Pearl took a breath, released it in a rush. “I’ll let you know.”
At the register, Pearl printed the Wootens’ check, watching Tristan openly around the monitor. Her mouth was dry, fingers ticking off points on her thumbnail. A summer kids’ party. Nobody from town went to those. If she were somebody else, somebody like Indigo, maybe she could do it. Cross that invisible line to the place where people like Tristan existed, see him in his natural habitat. See what he knew. Because that was one thing everyone agreed on, from locals down to conspiracy theorists online: the son knew something.
A few moments later, Indigo came around the partition at the end of the room, Reese close on her heels. Pearl stepped back. The tension between those two was electric today; everyone had picked up on it. Indigo hadn’t spoken a word to Reese since the shift began, tossing her head and finding something else to look at whenever he passed by. Pearl kept thinking about the phone call he’d blown off in favor of hanging out with her last night. Triumph blossomed briefly, then died as she watched Reese catch Indigo’s elbow, turning her back, whispering something close to her face. Indigo said nothing, but she allowed him to steer her through the ballroom doorway, where they disappeared.
By the time they came back, Pearl had delivered checks to two more tables. From the corridor, she watched their brief exchange as they stood mostly concealed in the doorway, watched Indigo’s hand steal up and squeeze Reese’s ass before they went in opposite directions.
Pearl felt heat, then chill. She shut her eyes for a moment, then went into the kitchen to place another order.
She waited until the boys were done eating before going over to them, sensing more than seeing Tristan shift his attention her way. Bridges stopped stirring his straw in the ice at the bottom of his glass. “I’ll go,” she said abruptly. “Tonight.” Her heart was galloping.
“Really?” Bridges pushed his sun-bleached hair back, grinning. “Cool. Where can I pick you up?”
“I’ll meet you.”
“Okay. Whatever. Yacht club, slip D12. I drive a Talon. Can’t miss it.”
While Akil smirked openly at them, Tristan’s look was unfocused, as if she and Bridges were a reality show, one he’d soon turn off if they didn’t start doing something interesting. “What time?” Pearl asked.
“Nine-ish?”
She nodded and left, slowly sinking into the truth of what she’d done.
Pearl checked her phone one last time. No texts, no missed calls. Well, one from Mom, but she didn’t plan on returning that anytime soon. All Mom would want to do was quiz her about Dad—was he taking care of himself, eating well, staying away from the Tavern—and Pearl was in no mood.
It wasn’t like she’d made plans with Reese tonight. They never made plans. Things either fell together or they didn’t. The difference was, this time it was because she had something else to do. No doubt he was busy, too, or she would’ve received a summons by now. I’m bored. Come over. Help me feel safe enough to sleep. Apparently, that was one service Indigo didn’t provide.
She jammed her phone into her pocket so hard it hurt—nothing compared to the splintery heart-stab of being mad at Reese—and stepped out of her car into the night.
The yacht club landing was lit by old-fashioned lampposts that made her think of Narnia; Dad had read those books to her growing up. She walked through pools of light, passing rows of yachts and powerboats, reading the slip numbers, half expecting some official type to come up and demand proof of membership. She’d explored this place plenty in the off-season, but never during the summer. The public landing was for locals like her, where the water rippled with prisms of diesel fuel and the benches were sticky with ice-cream handprints.
“Pearl. Hey.”
Down the floating dock, Bridges stood aboard a huge, muscular-looking speedboat. Pearl walked down to meet him. “Holy shit,” he said. “You actually showed.”
She shifted. “I said I would.”
“I know, but . . .” He shrugged. “Climb aboard. Need a hand up?”
“I got it.” She didn’t, but he let her find her own footing on the ladder, ending up nose to nose with him. His eyelashes were light, sun-washed, like the rest of him.
There was a thump, and Akil came up from belowdecks, dropping into the passenger seat. “So, she’s here. Let’s go,” he said.
Pearl sidestepped Bridges and perched on the bench seat, watching him pull the lines free and coil them. No sign of Tristan, no movement from below. “Where’s this party?” Bridges cocked his hand, pistol-style, at the dark, rocky mass crouching in the harbor. “Little Nicatou? That’s private property. Nobody goes there.”
The boys traded a look, but whatever Bridges said next was lost in the roar of the motor.
Pearl twisted around to watch the dock grow distant, all her tension and mental preparation dissolving like sand underfoot. He wasn’t coming. She rested her chin on the back of the seat, squeezing her eyes shut, wondering how she was going to survive this night—then swore as Bridges opened the throttle and almost pitched her to the floor.
They shot across the harbor, both boys standing, facing into the wind. Akil looked back once and laughed at the sight of her sitting stark upright, belted in, gripping the seat as spray buffeted her from all sides.
The headlights of three other boats were visible ahead of them now, cutting their own paths to Little Nicatou. There was a dock on the island—Pearl had seen that much from the harbor—and tonight it was lit with electric lanterns. Firelight was visible on the beach. Bridges muffed the landing twice, finally dropped anchor, and tied off on a piling before he noticed Pearl brushing water from her arms and face. “Sorry. I’m a pretty crazy driver.”
She had an answer for that, but when she saw Akil’s look, she swallowed it. One bitchy remark and she’d fail the first test, be labeled a typical girl: whiny, temperamental, and weak. “No worries.” Wiping her face, she took Bridges’s offer of a hand-up onto the dock ladder, passing Akil without a glance.
The beach stretched out to their left, Adirondack chairs strategically placed here and there. Globe string lights illuminated a pathway up into the trees, where windows glowed through the branches and hip-hop pounded from unseen speakers. There must be one hell of a generator up there—and an Exxon tanker to fuel it.
Most of the summer kids sitting around the portable fire pits were at least somewhat familiar to her, faces she’d seen in the dining room, or coming and going from the fitness center or spa. Even money none of them recognized her without her club colors.
Bridges grabbed two beers from an ice-filled cooler in the sand, microbrews Pearl had never heard of. Not a Bud or a Coors Light to be seen, and nobody seemed the least bit concerned about drinking right out in the open. Local kids made campsites in the woods, holed up in abandoned houses just to get some privacy. She didn’t drink anyway, but tonight, it seemed safer to carry one as a prop.
He put his free hand in his pocket, taking in her running shorts, gray V-necked T-shirt, and flip-flops. “Wow. You look . . . really . . .”
“Butch?” Akil hooked three beers under his arm and set off across the sand.
“Dude, don’t be like that.” Bridges looked back at her. “Ignore him. He’s pissed at the world, not you.”
“What a relief.” Pearl watched him choke on his first sip, his shoulders shaking. “What?”
“Just—you’re always on defense, that’s all.” He put his hands up. “Not a bad thing. Don’t maul me.”
Smiling despite herself, she gestured to the others. “Sorry. I’m a little out of my tax bracket here.”
“Ah, who cares. None of that shit matters.”
“Says the guy who owns an island.” She nodded at his hesitation. “That’s what I thought.”