pull him close so quickly, I can hear a startled intake of breath, see a little spot he missed on his chin shaving, see that the base of his eyelashes are blond before they tip dark. “I’d say you’re worth the risk.”
“Forget what I said. Your greetings are great. Perfect.”
I’m just about to touch my lips to his when I hear a loud “None of that funny business here!” and realize we’re in front of Old Mrs. Partridge’s yard. Where she’s also standing, rooting through her mailbox impatiently.
I try to move back, but Cass’s hand snakes behind me, holding me in place. “Good evening, Mrs. Partridge.”
“Never mind that, Jose. None of this in a public street.”
“Not the best spot for it,” Cass allows. “But it’s such a beau-tiful summer afternoon. And look at this girl, Mrs. Partridge.”
“Look at this girl somewhere else,” she says crossly. But there’s just a shade of amusement in her voice and she leaves without further harassment.
I stare after her, amazed. “How did you do that?”
“She’s only human. Seems kind of lonely,” Cass says. “Now, where were we?”
Friday, early evening, we take the sailboat out again, anchor in Seldon’s cove and are lying, Cass’s head on some seat cushions and a life jacket, mine on his chest, the thrum of his heartbeat in my ear. Since Seldon’s is protected by two spits of land encir-cling it in a C, the motion of the water is gentler than in open water, as though we’re being rocked in a giant cradle.
I close my eyes, see the sun glow orange-red through my lids, feel Cass’s thumb, the skin healing but still rough, trace up 346
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the side of my arm, sweep back down, then along the line of my other arm. I start to squirm, ticklish.
“Steady. I’m mapping you,” he says, close to my ear, moving his touch to my jawline, then along my lips to the little groove above them.
“Useless fact,” I say. “That’s called a philtrum.”
“Useful fact,” Cass counters. “Maps came before written language.” Now he’s tracing the line of my chin. Under my ear, down, sweeping back. My chin? Not anywhere anyone has been interested in before. I’m resisting the urge to grab his hand and put it somewhere more risky.
“I’ve heard of math geeks, but map geek is new.”
“Maps are the key to everything,” he says absently. “Gotta find your direction.” He clears his throat. “Hey, Gwen? I know that guy—the one who was at the house with Mrs. E.’s son.
Spence’s dad buys old paintings and stuff from him.”
“Is he a sleazebucket?” I ask. “Because I think Henry Ellington might be.”
The whole story, what I’ve seen, what I think I know, comes tumbling out— Except. The check. Burning a hole in my pocket. A cliché I wish were true—that it would just ignite, drift out as ashes, blow away over the ocean, instead of lurking in the pocket of whatever I was wearing that day. Because I never did—I never threw it out.
“Would you tell? If you knew a secret that could hurt someone you cared about?”
Cass’s brow furrows. For a second his fingers tighten on my chin.
“Ow,” I say, surprised.
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“God, sorry. Cramp. You mean, you mean if I were you?
About this?”
“If Mrs. E. were your grandmother or something and you saw what was going on?”
He looks past me, out at the water for a moment as though reading the answer from the waves. “Hm. Tough one. It’d be a different situation then—family instead of someone you work for. ‘Not my place’ and all that crap.”
“Uh-oh,” I say, smiling at him. “You’re admitting you have a place. Seashell’s brainwashed you at last, Jose.”
“This is my place.” He settles his head more forcefully on the cushion, nestles my head more firmly onto him. “Right here.”
As if I’m a destination he’s reached, searched for. The X on a treasure map. “Cass . . . does this mean . . . Are we . . . ?”
My words are coming slowly, not just because of the lazy afternoon, the lullaby rock of the water, but because I have no idea which ones to use. I’m fumbling with how to put it, what to ask, hoping he’ll somehow read my mind, fill in the blanks— “What’s Nic afraid of, Gwen?”
“Um, Nic? Not much. Why?”
“Because he’s doing the same thing with swim practice you were doing about tutoring me. And I know in his case it’s not fear of succumbing to my deadly charm. I keep texting him to set up a time when we, he and Spence and me, can get on with it. We need to practice as a team, the three of us. He keeps blowing me off. Spence too. But I can deal with Chan. I need 348
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you for Nic.”
“It’s really important to Nic. Getting the captain spot.”
“That’s why I don’t get the blow-off. It’s important to all of us. Nic has no monopoly.”
“But he needs . . .” Here I falter, stumbling on the old lines.
Nic needs it more. If he falls or fails, there’s no safety net. But then there’s Cass’s brother Bill, saying how Cass has to work harder, how he won’t come out of things smelling like a rose.
His voice roughens, less drowsy. “Speaking of what matters, in case you haven’t figured it out—this does. Us. To me, anyway. Your cousin and I are not going to be blood brothers. My best friend may not be your favorite person. Fine. But no more reversals of fortune—not with you and me.”
He says this last sentence so forcefully, I’m a little stunned.
When I don’t answer instantly he moves to sit up, looks me in the eye. “What?”
“So are we . . . ?” Dating? A couple? Together? “Seeing each other? It’s not that you have to take me home to your family or—”
Cass groans. “Are all island girls this crazy, or did I luck out?”
I sigh. “Well, you know. Picnic baskets.”
“Gwen. I mean this is in the nicest possible way. You will never be a picnic. Which is one of the things I lo—” He stops, takes a deep breath, starts again: “Can we just put the whole picnic basket thing away with the lobsters? For the record, to be clear, we’re doing this right.”
“The man with the maps.”
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He shakes his head, moving to his feet, tipping back against the railing of the boat so he can pull out the lining of first one of his pockets, then the other, then extend his open palms.
“Map free. Know what that means? Need SparkNotes? You’re my girlfriend, not my picnic basket, or any other screwed-up metaphor.”
He says all of this firmly, his logical voice.
After a minute or two, he adds, “I mean . . . unless I’m your picnic basket.”
I laugh. But he’s not even smiling. He seems to be waiting for something. And I don’t know what it is. Or exactly how to give it to him. Instead I say lightly, “I think of you more as a Dockside Delight.” I slide over, lean into him, my hand tight against his heart, wishing that how I feel could just flow between us that way, without getting tangled up in words.
On the way home after sailing we don’t say much. I’m yawn-ing—a long day of being in the sun and the water—and so is he. We hold hands. It feels perfect.
It’s only after I’m home, scrubbing off in the outdoor shower, that I realize he never did tell me what he thought the right thing to do was.
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