“Washington.”
I arch an eyebrow at him, expecting him to narrow it down to a city or county or nearest proximity to a Starbucks. But he doesn’t. “That’s extremely vague,” I say. “Can you be more specific?”
His cheekbones tighten, a rivulet of tension. “Near the middle” is all he offers up.
“I can see this won’t be easy.” I rub my tongue along the roof of my mouth.
“What?”
“Figuring out who you really are.”
He taps his fingers against the side of the bottle, a rhythm to a song, I think. “What do you want to know?” he asks.
“Did you go to high school in this fictional, near-the-middle town?”
Again I think he’s going to smile, but he stifles it before it escapes his lips. “Yeah. I graduated this year.”
“So you graduated then promptly escaped your make-believe town?”
“Basically.”
“Why’d you leave?”
He ceases the tapping against the bottle. “My brother died.”
A blast of wind and sideways rain sprays the windows, and I flinch. “I’m . . . sorry.” Bo shakes his head and tips the bottle to his lips. The minutes pass, and the question resting inside my throat starts to feel strangled, cutting off the air to my lungs. “How did he die?”
“It was an accident.” He swirls the bottle, and the carmine wine spins up the sides. A mini cyclone.
He looks away from me, like he’s considering heading for the door and leaving. Saying good night and vanishing into the storm.
And although I’m curious exactly what kind of accident, I don’t press it any further. I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about it. And I don’t want him to leave, even though our conversation feels tightened along the edges, tugged and constrained because he’s holding things in. I’m also not quite ready for this night to be over. There are things I like about him—no, that’s not right. It’s not him exactly. It’s me. I like how I feel standing beside him. Eased by his presence. The steady buzz along my thoughts, the ache in my chest tamped down. Softened.
So I take the bottle from him and sit cross-legged on the cold floor, staring out at the storm. I know what it is to lose the people around you. And I take a long, slow drink of the wine, warming my stomach and making my head swim, wiping away the hangover. Bo sits beside me, forearms resting on his bent knees.
“Have you been in a lot of fights before?” I ask after a stretch of silence.
“What?”
“On the beach last night, with Lon, you seemed like you weren’t afraid to fight him.”
“I don’t like fighting, if that’s what you mean. But yeah, I’ve been in a few. Although not because I wanted to.” He exhales slowly, and I think he’s going to change the subject. His lips stall partway open. “My brother was always getting himself into trouble,” he continues. “He liked taking risks—jumping into rivers in the middle of winter, climbing bridges to watch the sunrise, driving his truck too fast down the centerline just for the rush. Things like that. And sometimes he’d say things he shouldn’t, or hit on girls he shouldn’t, and find himself in a fistfight.” Bo shakes his head. “He thought it was funny, but I was always the one who had to step in and save him, keep him from getting his ass kicked. He was my older brother, but my parents were always asking me to keep an eye on him. But since he died . . .” His gaze dips to the floor, voice trailing, memories sliding through him. “I haven’t had to defend him.” I hand him the bottle of wine, and he takes a long drink. Holding it between his knees with both hands, he asks, “Do you ever think about leaving this town?”
I lift my chin. “Of course.”
“But?”
“It’s complicated.”
His thumb taps the neck of the bottle. “Isn’t that what people say when they just don’t want to admit the truth?”
“Probably . . . but the truth is complicated. My life is complicated.”
“So after you graduate, you’re not going to leave Sparrow—you’re not going to college somewhere?”
I shrug. “Maybe. It’s not something I think about.” I shift uneasily on the floor, wishing we could change the subject back to him.
“What’s keeping you here?”
I almost laugh but don’t, because the answer isn’t funny. Nothing about the reasons why I’m stuck here is funny. “My family,” I finally say, because I have to say something. “My mom.”
“She doesn’t want you to leave?”
“It’s not that. She’s just . . . she’s not well.” I look away from him, shaking my head. The truth slips between the edges of the lies.
“You don’t want to talk about it?” he asks.
“Just like you don’t want to talk about where you’re from,” I say softly. “Or what happened to . . .” I almost bring up his brother again but stop myself.
He makes a low exhaling sound then hands the bottle back to me. We’re swapping sips of wine instead of sharing the truth. Like a drinking game we just invented: If you don’t want to talk about something, take a drink.
“There’re always reasons to stay,” he says. “You just need to find one reason to leave.” His eyes hold mine, and something familiar stirs inside me—something I want to pretend isn’t there. A flicker that illuminates the darkest part of my insides. And I absorb it like sunlight.
“I guess I haven’t found that reason yet,” I say. I know my cheeks are blazing pink, I can feel the heat against my skin, but I don’t look away from him.
The storm blows against the windows, rattling the glass in the casings.
Bo looks out at the rain, and I watch his gaze, wishing I could pluck more thoughts from his head. Pain rests behind his eyes, and I feel myself suddenly wanting to touch his face, his skin, his fingertips.
Then, like a machine being switched off, the wind outside stops, the rain scatters and turns to mist, and the moody black clouds begin to push farther south, revealing a backdrop of black sky with pinhole pricks for stars.
Rose hops up from the floor and twirls herself in a circle. “We need to go make wishes,” she announces. “Tonight.”
“The shipwreck?” Heath asks from his place still sprawled out on the floor.
“The shipwreck!” she repeats.
“What’s the shipwreck?” Bo asks, flinching his gaze away from mine for the first time.
“You’ll see,” Rose answers.
*
We tromp through the darkness and down the wood path to the dock. Heath insists we take his boat, and we pile into the small, narrow dinghy. Bo takes my hand, even though I don’t need it to keep my balance—I’m as steady on the water as I am on land—and he doesn’t let go until I’m seated beside him on one of the benches.
The interior is sparse and tidy, a stack of orange life vests strapped to the gunwale. Heath pulls on the engine cord once, and the motor revs to life.