In the low tide, the waves are lapping lazily far down the beach.
The only lingering sign of the storm are dimples in the sand from the pelting rain, and huge piles of kelp and rocks and boat shells littering the beach.
“Heavy lifting to come for the yard boy,” I say, scrambling for casual.
Cass tips his head in acknowledgment.
I trip on something and nearly fall and he reaches out a hand to catch me, then lets it drop before he can touch me.
Slowly, infinitesimally, as though if I moved quickly I might scare him off, I reach out for his hand, tangle mine in it, fingers slipping between fingers, then hand locking on hand.
Silence while I try to find what to say.
But then:
“Thank you,” Cass says simply. The way he did that night in the Bronco.
Good manners. It occurs to me that this is a kindness. Not simply a habit, not only charm.
Then, as if he knows what I’m thinking, is reinforcing it, he moves close enough to me that I can feel his heat, warm skin.
He tightens his hand on mine. But still, the walk uphill is long and silent.
When we reach the top, I turn to face him “If . . . if . . . it wasn’t about a jumbo pack of condoms. Or thinking I was easy. What was it, then?”
“We’re going to talk now? Finally.”
“Finally?” I breathe.
“Yes. We’re not having this discussion in the middle of 302
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the street, though. Come on.” He tows me toward the dark hulk looming against the stars, the Field House. I hurry up the worn wooden steps, follow him into the hideous, haggy, yellow-walled apartment. Which seems all too exposed and open without any buffer between us. No party with room-fuls of people. No open Seashell road with a dozen possible witnesses. No Fabio. No Spence. Nothing but air and us.
We sit down on the couch. He takes a deep breath. Then another. He’s nervous. He looks down at his hand. Clench, unclench.
“Just spit it out,” I say. Beautiful. I sure do have a lyrical way with words.
He takes another deep breath. “I think I need some water.”
“I think you’re stalling. Please, Cass.”
I wrap my hand around his forearm. He turns to face me.
The sofa creaks. Definitely a relative of Myrtle’s. Great how the furniture in my life talks more easily than I do.
“Let me help you out. Spence told you I was easy . . . so . . .
He did, didn’t he?”
“Truth? Yeah. That you had crumble lines.”
“What the hell are crumble lines?”
“This garbage of Spence’s. He likes to spout off all these theories about girls and how to get them.”
“Because he’s Mr. Notorious, I-Had-Five-Girls-in-My-Hot-Tub-at-Once.”
“Three, for the record. Plus, one of them was his cousin who was just in there because she was in track and had run a marathon and her muscles were sore. What he says is to look for crumble lines—places where girls feel bad about them-303
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selves or whatever. Then you get them at the right moment and they do stuff they might not ordinarily do.”
“That’s the sickest theory I’ve ever heard,” I say. So right too, I think, remembering that party and that side room. How it all had nothing to do with what I felt about Spence.
“Yup. And dead effective. How Spence plays his game. So, uh, he said you had a reputation.”
I wince. He holds up a hand, stopping whatever I was about to jabber.
“So what, Gwen? I have a reputation in my own family. Not to mention at Hodges. It happens.”
He shuts his eyes, pauses, then opens them and continues, his words coming out rough and hurried.
“I always told him to shut it when he brought you up with his crumble line crap. So yeah, he’d said that and yeah, I’d heard stuff. Locker room shit. But Gwen . . . I knew you. I mean, we knew each other. It was a long time ago, but . . . well. We did.
I mean . . . That summer? We did know each other. We were always at the beach or on the boat or doing those crazy scav-enger hunts. I didn’t talk to you because of anything Spence said. I didn’t, um, look at you and just see your body. I sure as hell didn’t sleep with you because Spence told me to. That had nothing to do with anything but you and me. I asked you to the party because I liked you.”
“Cass, why didn’t you just ask me out . . . before that?”
“Because I couldn’t read you anymore. I thought you’d say no.
I’m no good at asking. And I hate doing stuff I’m no good at.”
I stare at him. “Those are really stupid reasons.”
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“Because Spence told me to would be stupider,” Cass says. “I thought maybe some opportunity would come up. When you waded into the water in your heroic rescue attempt, I figured you had to like me. Too.”
He pauses, waiting for me to say something. Confirm something. But one thing is clear. Cass is much braver than me. I just look at him, silently urging him to continue.
“Like I said. I didn’t think you did dates. That’s what everyone said. When I asked. Because I did. Ask.” He sighs, rubs the back of his neck, looks away from me. “So I invented the whole party thing. Which I realized afterward was a stupid-ass way of handling it. But, at the time, it was what I could do. I wanted to be with you. Any way I could.”
“Cass—” I inch closer to him on the couch, edge my hand onto his knee. He covers it with his.
“Look, I want to get this out. So . . . so listen.”
“I’m listening. I came to the party. And we . . .” I trail off, pull at a tiny elastic string at the side of my bikini bottom.
“For the record? Since we’re telling the truth now? That was not all me. You . . . you can’t sit there and act like, like, I took advantage of you. Because . . . because I may not have known . . . but you were right there with me. I know you were.
I felt it. And I remember everything. Everything.”
My skin prickles, awareness, total recall.
“I didn’t plan on hooking up with you that night! That’s the truth. You were the one who—” He stops dead.
“Pushed it, right?”
“No! No. That was both of us. But I didn’t plan it. Going 305
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that far. If I had—if I had, I would have had protection, which, you may remember, I didn’t. Which completely freaked me out afterward when you wouldn’t even talk to me and just looked at me like I was scum.”
“I’m on the Pill.”
“How the hell would I have known that? You could have mentioned it.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“We should have used a condom anyway. But I could hardly think, Gwen. One minute we were kissing and the next minute your shirt was off and that was it—no more thinking.”
“You’re helpless in the face of boobs?”
He studies my face for a moment, then, at the sight of my smile, breaks slowly into one of his own. Then sobers.
“Yours? Um, yeah. But that’s not the point. The point is, what happened didn’t have anything to do with what Spence said. Except that he screwed it all up for us. Well . . . he and the other guys. And me.”
“And me,” I whisper, almost hoping he doesn’t hear me. But when I look up, his face is suddenly very close to mine. So he must have.
“Are we clear?” he asks gently, his eyes unflinching on mine.
“Clear,” I say. Then look down.
And me.
I need to say it.
“Except . . . except for what I, um, did next.” Praise God for that bathing suit thread. I pull on it, tangle my finger in it, loop it around and around, concentrating completely until Cass again covers my hand with his own, calluses brushing my 306
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