Ashley, darling thing, is in lust. “He’s here,” she says, squinting toward the docks and shielding her eyes from the sudden blinding sparkle of sun on water. I follow her gaze and, sure enough, he’s standing with one hand on a rusted off-white gas pump that’s taller than he is. Sullivan is handsome, I’ll give him that, in a brooding, slightly reckless way. He’s older than us, two years free and clear of Jericho High, which makes him instantly more appealing than the toddlers we went to school with. Right now I’m trying to dismiss the broad sweep of his bare back, the way his skin is already summer dark and polished. The knowledge that up close, he smells like coconut and lime.
Ashley flashes me a Cheshire grin, all hope and longing, and everything that came before is forgotten. It’s a perfect June day and she’s gorgeous in her cutoffs and gingham top knotted at the waist, poised for a summer fling that may blossom into more. I wish I could say something, that I could warn her away or somehow gently let her know that it’s not going to happen. But Ashley is oblivious to the too-long stares, to the way Sullivan walks past me and brushes a fingertip along the underside of my bare arm. It rattles me every time, and he knows it.
But it’s too late to second-guess anything now. Ashley is already out of the car and unloading the backseat.
“Take this,” she says, thrusting a small cooler into my hands when I come around to help. I know it’ll be filled with sparkling water and some of Ashley’s favorite snacks: plain M&M’s and organic carrot sticks. As if they cancel each other out. “And this.” She piles a faded quilt and a battery-operated radio on top of my outstretched arms. I feel only momentary guilt at the fact that I have contributed exactly nothing to this outing. Ashley’s great at details. It’s why she’s so indispensable to her mom. To me.
It seems the entire county has come out to celebrate the first unofficial day of summer. The beach is dotted with blankets and towels, bucket sandcastles and questionably pink noses. I step around a mom who’s chasing a boy with a floppy hat he clearly doesn’t want to wear and drop to my knees in the sand. “The perfect spot,” I declare, and Ashley must agree because she starts to set up camp.
“Thank you,” Ashley says when we’re finally settled side by side on the quilt. I don’t know if she’s grateful for my help unloading the car or the fact that I rescued her from an afternoon of baby wrangling. It doesn’t matter. She exhales slowly, and out of the corner of my eye I can see her visibly relax, her chin going soft, her eyes drifting closed beneath her sunglasses. I’m hit with a wave of affection for her, a tenderness that chases memories all the way back to the swing set in fourth grade and the way we became inseparable over the course of a single morning recess. My best friend hasn’t changed much over the years. She’s still tall and skinny, though the lanky awkwardness of her middle school days has been replaced by a delicate grace. Ashley has rich auburn eyes and hair to match, cut so that it just grazes her shoulders and draws attention to the arching lines of her collarbones. I’m lucky to have her and I know it. I try not to think about how much I’m going to miss her.
“You’re staring,” Ashley says when I don’t respond to her quiet thanks. “Weirdo.”
“Your eyes are closed, how would you know?”
She smiles thinly, petal-pink lips pulled tight. “You didn’t deny it.”
“I’m going to miss you,” I say, surprising myself. “When—”
“Stop.” She bumps my hip with the back of her hand. “Seriously. This summer is going to last forever.”
I smile, not wanting to spoil her fantasy.
“Besides,” she adds. “You’ll be back.”
Again, I don’t know about that, but I don’t say anything.
Ashley finds our favorite station on the radio and we listen to Top 40 punctuated by the squeals of kids racing across the sand and the low rumble of boats on the water. The sun bakes our skin, flushing my freckles out of hiding, but I don’t mind. The morning feels far away. I can almost forget about Baxter, my suspicions. Jonathan.
When a shadow crosses over my face, I’m half asleep on my back, fingers buried up to the knuckles where I was running them through coarse sand.
“Look who we have here.” The voice is deep and vaguely familiar in my dozy state.
“Shall we write something on her stomach in sunscreen?” Ashley’s giggle tells me all I need to know. Of course he found us.
I crack one eye beneath my sunglasses and find Sullivan crouching beside us, sandals abandoned in the sand and black board shorts riding up his thighs. Something darts through me quicksilver fast, but I can’t quite catch it. It’s impossible to pin down how Sullivan makes me feel. Other than mildly annoyed.
“I’m awake,” I say before they can make good on their vague threats.
“Perfect. Move.”
I comply, squeezing closer to Ashley to make room for Sullivan on the blanket. This wasn’t how I planned it. We were going to join him on the docks later, when there were lots of people around and I didn’t have to feel thrown by his subtle advances. Or heartsick about the way Ashley inhales high and shallow when he rubs the back of his fingers along his jaw in a move that feels calculated to me.
I sigh and sit up, pressed between my best friend and the boy she’s wanted for years. We touch at unexpected places, ankle to ankle, knees bumping, my shoulder against the curve of his bicep until Ashley scoots over and we all have room to breathe.
“Break time?” I ask stupidly. My headache has dulled, but it still feels as if my skull is stuffed with cotton balls.
“You know, that’s why I like you, Baker. Always on the ball.”
Ashley laughs at Sullivan’s non-joke as he mock-salutes me. I manage a dry chuckle.
“I was just on my way to grab a Red Bull.” Sullivan leans back on his elbows and closes his eyes. “But Pete’s is so far…”
“Suck it up,” I say at the exact same moment that Ashley says: “I’ll go!”
She reaches for her little teal purse, and I’m grateful when Sullivan digs in his pocket and hands her a five. Apparently, he’ll use her to fetch him a drink but stops short of expecting her to pay for it. I roll my eyes behind my sunglasses.
“Thanks, Ash. You’re a peach.”
I watch Ashley walk away, but I can feel Sullivan watching me.
“A peach?” I say when she’s out of earshot. “You’re using her.”
He lifts one shoulder casually. “I’ve never led her on.”
It’s true. Sullivan has been nice enough but clearly disinterested in Ashley’s often conspicuous advances. If only she could see it.
I continue looking ahead and say without preamble: “So Baxter’s dead.” I didn’t intend to be so blunt, but here we are.
“Yet another reason I like you, June. Your charming conversational skills.”
“I’m being serious. I think somebody killed him.” The heaviness of what I’m saying settles over us.
“When’s the funeral?” Sullivan’s nonplussed.
“Really?” I shoot him a disappointed glance. “That’s your response?”
Sullivan pulls his aviators down with his index finger and regards me over the top of the gold wire frames. His hazel-green eyes are narrowed and his lashes unusually long. I can’t read his expression, but for once he’s not goading me.
I try to hold his gaze, but I can’t. I feel a blush racing into my already warm cheeks. Suddenly I’m boiling, skin prickling all over and desperate for the siren call of the dark blue lake. I look out over the water, trace the peaks of whitecaps frothed up by boats crisscrossing the glassy surface. It’s an unusually still afternoon for Iowa, calm in the wake of the storm that rolled through on its way to Wisconsin and beyond. But I’m disquieted.
“Come on, talk to me. Please,” I force myself to say. “Tell me what you know.”
After a beat he slides his sunglasses back up and moves to stand, raining fine grains of sand all over the blanket.
Almost against my will my hand shoots out and catches his wrist. It’s thick in my grip, and when I realize what I’ve done, I start to let go. But it’s Sullivan’s turn. He twists his wrist and grabs my hand, tugs me so that I topple off-balance. Suddenly I’m pressed against his chest. I feel his breath on my skin, minty and warm.
“Tomorrow night,” he says into my hair. “I’ll tell you what I know.” His lips just barely graze the curl of my ear before he stands, slipping on his sandals as I try to recover.
“What’s tomorrow night?” My hands are braced beneath me, and Sullivan towers overhead, blocking the sun. His face is in shadow, and I can’t tell if he’s toying with me.
“I’ll pick you up. Eight.”