?
“I don’t know myself what’s going on with Cass!” I blurt out. “How can I tell you about it when I don’t even know what to tell myself?”
“I’m supposed to help you figure that out,” Viv says. “That’s in the friend code too. But I wasn’t talking about Cass. I was talking”—she takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders—“I was talking about Spencer Channing. When were you going to tell me about Spence Channing, Gwen? Ever? ”
I slide down in the car seat. I can’t even look at her, my best friend in the world. This is somehow worse than Nic knowing. I clap my palms to my cheeks to cool my face down.
“Viv . . . you’ve always had Nic. Always. You’ve always been solid together. Always. After what happened with Cass . . . not to mention me being so stupid about Alex and my dad finding us. I thought you’d . . .” I clear my throat, but can’t find any more words.
“You thought I’d . . . ?” Vivien reaches out to pull my hands down, turning my chin so she can look me in the eye.
“Think I was a slut. And if you thought that . . .” I pick at a 187
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piece of flaking vinyl. Vivien just keeps looking at me, until I finally say, “Then maybe it would be true.”
She bumps her head back against the headrest.
“Which is stupid, I know, but whatever,” I say.
“God, Gwen! Really? Come on! I would never think like that about you. I’ve had a lot more sex than you have. Am I a slut?”
“But it’s not like you and Nic. It’s not True Love. It’s . . . just sex.”
She looks at me for a long time, eyes troubled. Then asks, “Are you sure? Does Cass know that? Did Spence?”
I ignore the part about Cass. “Just sex is what Spence does!
All he does. He was the one who came up with that attractive phrase.”
She makes a face. “That’s weird. Makes it sound like he doesn’t even like it. And he’s supposed to be this huge player.
Was he, um, good?”
“What? I don’t know. I don’t remember too well,” I confess.
She makes a face. “That sounds like a no to me. How about Cass?”
I shrug. “I feel weird talking about this. Like I’m scoring them. ‘And the ten goes to . . . while the other two get consid-erably lower marks.’ Now I really feel like a slut. Plus there was Jim Oberman, freshman year.”
“Oh, stop.” She whacks me on the shoulder. “No one even remembers that. Plus, all you did was make out with Jim. And it was pretty much all him. He was a loser who had to amp it up to sound like more. The thing is . . . It’s just . . . I’ve only had Nic. No basis for comparison. I just wonder . . . a little . . .
sometimes. I mean. Hardly ever. But, you know.”
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My jaw practically drops. I never thought Vivien even saw anybody but Nic. I don’t think he sees any girl but her. I’ve never even heard him call anyone else pretty. Except me, which doesn’t count.
“About any guy in particular?” I ask carefully. Then I think Oh God, what if it’s Cass? I mean, how could it not be? Look at him. But that would be beyond awkward.
“No!” she says hastily, flushing. “Of course not! Why would you think that?”
“Because it’s hard to wonder about some abstract guy.
Unless he’s like a celebrity or something.”
“Well, yeah, that’s sort of a requirement if you have a pulse,”
Vivien says. “But no one I know. At all. Forget I mentioned it . . . And, shit, don’t tell Nic.” Her voice is suddenly urgent.
“Promise me you won’t.” She reaches out and grabs my sleeve.
“Swear, Gwen. Never ever let Nic know.”
“I don’t think he’d be jealous, Viv. He knows your heart’s his. Always has been. Always will be.”
“That’s right,” she says firmly. “Completely. Always.” But there’s a little waver in her voice and she doesn’t look me in the eye.
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Chapter Twenty
This could be bad. Very bad.
Dad’s house is on the water. I mean . . . on the water. It’s on the marshy, open-to-the-ocean side of Seashell, near Nic’s and my jumping bridge. You walk from the road through a patch of woods and then out across some double planks to his house, which is on wooden pilings, so it’s six or seven feet over the marsh to get to the tiny porch and his little ramshackle red house with buoys hanging outside, and fishing rods always stacked by the door.
“Hurricane bait,” Dad calls it, but kind of with love. He got it cheap from this island guy who was moving to Florida, just at the right time, when he and Mom were splitting up, the year after Em was born.
Tonight, when I take Em for our weekly dinner with Dad, I put his life jacket on, just to cross that tiny three-slab-long stretch of sun-dappled water. Even Emory thinks this is crazy.
He keeps shoving at the straps, saying “Gwennie, off.”
I’m pretty sure, to him, the whole falling off the dock thing was much worse for Hideout.
I can smell pancakes as we come up the path. Dad always does the breakfast for dinner thing. He gets sick of actual lunch 190
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and dinner, after churning them out at Castle’s all day and night. I’m carrying Emory, who may not have a fear of the water but seems to hate setting foot on the ground now.
“How’s the old lady?” Dad calls as we come in. “And what the hell is your brother doing in that thing?”
There it is.
I miserably explain about the fall. Mom and Grandpa didn’t blame me aloud . . . but this is much worse than not fixing a broken door. Dad’s not exactly one to hold back on the criticism.
Kneeling down, Dad unbuckles the life jacket, then hands Emory a plate of scrambled eggs with ketchup frosting.
“Hideout fell in. Superman save him,” Em summarizes cheerfully, settling down at the card table where we eat.
“Yeah, fine.” Dad clears his throat. I left out the Cass part of the story, so he no doubt thinks that’s just another one of Em’s dreams. “Guinevere.” He stands, looks at me. “You screwed up, but you didn’t lose your head. Still, the kid doesn’t need a life jacket on dry land. You’ll get him all worried.”
This time I do tell him about Cass and the lessons.
“Somers . . .” Dad says doubtfully, rubbing his hand against his stubbled chin. “Like Aidan Somers? The boat-building guy?”
“His son.” I turn to the cabinet, pull out more plates, haul out the syrup, start moving it all to the table.
“Rich kid,” Dad says flatly. “Don’t know about that. Besides, why isn’t your cousin doing this, Mr. Big Swimmer?”
“Nico already tried to teach him, Dad, and wanted to try again.3 Grandpa said no, he said it was easier to learn from someone who isn’t family.”
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