“You can pay up at the party”—Sof bats her eyes—“when I get you dancing to Blanket Reshuffle.”
I stand up, somehow ending up sandwiched between Thomas and Jason while Ned fiddles with the settings. It takes forever, because today he’s brought one of his eight thousand film cameras instead of his phone. Thomas and Jason both sling an arm round my shoulders for the photo, and they clash just as Ned bellows, “Okay, everybody say ‘Ziggy Stardust.’”
There’s a clunk-click and a mad chorus as everyone shouts something different—I think I hear Thomas yell, “Trouble times two,” but his face is innocence when I look at him.
When he finally lets us sit down, there’s a scramble for the center of the blanket. Niall’s all hair and piercings, and he stumbles around, heavy-footed in DMs, so I’m pushed into the corner. Everyone ends up paired off: Sof with Ned in the middle, Thomas with Niall, and Meg next to Jason, who glances my way. I’m squished behind Thomas and Niall, on the edge of the group. Guten tag, my entire life. Except … last summer, I had Jason, and before that I had Sof, and before that, I was Thomas-and-Gottie. How did I end up here?
The weather has gone from grey to almost-drizzling.
Ned and Sof are loudly debating playlists for the party, which he still hasn’t actually told me about directly. Papa hasn’t mentioned it—he might not even know. He’s not the kind of parent to deny permission for much, except when Ned wanted to get a neck tattoo, but, then, mostly we don’t ask for anything. We muddle along.
I bite a lump of ice cream that I can’t swallow, then point at my mouth so I don’t have to talk to Niall. He’s got so many studs you could peel his ear off like a stamp, and I never know what to say to him: “Nice holes”? He puts his headphones on and ignores me.
Thomas turns around, awkwardly, twisting the blanket underneath his feet to a chorus of complaints. His glasses are sea-speckled, and his hair is as curly as Sof’s. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I mumble back, regretting my ice-cream lump.
Apologizing was never part of the Thomas-and-Gottie vocabulary. It was part of our unspoken agreement. I settle for asking, “Have you been introduced to everyone?”
“G, I already know you, Ned, and everyone,” he points out. “It’s only Sof who’s new, and she rather boldly introduced herself.”
“Oh.” I seem to still be having trouble connecting this Thomas with that Thomas.
“Does putting a jellyfish in my lunch box count as knowing me?” Meg calls out, and Thomas turns around again to answer her, retwisting the blanket, so I end up bumped out onto the cold sand. With his back to me, I can’t hear what he says. I stare at the freckles on his neck while he and Meg and Sof laugh. I catch the occasional word—it seems to be a comic-book discussion.
Using Thomas as cover, I switch my stare to Jason. His collar is popped, his blond hair swept back. He twists in my direction to give Ned’s camera the best moody seascape profile. The last time I saw him was in Grey’s room, when—when what, Gottie? Do you honestly believe you went back to last summer? But that you also stayed here? That your consciousness split in two?
I need to ask Jason what happened, from his perspective. I need to get Jason alone, again. Explain that I’m not ignoring him; my phone’s broken.
He catches me staring, and smiles. Then steals a chip from Ned, makes a joke to Meg about her nail polish, flips the bird at Sof. This could be a scene from last summer—but I’m only near him, not with him, and it makes my rib cage feel two sizes too small for my lungs.
I stare at my book, penciling formulas in the margins and trying not to mind that I don’t have a secret bubble anymore, or that Ned’s shouting about a party I don’t want to happen. Tiny raindrops fleck the page and smudge my numbers. A big fat tear joins them.
I’m surprised when Niall shoves a tissue into my hand. It’s gross—dirty and shredded, probably snotty—and he doesn’t say anything or look at me, ’cause I’m clearly too pathetic. I need to stop sniffling and do something. Otherwise the time capsule of Margot H. Oppenheimer, in her eighteenth summer, will be a soggy mess.
I shove the snot rag into my bag, on top of Grey’s diary. It’s one from five years ago, bookmarked to the day Thomas left. Hearts and flowers are doodled all over the page. He used to do that on our school reports and permission slips. (Asking Papa to sign anything is like trying to catch a helium balloon in a tornado.) I nearly didn’t get my measles shot because there were smiley faces in all the Os on the form.
When I look up, I notice two things. 1. There’s a wormhole, twenty yards from shore. And 2. Thomas is looking between me and Jason with a frown.
“I’m going to swim,” I announce, standing up. Better a watery vortex than here.
Everyone stares up at me.
“You just ate,” says Sof. Her feet are in Ned’s lap. “And the water’ll be like icicles.”